Why does 8 p.m. in Minnesota summers feel like the beginning of the evening but the end of the day during the winter? It always amazes me how much the sun affects our lives.

I’m not a fan of the heat it produces but I love the light.

I love how it fuels my energy all through the day and into the night.

I love to see my broccoli and jalapeno peppers start to sprout in the vegetable garden.

I get immense pleasure in sitting on my deck, surrounded by the container flowers I planted in the spring, having a drink with my son and playing Scrabble with my daughter.

This month is the reason we Minnesotans live here. It’s the stuff of my dreams that I hold onto through our state’s icy winters.

If this quote doesn’t affectionately and accurately summarize my feelings, then nothing does:

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.

     -James Russell Lowell

I did the most Minnesotan thing today. I walked my parents out to their car after a visit at my house and then proceeded to talk to my mother for three full minutes after they both got in the car and her door was still open.

Then my mother did another Minnesota classic – after her door was shut she told me through the glass to say hi to the rest of the family.

While trekking across the University of Minnesota’s immense East Bank campus in the fall of 1990, I overheard a snippet of conversation between two girls, who I assume were sorority sisters.

I don’t recall their exact words but they were discussing clothes. One girl said she was going to be purchasing a trench coat from London Fog.

Oh, how the brand rolled off her tongue like butter! There was not one hint of wondering if she had the money for the jacket or that she finally saved up for it herself while working extra shifts at the bar. It was a fact. It was imminent. She would be, very soon, buying a piece of clothing that, at least at that time, cost more than the outfit I had been currently wearing and the outfit I’d be wearing the next day. And possibly even the day after that…

But it was more than just the jacket. The entire discussion, though I didn’t hear it in its entirety, embodied everything I wished I was – rich, popular, and beautiful. Yes, my family always had plenty of gifts at Christmas and I had friends all through my school years. It wasn’t, however, until my first year of college, that I discovered a curling iron and makeup worked wonders in getting guys to look at me.

But every one of those things I had to work at – money, looks, any kind of social status.

I envied those to which, correctly or not, all three seemed so effortless.

Nonetheless, college offered me, as it does everyone, a chance to reinvent myself.

It wasn’t a bad thing. I wasn’t trying to be someone I wasn’t. What that conversation between the two girls did was make me aim to be who I wanted to be. It motivated me to cultivate a well-tailored wardrobe with money I made from working hard.

It was sometime in my mid-20’s that I discovered Banana Republic, when the store was filled with well-made safari jackets in brown, black, and that God-kissed hue – khaki.

And, as it turned out, trench coats.

At the full price of almost $200, I splurged on the perfect double-breasted khaki (!) piece and wore it with everything.

The coat instantly elevated any outfit I was wearing, from jeans and ankle boots to a blouse, skirt, and heels.

My favorite look with it by far was when I wore my shoulder-length hair pulled forward, collar up, and sunglasses.

Done.

I may not have had more than $50 in my bank account afterwards, but I strutted around like I had a thousand.

That trench and my subsequent purchases all veered towards the preppy side, perhaps as a subconscious nod to the sorority girls I felt were still walking behind me.

It’s a look of which I aspire to yet today – clean, classic, and timeless. There’s pants and button-down shirts in my closet that I’ve worn for years.

I still don’t have the limitless funds I perceived those girls probably had/have but I’ve learned to mix high and low. My high being, of course, a J Crew blazer and low being a witty, tight-fitting t-shirt underneath it – such as “I Just Want to Drink Wine and Pet My Dog.”

So imagine the smile on my face when, a few years ago, I was perusing the racks at TJ Maxx and came across an item from another world.

It was a lovely caramel colored alligator leatheresque handbag.

And the label said it all – London Fog.

I bought it immediately.

Sometimes, deep down, I feel each day is secretly, subconsciously spent waiting for when it’s time to go to bed.

Sometimes all it takes for a perfect day is good friends, a few beers, plenty of snacks, and great conversation.

