A Letter from my Missionary Daughter in California

Hola everyone!!

The sun never ceases to shine here in southern California and I am so grateful. And also sometimes a little annoyed at how perfect the weather is , which I know is a very ungrateful thing to say, but I mean come on nothing is ever THAT perfect. When it rains here (which has only happened a couple times since I"ve been out) I rejoice because then I have evidence that the weather isn't 100% perfect. But it's pretty darn close. Anyway, now that I've complained about perfect weather to people who live in places where it's well below zero all the time.... 

This week has been awesome!!!! We got to hear from Sheri Dew, who is the CEO of Deseret Book, and a pretty inspiring woman. She's never been married and she's in her 60s, which is pretty rare for a Mormon. But through all of her trials, she has learned to trust God and his timing. That's not to say that she was never angry or never had questions, but she's learned to ask questions of faith instead of questions of doubt and she's learned how to recognize the answers. If we want to grow spiritually we have to ask questions and then listen for the answer, because God always answers us. We may have trouble recognizing the answer, or have trouble accepting the answer, but it's there nevertheless. So when questions come- and they will- are we willing to engage in the wrestle to have those questions answered?

How do we get our questions answered? It comes when we are willing to put in the work to study, think about what you studied, and then watch and listen. I have found a lot in my life that my prayers are mostly answered through other people. A smile, a comment, a kind act from someone that I might not even know can all be answers. But also know that even if you're waiting a long time for an answer to come, God's timing is perfect. Be willing to believe that an answer will come. 

This transfer is about up, and time is just flying!! I was blessed to be able to see and talk to my family yesterday through Google Hangouts and it was the best :) Sometimes I get really homesick for just hearing their voices or seeing their faces, but it's days like yesterday that make the time apart worth it. And knowing that our family can be together forever is comforting as well :)  I will always treasure the time that I have here on the mission and the people that I meet, and the experiences that I've had. Treat each day as a gift, and you'll always be happy! I love you all, my friends; have an amazing week! 

Love, Sister Torkildson

the rejected stone

the rejected stone

still grows stronger and larger

in the wilderness

How to Make and Throw a Slapstick Pie

Throughout the history of silent film comedy there were pies everywhere, whizzing through the air like gooey bumblebees.  Their purpose was to smash into the faces of cinema clowns, such as cross-eyed Ben Turpin and walrus-mustached Chester Conklin, as well as straight men like Mack Swain and Bud Jamison, not to mention innocent beauties like Mabel Normand or the statuesque Marie Dressler.

Whether the product came from the Mack Sennett Studio, Hal Roach, or the Christie Educational Studio, hardly any slapstick film during the 1920’s was complete without someone getting a foamy pastry right in the kisser.  Audiences expected it, demanded it, and laughed uproariously when it was delivered. 

The most famous cinema pie fight of all time was undoubtedly Laurel & Hardy’s 1927 short film,Battle of the Century.  Stan and Ollie, along with an entire neighborhood of deranged people, plunder a pie truck of its contents and send them hurling about with hilarious accuracy.  No one has ever been able to count exactly how many pies were used in that film, but it could not have been less than  several hundred!

How did the movie technicians make those pies?  Were they real custard or fruit filling?

No, they were not!

As a former circus clown, I know how those pies were made, and are still made today when clowns want to toss them around under the big top.  The old clowns I worked with told me that the formula has been the same for the past 110 years.

You see, if you were to throw a real pie, a pie with a thick filling of custard or fruit, into someone’s face, you’d probably break their nose!  The next time you are at the supermarket, just go ahead and lift up a fruit pie.  Heavy, isn’t it?  Should you hit someone with something that heavy, there could be some real damage.  Besides, the filling is not very photogenic – on black and white film it looks rather gray and dirty.  It can’t be wiped delicately out of the eyes with just the fingertips, the way Oliver Hardy would do it; it is too thick and pasty for that.  Custard and fruit filling does not make the spectacular spatter you see in the old slapstick movies when the pie makes contact with the victim’s face.  Besides, do you know how difficult it is to clean up after a direct hit with a generous helping of custard or fruit filling?  You can’t do too many retakes using real pies.

At this point you may be thinking, “Oh, right – it must be shaving cream!”

Well, yes and no.

It is shaving cream, but not the kind that comes out of a pressurized can.  That stuff won’t keep firm for more than five minutes, especially under the hot lights of a circus tent, or a movie studio.  It melts into a thin, runny stream of sweet smelling  bubbles.  It looks like milk.

To make the goo for a good slapstick pie, a pie that will sail across the room and land with a satisfying ‘plop’ in someone’s snoot, splattering all over the place, you first start with a dozen bars of hard shaving soap.  The kind that your grandfather put in a ceramic mug and stirred with a brush for a thick, sturdy foam to lather up his chin.  Next, use a carrot grater to grate up all twelve bars into a large galvanized trash can.  When all the hard soap is grated into the garbage can, add cold water from any water source handy until the can is a third full.  Add one full pint of glycerol.  Glycerol is what gives the goo its body and keeps it springy and foamy for up to an hour.  If you want, you can add food coloring to change the color.  Then whip the mixture with a paint mixer on an extended rod, like the old-fashioned malted milkshake mixer.  It will need to be mixed for a good fifteen minutes, after which you will have a whole garbage can full of  aromatic and creamy pie filling.  You can put it in pie tins, buckets, fill syringes with it – it’s very versatile!  This shaving cream filling stings a bit in your eyes, and is not very pleasant to swallow, but it has no permanent aftereffects and is relatively easy to clean up.

