One bite of this multi-layered confection triggers bittersweet memories of my sister-in-law, Sheila, who passed away over a year ago.  Baking was Sheila’s forte and at most family events we were pampered with her skillfully-prepared pies, cookies, cakes and, most importantly, Nanaimo Bars.  The energy and care put into every task she conquered was a sheer marvel. I admired her grasp on life and how her spirit was transferred to every person and project she touched.  As a mother, daughter, sister, wife and cook, she quickly became my role model.

The chocolate nutty cookie crust flecked with morsels of chewy coconut is the bar’s foundation.  It builds into a layer of rich vanilla cream and is crowned by a crunchy layer of semi-sweet or bittersweet chocolate.  The three textures — crumbly, creamy and crunchy — are magic, making them perfect treats for the holidays or any time of year.  There are still moments I can see Sheila preparing them in her Island home, chatting with her family, with a young assistant standing patiently on a stool waiting for the final product or at least a spoon to lick.

Sheila and memories of her kitchen will always hold a special place in my heart.  She died after falling asleep one evening at the age of 51.  There was no reason – she was perfectly healthy.  It remains a mystery.  A surreal and pervasive grief gripped our family for the days and months to come.  She left us way too early.  Our vacations and holidays on the Island will never be the same.  However, I bake and try to grab each task in life with the same perseverance in honor of her.  I have put love and spirit into each ingredient of these Bars in remembrance of my sister-in-law.

Nanaimo Bars

In Canada, Bird’s Custard powder is used instead of instant vanilla pudding.  You can find the powder in specialty food stores (especially British) or on Amazon.com

1/4 cup sugar

5 tablespoons cocoa powder

1 cup + 2 tablespoons butter, softened

1 egg, beaten

1 1/4 cup graham cracker crumbs

1/2 cup finely chopped walnuts or pecans

1 cup sweetened flaked coconut

2 1/2 tablespoons cream

2 tablespoons vanilla instant pudding powder (Note: In Canada, Bird’s Custard Powder is used instead of instant vanilla pudding.  You can find the powder in specialty food stores, especially British, or on Amazon.com)

2 cups powdered sugar

4 ounces semi-sweet chocolate

Combine the sugar, cocoa and 1/2 cup butter in a saucepan over medium-low heat.  Stir until butter is melted and everything is well mixed.  Remove from heat and quickly stir in beaten egg.  Stir in graham cracker crumbs, nuts and coconut.

Press mixture firmly into a lightly greased, 8-inch square pan.  Refrigerate for one hour.

Meanwhile, beat the milk, pudding powder, powdered sugar and 1/2 cup butter with an electric mixer until light and fluffy.  It should have the consistency of butter cream frosting.  Spread over chilled base.  Refrigerate for 30 minutes.

Melt the chocolate with the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter in a small saucepan over low heat.  Remove from heat and cool for 5 minutes.  Pour over bars and spread evenly.  Return to refrigerator for at least 30 minutes before cutting into bars.

You can find lots more delicious recipes on Liz Hughes’ blog, Virtually Homemade.

I gathered up all 70 of my little books. After typing a list of titles, I cut out individual slips of paper and placed them in a basket for a daily random drawing. Based on titles like Simple Truth, A Gift of Inner Peace, A Short Guide to a Happy Life and It’s Not Easy Being Green, I expected some of the tiny tomes would simply be filled with humor and pretty pictures while others would contain wisdom and insight.

The Challenge began on June 27. Each morning, I highlighted the daily selection on Facebook, followed by a brief book report the next morning. My first pick was Furry Logic: Laugh at Life by Jane Seabrook. Chock-full of colorful renditions of animals with one- or two-liners such as: “Every time I hear the word ‘exercise,’ I wash my mouth out with chocolate,” and “At the end of the money, I always have some month left.” Surprisingly, some of the aphorisms went beyond a chuckle and contained some genuine substance.

On day 11, I chose The Energy of Prayer by Thich Nhat Hanh. According to Hanh, we pray because we want God to do something. Whatever their beliefs, all people tend to pray for the same three things: health, success and relationships. In all cases, prayers need the energies of compassion, understanding and mindfulness for wisdom to arise. This small book left me contemplating not only the power of an individual’s requests, but what could be accomplished by collective prayer.

As the days passed, I was surprised that each book was, in its own way, becoming part of me – even on days 13 and 25, which had me laughing out loud with What’s Your Poo Telling You? by Josh Richman and Anish Shelth, M.D. and The Joy of Worry by Ellis Weiner.

