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We light candles at all times of the year. There are the big, heavy candles that could burn for hours on end that rest on our dining room tables. These we light at sunset on a midsummer night, or in the early dawn hours of an October morning. There are the candles of dinner parties, the ones that are lit until it’s pitch black and the wax has hardened to the wooden table. There are the candles of slow mornings, where all is whispered and quiet, besides the honk of the Canadian geese.

But of all the candles we’ve ever lit, the 20 minute candle is our favorite one yet.

We light a 20 minute candle when we need to slow down as we drink our morning coffee, because it’s all too easy to chug instead of savor. We light a 20 minute candle when the living room needs a tidy-up. We light a 20 minute candle to finally paint with that watercolor book that’s been collecting dust. We light a 20 minute candle to think of someone we miss. We light a 20 minute candle when we need to actually sit down and write out feelings we’ve been putting off. We light a 20 minute candle to read our book.

For us, the 20 minute candle is a mindful timer for our favorite rituals and activities. It’s also an accountability partner in the things we say we want to do, but have been demoted on the to-do list. It helps us do something sometimes, or do nothing other times. It’s a gentle, tactile way to bring intention to certain things that we do in the day. The best part is, those things are up to you to decide.

Maybe the kids are crazy and the mud from the rain storm outside has found its way to the living room. You light a candle and “By the time the candle is out, all the toys and books have to be in the basket!”

Maybe you want to pray, meditate, or just sit in silence every morning, and you need a little reminder to get you there. You light the candle and you sit down, and at the end of the 20 minutes, you’ve done the thing you said you would.

Maybe you got the leather journal and the new pen, with visions of cozying up under a thick blanket as the chilly breeze flows through the window. The candlelight flickers against the blank page as you finally put pen to paper, and you continue to do so every Sunday night after that, simply for 20 minutes.

Maybe you’re sick, or you’re caring for someone who is sick, and you need 20 minutes to rest your mind, write a letter, or daydream about better days.

Maybe you’re trying to spend more time off of technology and live a more analog life. So, you light a 20 minute candle to start the scrapbook, learn the needlepoint stitch, or play the card game.

For the nearly two years that we have written this publication, we have always been about the writing and the storytelling. Cabin Nine is an ode to the Pacific Northwest — the fog, the wild berries, the steaming cups of coffee, the salty seas, and the wild, hearty crew that call it home. We write about the spirit of the Pacific Northwest as we see it threaded throughout our lives, and the lives of others who love this same place, too.

We always hoped to create a product one day. Every week, we tap into the best of the Pacific Northwest to write this newsletter. It’s the dreamy, poetic, and beautiful way of storytelling around the spirit of a place that we all love so much. It’s a corner for those who yearn for the Pacific Northwest, or miss it deeply, to feel this, too.

For our first product, we have created something physical of this Cabin Nine world that we have built, and that you all have found.

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The Cabin Nine 20 Minute Candle Set

It’s exactly what it sounds like — a candle that burns for approximately 20 minutes.

For us, we found that it is easier to do the hard, heavy-lifting kind of work that lives on a to-do list. But the rituals and activities for pleasure and enjoyment—like crafting, reading, journaling, sewing, baking, stretching—are easily kicked to the curb. The 20 minute candle helps us commit to these activities in a gentle, tactile, and beautiful way.

We’ve been sharing the candles with the people in our lives, and we’ve loved seeing how they use them in a way that is individual and special to them.

For one, it was lighting a candle and committing to a meditation practice every morning. For another, it was lighting a candle every night to remember a parent that they lost. It was lighting a candle and hand-writing a letter to someone important. It was lighting a candle and reading a devotional before the kids woke up.

We’ve found that 20 minutes is the perfect amount of time. Not too long, not too short. It’s just right, just enough.

The Cabin Nine 20 Minute Candle Set ($28) comes with everything you need.

All of the contents are arranged in a cute little blue tin with Scandinavian-inspired packaging. It feels a bit maritime, a bit cozy cabin, a bit vintage, and a lot Cabin Nine.

Inside the tin, there are 12 pure beeswax candles, a reusable and unique stone candle holder, and matches. More product details are available here.

It’s nearly September, and it’s almost autumn. We recently saw the first few leaves float to the ground, with many more to come. Our dinghy is flipped over on the sand and the oars are tucked away for the season. We’ve gorged on all the summer berries, and miraculously, we managed to save enough for jam. The apples are ripening on their branches, and our morning walks now require another layer. The lunchboxes are being packed, and it’s again a season of firsts. Just as spring barrels into summer, summer now eases into fall. And here we are, with you, in our little pocket of the Pacific Northwest.