Even though my friend’s father passed away a few days prior, and though it was expected and he lived a full life all his 91 years, to laugh and chat away, occasionally going up against each other in politically-heated discussions, the love was felt all around the table. Five of us talking, joking, and loving on each other was the only way to help our friend through this difficult time.

I don’t even want to think about my own dad’s passing. He’s not ready, nor am I. But when the time comes, hopefully in the distant future, I hope my same friends come over to spend the exact same night with me.

Had the best Mother’s Day. Really, any day, with my husband and kids hanging out with me and laughing is a mother’s day to me.

As in most holidays-non-holidays (which I include as most “Days” – both Mother’s and Father’s, Grandparent’s, Valentine’s, etc…) I didn’t expect a ton.

I woke up thinking all I really wanted was for the four of us – husband and two kids – to attend church in-person together.

Amazingly enough, it happened, without me even voicing my desire.

There were, the four of us, all riding in dad’s truck together.

I smiled as we pulled into the parking lot, thinking that if that’s all I got today, I’d be a happy mother.

But then we got home and, as I apparently was engrossed in my daily crossword puzzle (Sunday mornings are my favorite time to work on one) I hadn’t noticed that my kids went shopping for me. As I was filling in the last answers, they each presented me with a heartfelt hand-written card. I noticed thought was put into buying the cards – one was a pig with a daisy in its mouth – I’ve always loved pigs – in fact, I used to collect them by the dozens for decades. The other was made to look like the cover of a book, which of course fits me perfectly as I’m a rabid reader.

The cards accompanied a gorgeous hanging plant with flowers representing my two favorite colors – red and hot pink. Lush green leaves filled out the rest of the basket.

The evening was topped off by a delicious meal of teriyaki kabobs, jalapeno poppers, and soft baked potatoes slathered in cheese, butter, Top the Tater, and a healthy dose of salt and pepper.

Afterwards, the husband went to bed while both kids hung out with me in the kitchen as I washed dishes. We joked around and talked about, well, pretty much nothing.

But all that nothing meant the entire world to me.

Some memories pop up when you least expect them.

Looking out our kitchen window the other day I saw a red ball in our backyard pond (ok, storm water drainage pool) and wondered where it came from. It got to me thinking about a certain other ball from my youth.

My brother’s Big New Orange Ball.

With his blonde bowl cut, my brother would stand with his arm around his prized possession at the door of our childhood home’s living room and ask me if I wanted to play with his Big New Orange Ball. That’s what the toy would always be referred to as, despite after a while the ball being neither new nor exactly orange (more the color of a pumpkin picked four weeks prior). Nor, thinking about it, was it always big. At one point I believe it popped and our dad had to put a screw in it after filling it with air.

Buy a replacement ball??

Never. Because the game we played with it just wouldn’t be the same.

We called the game Bop. The rules (rule, rather) was simple. We hit – bopped – the ball to each other, counting along the way, trying not to let the ball hit the ground.

One time we got to some magic number (was it 80? I don’t recall) and it was our highest ever. We ran around and around the room in celebration.

Come to think of it, it’s surprising that our mom let us bat around a ball in the house. Some friends’ living rooms were off-limits to children. But ours was open for anything. With its thick yellow “drapes” (never referred to as curtains) and Oscar the Grouch-colored green carpet, nothing must have been too breakable for my mom to worry about us destroying. Either that or she was just happy us kids were occupied, which left her to do her own thing.

Sure Bop was fun, but the best part was hanging out with my brother.

Two years younger than me, we were each other’s playmates a good portion of the day. Oftentimes we dragged out every piece of his massive Star Wars collection of figurines and spaceships or his orange (there’s that color again!) Hot Wheels tracks and spent hours completely engaged.

He and I have grown up of course and remain close. But sometimes he’ll still be the kid standing in front of me asking me to play with his Big New Orange Ball.

The best advice to someone building a new house in the Midwest?

Spend the money and get the whole entire house finished – basement and all – right away.