Letters to Sam, by Daniel Gottlieb, took two days to read and report, not because it was a long book but because I wanted to savor it. The 32 letters written from the heart by a paraplegic grandfather to his autistic grandson were filled with poignant and insightful observations of life. The letters provided profound lessons on love, loss and life’s gifts and challenges. This book touched my heart and would be a great choice for parents to read aloud to their children.

Although the challenge began because I did not want to read a lengthy novel, by the time I completed all 31 books, I had read over 3400 pages. Along the way, I learned how to be a better friend, how to be a lady, how good and bad karma works, how to achieve inner peace and even how to set a table properly. What I really learned from these diminutive gems was what is most important in life: To be present in everything I do and always act from my heart.

Forty little books remain, waiting to be read, maybe in another challenge. I encourage all to sit down and explore the insightful, encouraging and supportive world of a little book. To quote 50 Things That Really Matter, “Next time a good book finds you, take a moment to give thanks for how one object, no bigger than the span of two palms, can contain so much of the world, teach you so much of what it means to be human, and make you feel so alive.”

“It’s not about you.”

These are the first words in the book, The Purpose Driven Life, written by Rick Warren, who happens to be my pastor. They are words that made a huge impact on my husband Roy and me. But, as we learned firsthand, it takes more than just words to truly make a difference in the lives of others. It takes action.

And so Roy and I were compelled to say “yes” when we received a call from our church’s Missions Department in January 2005, two weeks following the Boxing Day tsunami whose epicenter was nearest to Banda Aceh, Sumatra, Indonesia, to participate in the initial relief work.

We’d never been there. We didn’t know what to expect. We knew nothing about disaster relief or what we were supposed to do. And we didn’t know that this would turn out to be the worst disaster known in our lifetime.

At first, Roy led medical teams to the affected area and we had no communication between us. Working at my job, underwriting mortgage loans, helped keep me busy instead of letting my mind trick me into thinking that something might go terribly wrong since I hadn’t heard from him for weeks on end.

When he returned home from a trip, I would hear finally hear the heart-wrenching stories about the people he was helping that left us both crying many nights. And then he would be gone again, taking another team on another mission to help provide medical care and food and water and housing for those who were left behind.

After a few weeks we were able to start communicating, and I would sit at my computer, tears streaming down my face, as I read his emails:

“… children taken to orphanages daily; many parents don’t know where their kids are or if they even survived …”

“… large puddles of water, stagnant, not safe so people filling by hand with buckets …”

“… children are collecting bricks and knocking off cement and selling for 100Rp (.01 cent) so families can buy fuel to cook …”

“… 10 year old girl has been bleeding from her nose for two days and the family didn’t have funds to take her to the clinic; we were able to assist and she is now better …”

“… Red Cross volunteer was shot today …”

“… all fuel costs have increased in country by 50-100%, protesting breaking out – please pray for everyone’s safety …”

“… draining system totally broken, dangerous for travel …”

“… bodies still being recovered, 250-300 per day …”

“… mass grave with estimated 36,000 unidentified bodies, some stacked 20 deep …”

Roy made many trips back and forth before I reached the point where I couldn’t just listen anymore. Knowing there were so many people suffering, staying at home was no longer an option for me. Unbeknownst to my husband, I gave my two weeks notice at work and when he came home from his trip I told him that I would be going with him next time.

I can safely say he was a bit surprised that I was following my heart instead of my head. After all, I would no longer be receiving an income. How would we live?

My first trip to Aceh took place in July 2005. As I looked out of the airplane window, I was shocked that I was able to see so much damage and removed coastline from so high up in the air.

When we landed, the humidity was overwhelming. And, on our way to the house where we would be staying, I couldn’t help but notice an overpowering stench in the air that I could only describe as rotting flesh. That is exactly what it was. Roy pointed out the mass graveyard to our left that he spoken about many times, and my eyes began to fill with tears.

The majority of people had been placed in IDP (internally displaced persons) camps. With torrential rains and the high humidity, conditions were sometimes unbearable. But it takes time to build homes, and much of the construction was delayed. Since most of the paperwork verifying land ownership had washed away, it was up to the village leaders to verify this information, making delays inevitable.

People posted pictures of their loved ones on the walls of the city in case anyone recognized them or could provide any information. Many just stayed in one place, hoping to hear any news of their family members.

Many of my travels to Aceh are just a blur to me now; the overwhelming emotions one experiences on these types of trips are difficult to put into words. But one thing that was clear to me was that we had to do whatever we could do to help, whether that meant digging ditches, building houses, providing medical and/or trauma care, or just being a friend to those who lost everything, and even to those who had come from all over the world to work in the trenches to care for these people.

There was so much that needed to be done.

During my first trip to Aceh, I met a woman who showed me some beautiful embroidered handbags made locally from animal-friendly nylon-polyester material and cotton-polyester embroidery thread. These water-resistant handbags were lightweight and the hand-guided embroidery was absolutely stunning.