So let’s light a candle, for all that has happened and all that is to come.

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SHOP THE CABIN NINE 20 MINUTE CANDLE SET HERE.

Photos our own and Pinterest

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For some, a white stretch of sandy beach is their definition of paradise. We get that. However, for others, and ourselves included, a rocky beach holds the treasure that we seek. Because a rocky beach has agates.

In the Pacific Northwest, you will find mason jars filled with sea glass, shells, petrified wood, and pastel-colored rocks lining the windowsill. You will also find glass jars overflowing with rocks that span many different shades — some a milky white, others a deep amber. The more rare ones are even sunset-pink and ruby-red. Each agate looks a little bit different. For a beginner’s eye, it takes some time to see how they do, in fact, belong to the same rock family.

During our summers in the San Juan Islands, you’ll find a big bunch of us walking South Beach, shoulders rounding forward and necks tilted downward. First as little toddlers, our mom drawing a big circle in the sand around the agate she had spotted easily. Our training began young with our mom as the best teacher, her having grown up walking the same beach, looking for the same rocks. She also had the best teacher, her mom. We know the best time of day to look, which direction to walk, what piles of rocks are likely to hold what we are seeking.

Now, as adults with many years of agate-hunting under our belts, we all meander the beach slowly (our grandma moving the slowest, and let us just say, it’s not out of necessity). On a good day, our pockets drag heavily. On the days that our pockets remain buoyant and empty, it’s still a good day. Because just like our grandma, we love looking for agates. And, just like our grandma says — every day looking for agates is a good day.

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If you drive through any Pacific Northwest neighborhood long enough, you’ll catch a glimpse of a backyard treehouse. It will likely be as all childhood backyard treehouses are — somewhat rickety and somewhat dangerous, but magical all the same. Every childhood has a treehouse, whether it was the physical one in your backyard or the imaginary one in your bedtime story. Or maybe, it was the treehouse on your favorite TV show.

What we find incredible about a treehouse is the feeling that it evokes not just in children, but in adults, too. These whimsical, magical structures, wholly unnecessary but astounding in their novelty. Triggering nostalgia of days long past, but also creating a sense of awe and wonder that such a thing even exists in our grown-up world.

Who better to speak to the spirit of a treehouse than someone who actually builds them?

“Alright, are you ready?”

“I am. I am super cozy, per the Cabin Nine brand.”

We are hosting Michael Hegarty in our living room on a breezy Pacific Northwest evening. In Cabin Nine fashion, as Michael astutely points out, it is a cozy setup. We scheduled our chat for after dinner, with his workdays keeping him busy until after 6 or 7pm, so we have our candles lit, casting us all in an easy orange glow. We even brewed the three of us some herbal tea, which he was uncharacteristically excited about for a 6’3” carpenter.

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Michael is a treehouse carpenter for Nelson Treehouse, which some of you may be familiar with from the longtime Animal Planet show, Treehouse Masters. We were excited to speak to Michael and learn about the life of a lead treehouse carpenter. His profession seems like one a kid would announce they want to be one day, but then life steers them logically toward something more realistic and safe. But, Michael is following that little kid vision — he actually is a treehouse carpenter. And not the painstakingly-assembled treehouses of your neighbor’s backyard — these are beautiful, artistic, and livable structures and homes.

But, long before Michael was a carpenter building in the trees, he was a young East Coast boy climbing all over the trees of the small harbor town that was home. “[We] were imagination kids,” Michael tells us of his childhood. “That’s what our parents made us go do. You know, you just go outside in the backyard. Our parents didn’t even let us have a TV… I was always outside as a kid.”

The backyard shenanigans between Michael and his younger sister were plentiful. “There was a giant Norway maple tree in my backyard. That was one of the first places my sister and me always used to play. We used to pretend that [tree] was a pirate ship, and we used to have swings off it… we’d pull mattresses and weird pillows and things outside to basically jump off the tree into.”

We ask Michael what the first thing he ever built was, and he explains, much to his neighbor’s dismay, that it was a catapult. “It really was very simple. It was basically a board of wood with something rigged up so I could stretch these really big elastic bands that I was able to buy across the street at this convenience store. And something that attached to the rubber band to hold a rock. And I would just launch it at my neighbors’ houses and crazy things like that…” He laughs, “Yeah, I stopped doing that very fast.”

Michael was a spirited kid with a hunger for adventure and a constant desire to be in the trees. We wondered where his connection to trees began. “As a kid, I always felt super comfortable climbing trees. I would go to the top, until the thing’s bending.” One of his earliest memories of climbing trees was while he was in Ireland, where his dad is from.