So there you have it – the next time you chuckle over some hapless silent film character getting walloped with a pie and spluttering with rage, remember it’s just good clean fun with shaving soap!

even a buffoon

even a buffoon

with puttied nose may find zeal

for what is beyond

the empty table

the empty table

is to be filled by the guest

when he comes at last

the love that made this

the love that made this

has the power to love me

until I, too, bloom

up in the whiteness

up in the whiteness

below the slate blue glory

the jaded sun sets

Religious Freedom

D. Todd Christofferson

“. . . religious freedom supports and strengthens the

rule of law.”

D. Todd Christofferson

The cult of personality respects no rule of law.

The dictator is always right -- his wishes have no flaw.

Religions, on the other hand, teach nations to regard

Rules above the whims of man -- why is that so damn hard?

Who Remembers the Door to Door Salesman?

Rats and flies are a big summer problem

 in some urban areas, but I remember a

 time when they seemed like small potatoes 

compared to that nonpareil nuisance – 

the door-to-door salesman.

Long before telemarketers invaded our

 privacy, husky young men rang the doorbell

 constantly during the summer months, asking

 the lady of the house, with a grin as insincere

 as a political endorsement, “is your mother home, missy?” 

Who now remembers the Fuller Brush man?

  These pesky invaders liked to show up

 during my mother’s favorite soap opera in the afternoons.  Usually banished outside to play for

 the afternoon, I often watched their progress as

 they went from one door to the next until they

 reached our door.  They never got anywhere

 with old Benny on the corner – he was a crusty bachelor.  Then there was Mrs. Henderson,

 who let everybody in but never bought

 anything; she was just lonely widow. 

 Then the Antons; he had a railroad pension

 and never left the house for fear his wife 

would spend a quarter on something he

 hadn’t pre-approved – he always

 brought a BB gun to the door.  Then

 the Matsuuras.  They had a little brass 

plate displayed over their doorbell: 

 NO SOLICITING.  That didn’t stop

 the Fuller Brush Man.  Mrs. Matsuura played

 possum, not answering the doorbell, but the

 Fuller Brush Man was persistent, if nothing else.

  Finally she would come to the door, glare at 

him through the screen, and wind up buying some toothbrushes.

Then it was our turn.  I liked listening to his

 spiel, especially the part about the brushes

 being made out of 100% boar bristles. 

 I used to dream about boar bristles, about

 how brave men had to hunt down the 

ravening boars in some bamboo grove

 in Borneo, and then pluck the bristles out

 by hand, one by one.  My mother always gave

 the Fuller Brush Man the bum’s rush,

 but I promised myself I’d get me a boar’s

 bristle brush someday.  I finally did, as a

 teenager, to comb my luxurious hippie

 locks – until my mother made me get a crew cut.

Ladies came to our door, too.  They sold Stanley

 Home Products – mostly cleaners and

 detergents.  Mom had her own opinions

 about how to keep the house clean, and they

 didn’t include Stanley Home Products.

  The Avon Lady, however, was a different

 kettle of fish.   First of all, she was always a 

local; in our neighborhood it was Mrs. Satterlee,

 who not only lived just two blocks from us

 but was also my third grade teacher.  Her

 credentials were unimpeachable.  Mom

 got all her lipstick and eyeliner from the

 Avon Lady.  And for my tenth birthday

 the crummy Avon Lady convinced her to get

 me soap on a rope, curse her entrepreneurial spirit!

The Watkins man parked his truck in the

 middle of the block; he didn’t have to go 

door-to-door – all the housewives flocked 

to him for their almond flavoring and pepper.

  Mr. Anton, the railroad pensioner, also

 patronized the Watkins man – buying

 several bottles of pure vanilla extract at a time.

  Mrs. Anton was no hand at baking or cooking;

 it was whispered that he drank the stuff 

straight from the bottle, since it was 90 proof alcohol. 

There was an old Ukrainian lady, dressed in

 gypsy kerchief and a dozen petticoats, who

 hobbled from door to door, selling wooden

 nested dolls, hand-carved by her invalid 

husband and painted by herself.  She appeared

 around Easter.  Everyone bought a doll

 from her.  My dad said she rode around 

in a Cadillac, and the dolls were all made in Japan. 

Life insurance was sold door-to-door. 

 The Encyclopedia Britannica.  Competing

 dairy companies sent their milkmen

 door-to-door to drum up business,

 promising free butter and eggs for

 a week if we switched from Ewald’s to 

Land O Lakes.  Magazines.  Cookies.  Candy. 

 Driveway repair services.  Sewing machines. 

 Vacuum cleaners.

Some summer days my poor mother

 opened the door to half a dozen 

door-to-door peddlers between 9 a.m.

 and 5 p.m.  Then, to top it all off, 

the paperboy would show up right 

at dinner time for his subscription 

money.  She told my dad we were 

moving to Lower Slobovia if one more

 salesman showed up.

This particular pest is now extinct, I believe.

Living in a Senior Housing Complex, with a

locked lobby, I haven't been bothered by one

in years. But, like the Bubonic Plague, they

could return -- if we don't behave ourselves! 

tremble in the bud

about to become

washed with lustrous rain water

about to become