I decided to bring some of these beautiful bags home with me to see if I could raise some additional funds for the tsunami relief effort. I invited 20 of my closest friends and family members to a home party and raised $2000!

On our next trip we purchased more handbags and held several more parties. Everyone was eager to help, and our guests even volunteered to host parties of their own.

That’s when it dawned on us that we could start a business model that would create jobs and long-term sustainability for these people who so desperately needed help. No longer would they have to depend on hand-outs and charity; they would be able to provide for themselves and what was left of their families.

We were so excited. Each trip, we brought home more and more boxes full of handbags; first there were three, then seven, then eleven, then twenty four … It was at that point that we realized this could really work, and we knew we had to make some concrete plans.

We rented a building for four years, and put together a small workshop consisting of twelve foot-powered, non-electric sewing machines, twelve women and one manager/trainer. We began a training program to embroider and construct refined and quality handbags for the US market and Laga Designs International, Inc. was born.

This was in August 2006, and we have been improving on quality and production ever since. We are proud that we have grown to be able to provide sustenance for over 300 people throughout the province of Aceh, Sumatra, Indonesia to this day.

I know that there have been many disasters since that December day that changed our lives. I wish more than anything that we could help the people in those other areas of the world who have suffered, too. But the reality for us is that we know the need in Aceh continues and we are committed to that need. Perhaps one day, when Laga becomes a household name, we will be able to reach out and help others.

Wouldn’t that be something?

My name is Kelly, I’m 27 years old, and I hate cancer. I’ve often lived by the statement, “Go Big or Stay Home.” Last September, I was traveling to Chicago from my home in Las Vegas to be part of Oprah Winfrey’s 25th (and final) Season Premiere; this September, I will be traveling 400 miles so that I can walk nearly 40 miles over the course of one weekend, then turning around and traveling 400 miles back home.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t like to drive 40 miles, let alone walk it. So, why am I doing this? It’s simple — I’m walking because I care. I’m walking because I can. I’m walking because 41,000 women will lose their battle with breast cancer this year alone, and I happen to know one of them. Trust me when I say that one is too many.

I’m walking because I don’t want one more person I care about to become a breast cancer statistic. I’m walking so that someday a young woman won’t have to face the decision of whether or not to have a preventive mastectomy because breast cancer runs in her family. I’m walking because nearly $700 million has been raised by the Avon Walk to pay for treatment and early detection programs for people who can’t afford medical help.

I’m walking for 8-year-old Emma, 6-year-old Logan and 4-year-old Jack who had to spend Mother’s Day alone this year because their mom, Katie, lost her fight to breast cancer in January at the age of 40. I’m walking for my friend Pam who battled the disease and lost her hair but won the “war.” I’m walking for a cure – for me, for you, and for our future. I’m walking because I’m in it to end it! Because, as Oprah taught us in Australia, “everything is better when shared,” I’ll have my teammates Cathleen and Caryn with me.

The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer is a big commitment, one that will require me to spend the next two months training and fundraising. But breast cancer is a big disease that still affects far too many people and I’m determined to do everything I can to help put an end to it. Breast cancer doesn’t care if you’re black or white, young or old, male or female. It affects us all, and I’m walking because I don’t want one more person to have to lose someone they love.

The money I raise will be managed and disbursed by the Avon Foundation Breast Cancer Crusade to help provide access to care for those that most need it, fund educational programs, and accelerate research into new treatments and potential cures. You can make a donation to my fundraising campaign by visiting http://info.avonfoundation.org/goto/KellyWagner.

I sincerely appreciate your support – I can’t do this alone. I’ll be thinking of the generosity of everyone willing to “pay it forward” as I walk. Traveling to Australia with “Auntie O” was a once in a lifetime experience, but walking to find a cure for breast cancer is the ULTIMATE adventure.

I was writing this piece in a Kansas City, MO hotel room the morning of May 25^th when my friend Peggy Willenberg called.  Peggy’s one of the Twister Sisters, a dynamic blond tornado-chasing duo. You may have caught Peggy and sidekick Melanie Metz on Oprah or Leno.

“Girl, what’re you doing?” Peggy asked.

“Writing a piece on tornado preparedness.  Why?”

“You’re in the middle of a tornado warning.”

I got up and looked out the window, then at the radar on my iPad.  “Crap,” I said.  “Gotta go.”

I fled downstairs, past the lobby flat-screen on which I’d watched footage from the previous day’s outbreak in Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri.  More sickening damage, more unbelievable human carnage.  On Facebook and Twitter I’d just warned friends in the Mississippi and Ohio Valleys to prepare for death and destruction headed their way. Now I stood in the hotel’s parking lot, watching a tornadic supercell pass 2 miles east.