“There was this big, big oak tree that was growing right at the division of a property line. And there was a classic Irish rock wall fence right there. I was probably like 10 years old or something, and for whatever reason, my immediate instinct was to climb the rock wall to get into the tree, and then climb the tree even higher.” He goes on, “I continued to do that through most of middle school. I used to free-climb pine trees all the time. I’ve honestly been higher in trees with no rope and climbing gear, like I use today.” Laughing as he makes it known, “The right way. The safe way.”

After attending college in Boston and working a handful of different jobs in the event and custom build space, Michael found himself drawn to carpentry work. He spent eight years doing residential carpentry and eventually burnt himself out doing the same jobs over and over again. He made a negotiation with himself that year — “I’ve always been creative. I’ve always done creative stuff. But there was this solid mental commitment that I made to myself, that I’m going to make more art this year and look for more and more of those opportunities.”

And then, Nelson Treehouse posted on Instagram that they were hiring traveling carpenters. “I was well aware that they’re making these very cool, creative, custom, whimsical treehouses, and I loved the sound of that. To me, it was combining skills I already had with doing something more unconventional and more creative.”

There was also the allure of the travel aspect. In the last six years that Michael has worked for Nelson Treehouse, he has built treehouses in Washington, Hawaii, Texas, Tennessee, Connecticut, Wisconsin, New York, Pennsylvania, and Florida.

The life of a traveling treehouse carpenter might sound romantic, and in many ways, it is. They are building breathtaking structures in beautiful places. Treehouse Masters definitely highlights this side of the job, but we are curious how the TV show might, in some ways, differ from reality.

“I don’t think the show quite portrays how hard this is,” Michael admits. “How physically demanding it is. How mentally demanding it is, being on the road for six or eight weeks, living and working with the same five or six guys… working six days on, one day off.” He continues, “I’ve considered myself a hard worker for a long time, but this is by far the hardest work I’ve ever done.”

Not only do treehouse carpenters execute meticulous carpentry work, but they also face environmental challenges specific to their trade. They hike all day, because a lot of the time they’re in the mountains and the treehouses happen to be built on the edge of them. They set up heavy-duty equipment and use arborist rigging techniques to lift giant beams and walls up into the trees, which as Michael says, “is pretty hard to do when you’re on the side of a cliff in a forest.”

They strap into climbing harnesses to install Treehouse Attachments Bolts, frame roofs, and install siding, all while hanging dozens of feet off the forest floor. And, not to mention, they’re building in a living ecosystem—a tree—so they’re constantly faced with scenarios where they need to adapt a technique or solve a problem unconventionally. This often means working around large branches, building in a manner that allows tree growth, and avoiding running heavy machinery over tree feeder roots. Their job sites also run at an incredibly fast, efficient pace, which enables them to finish these elaborate structures in just six weeks or so. “We like to hustle,” Michael finishes.

A unique part of the treehouses that Michael and his fellow carpenters build is that they are often fully tree-supported. The Nelson Treehouse team has developed a specific system, known as the Treehouse Attachment Bolt (TAB), that protects the health of the tree while ensuring that the structure itself is completely supported by the trees. For Michael, much of his passion lies in building fully tree-supported treehouses. We ask him why it’s so important to him:

“It’s the whole magic of a treehouse, right? When it’s fully tree-supported, it’s this thing that seemingly should not be possible, especially when you take into account the size of treehouses we put up in trees. When you see that, and it looks like it’s floating, and you realize it’s held by trees… There’s just something about that. And it’s not just how it looks — it feels different. And when you’re building it, it feels different. It really does. Every time you’re drilling into one of these trees and realizing the entire structure you’re about to build is going to be supported by it, it’s pretty insane.”

When you’re up in a treehouse, you’re not just experiencing this magical, unlikely structure. You’re also seeing the world from a completely different vantage point than the one you’re used to. Suddenly, you aren’t of the human world with its humdrum ways. You’re in the trees, very much a part of this breathing ecosystem that has been living above your head all this time. You never truly got to be a part of it — until now. We ask Michael about the feeling of being in the trees:

“I’m usually just sort of awestruck. I don’t really know what the feeling is other than just being awestruck when you’re up there. I’m awestruck at what I’m looking at, the pure beauty of seeing something from that perspective. I’m awestruck that this is my career. I get paid to do this, you know? This seemingly impossible industry that exists, and I do it regularly, and fortunately for me, I do it often in incredibly beautiful places.”