Build the deck and patio, and outfit both with the comfy furniture you want. Finish the basement – complete with a bar and huge TV and extra bedroom for guests.

Have your kitchen and closets immediately organized with shelving. Put in a workbench in the garage (even if neither of you are handy – trust me on this). Build a shed in your backyard to house your snow blower, mower, and garden tools.

Whatever. Just get your house completely livable from the get-go.

Don’t even try to say you’ll eventually get around to it. If it’s because of cost, 95% of the time you’ll be wrong. Add it to your mortgage. Put it on credit. But for all that is holy, build your house so you and your family can start living in it – entirely and comfortably – right as you step foot over the threshold for the first time.

I absolutely love dips and sauces. Which is odd, considering I grew up with salt and pepper as my only spices and the occasional ketchup with my McDonald’s fries.

Salt has always been my downfall. One of the first things I learned to cook on my own was boxed minute rice. And strangely, since they weren’t exactly cultural cuisine enthusiasts, the only sauce my parents kept in the cupboard was soy sauce. I would always drown my rice in this salty concoction.

My evolution of taste has mostly come late in life. Thanks to my husband and son, who, as I’ve stated before, are excellent cooks and grill masters, I’ve been introduced to numerous flavors and condiments I would never have thought to try.

For instance, I used to order my hamburgers completely plain, devoid of even one lettuce leaf.

But in my late twenties I got a wild fungus up my butt one day and requested mushrooms on my burger at a restaurant. Could it have been because I was pregnant? I’ll never know but damn, they were tasty.

Fast forward a couple of decades and I continued to order mushrooms – only mushrooms – on my burgers.

No cheese, however, and definitely no onions.

Those both mysteriously appeared on my plate last summer. Again, without any perceptible reason or encouragement.

Then a few months ago, my son brought me home a Chick-fil-A sandwich with pickles on it. I happened to be starving so I ate it. Never once had I put a pickle on any sandwich.

Beaming, he was proud of himself for introducing me to this American institution.

Most recently, I was out with friends and had a sudden gestational urge. I actually forgot where I was, but I ordered the ultimate burger – a thick ground beef patty topped with sautéed onions, mushrooms cooked in red wine sauce, barbecue sauce, and some kind of seasoned mayo.

Quite seriously, I was moved.

Since then I’ve actually gone out of my way to try new things. Who knew that it would only take half of a century for me to do so?

Which brings me to my top three favorite sauces and dips (in no particular order):

Top the Tater

If you’re one of the three people who haven’t discovered this delicacy, then you’re missing out. Must be eaten with Old Dutch Rip-L Potato Chips. Also should be a substitute for regular sour cream on any baked potato. Referred by my neighbor Brendan as “liquid gold.”

Bachan’s The Original Japanese Barbecue Sauce

My brother didn’t lie.

He gave a bottle to my son this past Christmas. Said he and his wife (who are both vegans) put it on just about everything. They ordered it online and they were, at the time, on their third bottle of the year. Less salty-tasting than plain old soy sauce, this heavenly juice pairs well with just about any meat, Asian food, or a plastic spoon.

Primal Kitchen’s Chipotle Lime Mayo (Real Mayonnaise made with Avocado Oil)

Simply put, this spread elevates any sandwich to the next level. A bit of zing without being overpowering, it compliments my go-to sammy of toasted bread, Canadian bacon, a fried egg, one slice of any cheese, and fresh avocado. (Yes, there’s avocado in the mayo but one can never have too much avocado, correctamundo??)

Terry Ho’s Yum-Yum Sauce

It’s orange and beautiful and disappears fast at our house. I’d eat this stuff by the barrel if I could. I put it on seafood, friend rice, and any meat my husband makes that I’m hesitant about eating.

Is there anything better than NyQuil? Even the thought of it makes me feel better.

I’ll take a shot of the midnight blue stuff at night and a swig of its equally as effective counterpart – DayQuil – in the morning and be loving life.

Even though I’m sick and feel like I want to die, of course.