I’d put myself in this position on purpose.

I’m a stormchaser.  I’m also a writer, first and foremost.  I wrote a novel called The Stormchasers, and for the past five years, I’ve tailed a stormchase company, Tempest Tours, as they ferry vanloads of clients into Tornado Alley for the big weather safari.  This season, my Tempest Year 6, I’ve graduated to tour hostess.  I was in Kansas City because I’d been traveling from my Minnesota house to Oklahoma to join my tour group.  Chasing tornadoes en route.

I chase because I love storms.  I’ve been fascinated with tornadoes since witnessing my first at age four in my grandmother’s Minnesota hometown.  To a little girl obsessed with The Wizard Of Oz, this experience was terrifying and terribly exciting, and I spent subsequent decades trying to see another tornado.  Now I chase with the tour company and with professional chaser friends, and many of us claim the same genesis for our big-weather fascination:  a childhood encounter.

There are other reasons.  The storms are beautiful and powerful beyond description.  Imagine yourself on the Plains, where 90% of your view is sky.  Imagine being an ant.  Then imagine a tidal wave coming at you. That’s a tornadic supercell.  Not to mention the tornado itself, that freaky, graceful connection between earth and sky.

I also love the lonely, majestic landscape in which chasing usually occurs.  Most tornadoes touch down in places so isolated — northeastern Colorado, the Dakotas — it’s like being in an Ansel Adams photograph, except in color.

I love the camaraderie.  When you spend that much time with people, driving thousands of miles, playing Frisbee or singing show tunes while you wait for a storm to go up, then racing with eye-popping adrenaline to land beneath a natural force that mutes you with awe, you get pretty close to each other.  I call my chaser friends my storm family.

I chase for many reasons, none including death wish.

The problem is, this year “death wish” seems most applicable.

America has always had strong tornadoes. But 2011 is the Year of the Metronado.  In a horrific confluence of deadly atmospherics and dense populations, twisters are targeting Tornado Alley’s urban centers.  Raleigh, NC.  Tuscaloosa, AL.  And Joplin, MO’s EF5—whose death toll at the time of this writing is 126.  The worst tornado fatality count since 1947, when a Woodward, OK tornado killed 181.

Joplin may surpass that grisly record.

Is our weather is getting more violent?  What’s causing this?  Is it global warming? Will it get worse?

I can’t presume to answer these questions.  I’m no scientist.  And such topics are hotly debated in the meteorological community.  But experts I know agree on one thing:  we’re in an extremely active weather pattern that shows no sign of abating.

I’m conflicted about chasing in a season when it seems there’s a good chance, when I aim myself at a tornado, there may be large-scale human misery and death at the other end of it.

It’d be different if I had a way to contribute, if I were a scientist or first responder. What, I asked my mentor, Tempest Guide Kinney Adams, can we do?

Kinney said, “Grasshopper, you’re a writer.  Use your voice.”

So I am.  Here is what I would beseech you:

* Get a weather radio.

* Sign up for free severe weather alert texts at http://www.weatherusa.net/alerts/ or http://www.weather.com

* Stop thinking this can’t happen to you.

* Have a plan.

* Dear Federal Government, we need shelter.  Many Americans have died in recent outbreaks because they don’t have adequate shelters, especially in the South. We need more community shelters. Building code should require tornado-safe rooms in new Tornado Alley homes.

Finally, if you see a tornado, DO NOT GO TAKE PICTURES OF IT. Stormchasing can kill you.  Sure, your footage will be on TV and you’ll be famous. After you’re dead.

Be safe.

My love affair with running started a little over a year ago when my best friend was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS). She was shocked. Her family and our close-knit group of friends were at a loss for words. A raft guide during her high school years, a member of our crew team during our freshman year at college, and an avid runner – she was an active person.

Her news, and the fear that came with it as I tried to calm her over the phone many times, forced me to question my own life, my own body. Had I forgotten how fortunate and blessed I was to have a body that worked?

The answer was “Yes.”

So when my friend asked our group of college friends to train for a half-marathon together, I agreed. This isn’t one of those stories where I tell you how easy it was to run 13.1 miles. The truth is, it was hard. I wasn’t in the best shape when I initially started training — I was about 30 pounds overweight and, at my fastest, I could probably only run one mile at a 12-minute per mile pace. On the long Sunday runs, my feet would start to hurt; I could feel blisters forming, my lungs struggling to breathe. When, after four or five miles I’d want to quit, I’d remember that one day my friend might not be able to run or even walk, but I still could. I had to remind myself that I was lucky, that MS and other diseases aren’t kind, that they don’t pick and choose who they impact, and everyone is at risk. So many of us get caught up in our personal bubbles that we take for granted actions like running, walking, or just being able to brush our own hair. I thought of all these things as I pushed forward, step by step. I kept running, through the pain, through the mental anguish of my mind telling my body to quit, because I knew I needed to honor my body.