Nelson Treehouse usually builds bespoke, one-of-a-kind treehouses. Treehouse Masters demonstrates a variety of different styles, looks, and designs for clients. But, one thing that Nelson Treehouse had not yet done until recently was build a public treehouse. In autumn of 2024, Michael and four other seasoned Nelson Treehouse carpenters spent the better part of two months building this old Nordic church-inspired treehouse in a majestic, healthy Doug Fir tree. The treehouse borders a cozy coffee shop in a historic white house called Aroma Coffee Co., which has become a favorite destination of local families — and now, many visitors, adults and children alike, who are eager to explore “Pete’s Treefort.”

Knowing Michael’s childhood love of tree adventures, we ask him what it’s like to see kids enjoying the treehouse he helped build. “It’s the absolute best part about it. It really is,” he shares. “That feeling that they’re feeling is [what] I’m talking about when you see a fully tree-supported treehouse.”

As for the Aroma treehouse, “Aroma was very unique because it was a public treehouse. And so not only was it just a couple of kids, but it was swarmed by kids… You’re just seeing this thing that is so out of the ordinary. There’s no reason for it to be there other than to just make people excited, really.”

Michael has built treehouses in the snowy mountains of upstate New York, the cypress groves of Texas Hill Country, and the lush rainforests of Hawaii. Evidently, his job has brought him to some of the most beautiful places in the country. But, we are reminded of one of our happiest places when we ask him about a landscape that inspires him — “Definitely the San Juan Islands.” Elaborating more, he goes on to say that the San Juans are “probably in the top three most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.” We like him even more.

Continuing on, Michael shares, “[They’re] completely full of trees, often really big, beautiful ones. There’s a specific place I won’t fully name, because it’s kind of a secret spot. But there is a place in the San Juan Islands that has recently been inspiring me to the point where I’ve pretty much committed to myself that I have to build a treehouse out there one way or another. And it’s just a quintessential San Juan spot. It’s up the bluffs, overlooking the ocean and other islands. There’s a grouping of trees there that are just beautiful, healthy, giant Doug Firs.” A grin creeps in as he finishes, “And they’re game for a treehouse to be built.”

While we’re on the subject, we ask him about what his dream Pacific Northwest summer day would entail, to which he quickly and confidently responds, “Fishing.” Growing up in a seaside harbor town in Massachusetts had Michael staying up past midnight on many summer nights, shore-fishing for striped bass. While he’s got the stripers down, he shares that he is eager to learn the ways of salmon fishing. We tell him that the San Juan Islands are the right place for that.

We think about little Michael, scaling the trees of his neighborhood, sitting unabashedly at the tippy-top. We ask him what he feels when he is in the trees. Without missing a beat, he replies, “Safe.” He goes on, “It could be 20 feet, it could be 50, 60 feet, sometimes more. And I feel very, very safe up there.”

We gawk at how he could feel safe that many feet off the ground, but after hearing about who Michael was as a child, of course that’s what he feels up there. Of course that’s the word he would choose. Of course, way up there, he feels safe. Little Michael would probably be stoked to hear how it all turned out.

“I’m just sort of blown away at what I’m doing, and I can’t believe I’m doing what I used to like to do as a little kid.”

See more of Michael’s work and his adventures as a traveling treehouse carpenter on his Instagram.

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Thank you for reading the Cabin Nine Interview Series.

Now, it’s a summer weekend in the Pacific Northwest. While there are still summer weekends that await us, the number is dwindling. Soon — but not yet. So, here is a list we put together of some summer weekend doings, because there is nowhere like the PNW in summertime… and we don’t want to miss a thing.

• Fill a bowl with freshly-picked blackberries

• Make mint lemon water

• Paint a driftwood sign to put over your door

• Arrange a bouquet of wildflowers

• Relax on the deck under string lights

• Pack a picnic

• Take a dip in the river

• Collect seashells, sea glass, and agates

• Make a Hugo Spritz with fresh mint

• Put together a snackle box for your day on the water

• Spend an afternoon watercoloring

• Fill a basket with vegetables at the farmers market

• Arrange beach collectibles into a little art scene

• Eat dinner outside with candles lit

• Bake a blackberry slump cake

• Jump off a dock into the ocean

• Read a book outside on a picnic blanket

• Make homemade ice cream

• Set up a slip ‘n slide

• Gather flowers and press them in a thick book

• Bring fresh rosemary as a host gift

• Light a 20-minute candle while you drink your morning coffee

• Wake up early with the sun and the birds

• Bake something for your neighbors

• Eat oysters by the sea

• Make a fruit salad with raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries

our photos and pinterest photos

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When we were little, big life jackets would cover our whole upper body, accentuating our already-chunky baby cheeks. Tiny hands wrapped around the metal railing that our mom always worried would bonk our teeth after an unexpected wave.