You’ll be surprised at what the body can do when you push it to its limits, when you take yourself to places you’ve never been before.

On Sunday, March 28, 2010 I successfully ran my first half-marathon in Oakland, CA in 2:23:25. On Sunday, October 19, 2010 I ran my second half-marathon in Albuquerque, NM in 2:20:10, and on Sunday March 27, 2011, I ran my third half-marathon in Boulder, CO in 2:13:29, nearly 10 minutes faster than my original time the previous year. Today, I am training for my fourth half-marathon on Sunday, October 23, 2011. I’m hoping to shave even more time off my personal best, even if it’s just a minute, because in this life, nothing is promised to us, and every minute spent with loved ones, spent with foot to pavement, is a blessing.

So far, my year and a half of running has taught me three lessons:

1.  A 30-minute run or walk can help “fix” most situations. Sometimes you just need to get away, get out of your head and into your body. Most of us spend so much time thinking and overanalyzing situations that it’s good to take a break and get in tune with our bodies. Whenever I push myself, my breathing becomes strained, my lungs gasp for more air, and I feel my heart pounding inside my chest. I can feel my body letting me know I am alive. Afterward, when my run is over, I can be thankful for my body, for my life, and return to whatever problem I have, feeling less stressed and more focused.

2.  Trust is crucial in any relationship, especially the one you have with your body. Trusting when you know you can go farther or when you know you should take a break and get rest is one of the best lessons I’ve learned from running.

3.  Finally, it’s important to live with intention. Anytime I put foot to pavement, I feel free, although I’m not going to lie — sometimes it is really hard. There are days when I don’t feel like doing anything physical; I come home from my job and would rather just cook, put on the TV and relax. Sometimes I have to force myself to put on my workout clothes, lace up my running shoes, and get out there because running is just like life — you get out of it what you put in. If you put in the time and the miles, you’ll be able to go farther. When you live your life with intention, you give it purpose. You feel fulfilled.

Like any story, life still has its ups and downs. Every now and then my friend will ask questions such as: how can I ask someone to make the sacrifices they will have to make for me? How can I ask someone to sacrifice his working body to take care of my sick one? For someone like me who has never had a serious relationship, dating people for a maximum of three months, I can’t fathom these types of questions about lifelong relationships. I tell her everything is going to be all right — and it will. Everything happens for a reason. Each path we take has its inclines and declines, but you have to just keep on moving, breathing, and living.

My friend and I argue endlessly over the fact I can never understand what she is going through, and she’s right. I can not fully grasp what it’s like to have a disease that could take away my ability to walk, run, or take away my memory – which, for me, as a writer, is one of the things I hold dear to my heart. I try to learn more about MS so I can be there for her, but I know I’ll never realize what it feels like to wake up in the morning, unable to feel one side of my body or what it’s like to trip while walking because one of my legs is going numb. If we’re lucky, we will never have to experience what it feels like to physically be unable to get out of bed. Yet, even after knowing people who do, many of us continue to take our healthy bodies for granted.

It’s good to be reminded now and then that we only get one body in this lifetime and however young, old, rich, or poor we are, it is important to take care of it and honor the life we’ve been given. Not every day is going to be the best, but each day is a new opportunity to make a change, to step away from the past, put one foot in front of the other, and step into the future, ready to embrace whatever life throws at us next.

Flipping through back issues of Cooking Light, I was tempted by Cream of Asparagus Soup, but couldn’t stop thinking about Mom’s Chicken Divan. I thought it was actually the Joy of Cooking’s Chicken Divan, but couldn’t find the recipe in the1954 edition I inherited when my mom died. I do have a newer version, a gift from a well-meaning friend who was aghast at the falling apart book, but still prefer my worn-out copy where ingredients like sundried tomatoes and shitake mushrooms don’t make even a cameo appearance. I love the yellowed, batter-stained pages filled with tips I will never use but which make me laugh — like how to cook game – and, more importantly, recipes that remind me of my mom.

My sister, Debby, who’s petite and bubbly, is the one who looks like Mom. I’m shorter, rounder, and I’m quiet — more like my dad, but I do have my mom’s eyes, her penchant for decorating and her kitchen skills.  Cooking brings back good memories of home and family dinners, of arguments over whose turn it was to set the table, of admonishments for opening the lid on the rice one time too many, of time spent with my mom.

I scoured every other cookbook in my library from In a Persian Kitchen to International Recipes on Parade, a dossier of the 1966 Navy Wives Club, but still couldn’t find Mom’s Chicken Divan. I turned to the pink and yellow box filled with borrowed favorites like the green chile enchiladas Donna brought to an office potluck lunch eight years ago, and the giant foil-wrapped Laramie Loaf sandwich Midgie Brooks would bring to every picnic in Hawaii from 1972 to 1976.

I finally found the recipe tucked between Lemon Bars and Beef Stroganoff. After a quick inventory, I headed off to the grocery. All I needed was chicken and cream of mushroom soup. I repeated this mantra as I drove to the store. “Chicken, Cream of Mushroom, Chicken, Cream of Mushroom.”  I needed to stay on task, and not wander off to the gourmet food section or the bakery. “Chicken, Cream of Mushroom.”

I was in and out of the store in under 15 minutes.

I’d invited my sister and a couple of friends to dinner.  More than that would be a tight squeeze around the small rattan dining room set I inherited from my grandparents. I had dubbed my new dining room — a small area next to the kitchen — the Tiki Lounge, recovering the chairs with a Hawaiian print fabric, and placing a bamboo plant in the corner.

Setting up the kitchen had been more of a challenge.  It was what’s referred to as a “two-step kitchen” — a testament to the way the refrigerator, stove and sink were so “conveniently” close to each other. Not to mention the “economical” use of countertop and cabinet space.

After only a month in my new place, I still wasn’t sure where everything was. I opened three doors before I found the Pyrex casserole dish that belonged to Grandma.  I placed it on the counter and began to assemble mom’s Chicken Divan. Or, rather, my version of Chicken Divan, switching out broccoli for asparagus.

I rinsed the green stems and bent the tough ends until they snapped, leaving only tender tops to layer along the bottom of the dish.  I then layered the chicken and prepared the sauce: one can cream of mushroom soup, one half cup mayonnaise and two teaspoons of curry. Convinced you can never have too much curry, I tossed in an extra dash.

My time spent with Cooking Light made me feel a bit guilty that the mayonnaise was not fat free, but I poured the sauce over the chicken anyway.  I took some more liberties with the recipe, adding slivered almonds instead of the requisite breadcrumbs on top. I figured I’d already challenged tradition, so I might as well go all out.  I set the oven to 350 and slid in the Pyrex.

As I waited for everyone to arrive, I prepared a fire and lit the candles on the mantle.  Burning wood, citrus, sage, and cranberry scents mingled with the warm curry perfume emanating from the kitchen. My new apartment began to feel like home.

Jennifer Simpson is the founder and co-host of Duke City DimeStories, a monthly open mic for prose, and managing editor of Blue Mesa Review.

Carol Reedy Rogero, a sixth grade teacher in Palm Bay, Florida, was so inspired by our Formerly Flip Flops project, that she went out and got a grant and started her own version — with her students! Not only is she doing a valuable service collecting the old flip flops and sending them to UniquEco in Africa to be turned into pieces of art and jewelry, but she is teaching the kids amazing lessons in compassion, responsibility and geography! We applaud Carol — and her students — and hope she’ll inspire more of you to get involved with Formerly Flip Flops or create your own charitable projects. We wish we had a teacher like Carol when we were young. She is truly a woman of style, substance and soul.

It was a rainy summer day in Florida and I sat at my computer, surfing the web for ideas to spice up the upcoming school year and rev up the kids.  As luck, fate, destiny, or perhaps all three, would have it, I received an email about a grant opportunity sponsored by the NEA and the Target Corporation.  It was the Green Across America Program, which awards grants totaling $50,000 — up to $1,000 each — to educators for innovative educational programs, activities, lessons or events designed to excite students about going green, caring for the earth, and creating a sustainable future.  I’d been inspired by StyleSubstanceSoul’s Formerly Flip Flops project and loved the idea that trash could become treasure on the other side of the world, while keeping something that takes 50-80 YEARS to decompose, out of our own local landfills and oceans. Besides, everyone wears flip flops everywhere here in Florida.  Each time I go to the beach, there’s at least one dead flip flop littering the sand.  Speaking for myself, as an “average” person who owns more pairs than I want to admit, I knew there had to be an obscene number of rubber flip-flops clogging up our local landfills and blighting the ocean.

I applied for the grant and titled my project, “How Old Flip Flops Changed a New Generation’s Mind.” In October, I received the news that I’d been chosen as one of 55 winners!  I introduced the project to my students with a pre-awareness/involvement survey regarding recycling, marine debris awareness, and knowledge of the location of Kenya. My survey results revealed that a whopping 42% of the students did not recycle at home!  An even more astonishing 65% of my 6^th graders did not know on which continent Kenya is located.  All were overwhelmingly amazed at the decomposition times of various materials and the amounts of marine debris collected each year.

They were genuinely excited about the project and eager to get started.  A group of students set to work right away, researching shipping and packaging costs.  They determined the cheapest way to send the flip-flops was by the USPS, with an 8 pound box estimated to run about $58.00, which they figured would allow us to send approximately 17 boxes.  The cost analysis on packaging tape revealed that it was cheaper to buy Wal-Mart packing tape at 400 yards for $8.44, as opposed to 50 yards for $1.08, but as it turned out, we found the Post Office would “give” us the priority mail packaging tape! In addition, an astute student suggested we use copy paper boxes, which were free and that we had plenty of at school, so our packing costs ended up being nothing!  Our WSUN school news team produced a PSA for us to kick off the collection campaign.  We quickly created posters, set up a collection bin, and before we knew it, had 5 copy boxes filled and ready to ship!  Since then, we’ve collected and shipped 5 additional boxes, bringing the total to 10, and leaving us with enough money to send 6 or 7 more.

I integrated the project into my math, reading, language arts and social studies lessons.  The entire 6^th grade has been doing research on Kenya and chose it as their country for our school’s upcoming annual Multicultural Night, where we’ve asked attendees to bring their used and broken flip flops and trade them in for raffle tickets!  Our students will spend the last few months of the school year expanding their investigations of marine pollution, whaling, and local landfills.  Sunrise’s Planet Love Flip Flop Project will wrap up with a post-event survey to measure the students’ recycling involvement and marine pollution awareness, but I know already, from student comments and actions, that a great impression has been made!

The project is about so much more than flip flops. My intent from the beginning was to create a sense of connection as I helped my students reach out in a global manner.  I wanted to provide them with a direct sense of worldwide community and responsibility.  Most of all, I wanted to show my students that they could each make a difference.  With little more than old flip flops, I sought to inspire them to be leaders in their generation’s efforts to keep the planet green and protect marine life.

Whether it was heading to my first day of college, having a crush on a new boy or simply going to a movie I had waited forever to see, she was always armed and ready with those famous words of hers. She knew me all too well, and she hated to see me disappointed. My heart would be brimming with excitement about something, but if it turned out to be less than I had hoped for – well, my eyes would look a little less bright and my smile would turn upside down.  

As time went on, I grew to appreciate the wisdom of those four words although I never really accepted it. I still dove head first into everything I did with the highest of hopes and the greatest expectations. More often than not, I was left disappointed, but in the end I figured if I gave it my all, I’d have nothing to regret.  

The day I left to teach English to middle school students in Daegu, South Korea, I was saying goodbye to my family and friends and, of course, without fail, my Aunt Joanne stood waiting with those famous words poised on the tip of her tongue. She hugged me goodbye and whispered, “High hopes, low expectations.”   

Well, Aunt Joanne, I’d have to say that my latest adventure has blown any of my high hopes and great expectations out of the water; it’s greater than I could have ever imagined.     

I had no idea what to even expect that first day I landed in Daegu. I had left everything I had known back in New York City: my friends, my family, my job, my apartment and my comfort zone. I am 23 years old, but as I stepped off that plane and stepped into my new life in a new country with a new culture, well, I felt like I was five years old again. It was like being dropped off for my first day of kindergarten, entering the unknown without being able to reach out for my mom’s hand to hold and help me through it all. But, although letting go of her hand was hard, I’ve come to see it’s the best decision I’ve made: South Korea swept me off my feet and mesmerized me in a way I’d never felt before. 

I have been teaching in Korea for almost two months now, and there are some mornings when I have to pinch myself to believe I am actually here. I’ve learned to appreciate the small things I took for granted back home, and have come to really undersand the phrase, “It’s the simple things in life that really matter.’ When I look back on my time here I may not remember every single thing I did, but I can guarantee I will never forget the small things that have come to make this adventure so special. 

I will remember the distinct smell of the street food that the local Koreans sell in their little food tents that line the sides of the roads. The moment the scent hits my nose, it’s like the smell of a summer barbecue except with fried chicken, dumplings and a bit more spice.  

I will remember how excited the old Korean man gets when I walk by him every day on my way to school, flashing me a smile with only about three teeth left; He sits out there every day, rain or shine, selling pastries in the morning. 

I will remember the way my students react when I say a simple “hello” to them in the hallways as if I am saying the most magical yet complicated English word in the world. They divide on each side of the hallway as if I am parting the Red Sea as I walk through. They look at me like I am a celebrity, staring at me in awe with eyes wide open, big smiles from ear to ear, as if I have actually come from another planet. The excited, ”Hello, Teacher!” is usually followed by a stream of giggles afterwards as they run away down the hall. I even get an occasional “I love you,” screamed to me right before they vanish into their classrooms. 

I will remember how warm and welcoming my Korean co-teachers are and how they take me in as if I have always been here or am actually a part of their families, always offering me tea, coffee, grapes or an open invitation to come to their houses for some of their “Korean home-cooking.”  

I will remember how excited I was after searching the ends of the earth to finally find a pair of shoes that were my size! (Koreans have the smallest feet in the world!) 

I will remember the cashier at my local market who has learned a bit of English just so she can say hello to me and ask how my day was.  

I will remember how I wake up most mornings truly not knowing how my day will unfold or what my students will say or what crazy question they will ask to make me smile or laugh. One of my favorite questions was, “You from America? So you friends with Justin Bieber?” 

I will remember my first Korean BBQ. I sat there on my knees at a long wooden table very low to the ground and attempted to cook up my own “mystery meat” that my co-teachers had given me on the grill in front of me. To this day, I have no idea what I ate, but it was an unforgettable experience and actually was very delicious! 

I will remember the first class I taught, not knowing what to say or expect, but finding myself calmed by the eager and excited smiles planted on the students’ faces that were staring back at me. I felt like I could say anything, and they’d find it amazing. 

I will remember the first day of fall; walking outside to find the hot and humid summer heat replaced overnight by the brisk and breezy air. I can still feel the cool wind on my cheeks as I walked to school and passed some students, noticing that their older and lighter summer clothes had been tucked away for the winter and replaced by newer, crisper and warmer uniforms.  

I will remember coffee hour every day after lunch around the round wooden table in the teacher’s lounge. Everyone gathers there with a small Dixie cup of instant coffee and stares at me, analyzing my every move with curiosity and interest, all while wearing big smiles across their faces. Soon enough they will realize I am not as interesting or cool as they think I am. 

I will remember how the Korean teachers make their best attempts at English just so they can ask me any kind of questions to get to know me better. Some of their favorites are: Are you married? Do you have boyfriend? Do you want Korean boyfriend? How many bedrooms in your house?” 

I will remember this adventure not for what I had expected it to be, but from what I have learned to appreciate from it. Stepping outside of my comfort zone and entering the unknown has, in fact, exceeded any expectations I could ever have had. As much as I love my aunt Joanne and all of her shared knowledge and advice, I think I will keep on diving head first into new adventures with very high hopes and great expectations. 

I know now that if you’re lucky, the greatest adventures will outdo even your highest expectations.

Four years ago, when I was turning 40, I did the 3 Day Walk to celebrate the fact that I was healthy. I walked in honor of my mom and the grandmother I never knew. My mom had lost her mother to breast cancer at age 16 and I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought, “I can not imagine not having my mom.” 

My mother had seen many of her loved ones die at an early age – her own mother, her dad when she was 18 and her brother several years later. Fortunately, she herself has lived a full, healthy life, but I’ll never forget when she said to me, “I did not picture myself growing old or still being here.” Although she’s experienced so much tragedy, she never acted like a victim, and I figured the least I could do was walk the 3 Day. 

This was in part what inspired me to want to do the walk and to celebrate health and life now. I also wanted to honor all the woman survivors, to remember those who lost the fight, and to try to make sure our daughters and their daughters never have to endure any of that. 

Mine is just one of many stories and reasons why so many women get out there and walk 60 miles. It is an amazing weekend. Fun and, yes, emotional. It is humbling and moving to read the notes written on the tents in memory of loved ones. The area is lit up at night and it is truly touching. 

I met so many amazing people and heard so many inspiring stories along the way, I was literally speechless after my first walk. 

The second time I walked, the circumstances were very different. A friend of mine, Elizabeth Smider*, was undergoing various treatments for a rare form of breast cancer. She was the mother of two young children, just like me, and her situation hit close to home. It was a roller coaster of ups and down, and when I walked, I carried the knowledge that she may not make it. It was a bittersweet experience, celebrating the survivors while she was fighting for her life. 

My friend ultimately lost her fight, and I will be walking in her memory during the next 3 Day. Although I will once again enjoy bonding with my fellow walkers, toasting to everyone’s health with margaritas, smiling at the policemen dressed in pink and the dancing ladies in their crazy outfits, and switching off which tents we sleep in so we all get to know each other, I will not for one moment forget why we’re walking.   

I hope you’ll walk along with us and that, with every mile, we get closer to finding a cure and making sure we never lose another loved one to breast cancer.

* Elizabeth Smider’s researcher husband is using her cancer cells to try to find a cure. Watch the incredible story here.