Every summer, we took the Boston Whaler on the three hour journey from Bainbridge Island to the San Juan Islands. This day was always one of the best of the summer. We’d soar past Whidbey Island, squealing with delight when a ferry passed so we could catch its wave and fly. The boat would be loaded with all of the kid summer essentials — bicycles, marshmallows, books, Ginger Ale, inner tubes, and sunscreen. Our dad, a believer that no occasion was too small to celebrate, would pack an array of snacks for the day’s run: cheese squares, crackers, Nutella, sandwiches, salami, pickles, and chips. And of course, a tupperware of brownie dough for “lunch dessert.” We knew we were close when we crossed Deception Pass. And then, finally, we would see the familiar landscape of the island. The rise and dip of the hill that grew as we jetted closer. When we finally rounded the bend into the bay, we all had tangly, wind-swept hair and big, wide smiles.

Eventually, the summers passed in a blur of sun-soaked days. Our tiny hands turned bigger, larger, and more capable. The boating outings became longer. Big, heavy crabbing pots pulled from the depths. King salmon on the landing. Runs to Marine Area six on the hunt for halibut. We’ll say, “Bumpers on the port side” when we’re docking in the marina, and we can tie a cleat hitch in a few seconds. We went from the toddlers in our parents’ arms to the adults now running the boat.

And still, whenever we load up on the Whaler, we still get the same feeling that we had when we were little kids on that first boat day of the summer. The smack of the wind on our faces and through our hair. The salty spray splattering our faces, our stomachs dipping with the drop of the bow on a big wave. A world that we are grateful to be a part of, and a boat that has been with us all the while.

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Now, as we write this, we are up in the San Juan Islands with our family. Just this morning, we were scrolling through digitized film from our grandparents. So many of the film images were shot here, on this island. These trees, these beaches, these cabins. Our grandparents started this tradition of converging here every summer, and more than 50 years later, here we are.

This poem is an ode to the every day, the magic that lies in the creases of the mundane. It’s one of our favorite pieces of writing, and today, we wanted to share it with you.

Because today is a lovely day.

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This was Today

This was a lovely day, hot, gay,

not marked in any special way

by rain or sun. No dreams came true;

the sky no deeper, richer blue

than yesterday. The same old sights,

and sounds, and smells, and appetites

as any other day — and yet,

this was a day we’ll not forget!

We were alive, and it was good

to smile at friends; be understood

by ones we love; to cherish hope

for things that are to come; to cope

with all the day’s defeats and know

that eyes can keep the same warm glow.

No grand events, no proud display,

but yet — this was a lovely day.

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It’s the beginning of blackberry season, which always means blackberry cobbler. It’s a double batch, so luckily we have plenty of butter. Our grandma always makes sure we know that a household must have plenty of butter. We dump the berries in a large bowl and mix in some cane sugar and a squeeze of lemon on top. Our fingers are stained purple.

Opposite of its autumn and winter counterpart, the summer days here are lengthy. Morning is quick to arrive, and evening is late to join. There are days aboard the boat, hours spent jigging and down-rigging for salmon. When we step back on the beach, we still wobble as if we’re moving with the waves. Other days are spent walking the rocky beaches, shoulders hunched downward on the hunt for agates. We pack sandwiches and bring them to the sandy stretch, taking turns dunking in the sea. Bruce Springsteen, Colbie Caillat, and Paul Simon play. Charcuterie, hot dogs, kale salad, crowded tables. Dessert is always earned.

We dollop thick clumps of cobbler dough to the baking pan full of blackberries, licking our fingers as we go. Hardly a berry can be seen until we pull the cobbler out of the oven, golden brown on top and bubbling purple berries climbing up the sides. A peak through the kitchen to the front porch shows a table full of dishes and soon-to-be-leftovers. String lights reflect on the water, seals bobbing about curiously. Grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, are all there, enjoying.

We serve pieces of cobbler into bowls, followed by a scoop of vanilla ice cream that melts quickly. Spoons clink against the ceramic sides, the last of tonight’s summer delight. The candles all burn down, and we make our plans for tomorrow.

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As we spend more time with elderly folks, we see so much of what is being lost to the newer generations — to our generation. We made a list of these things, in the hopes of bringing them back into our lives. Maybe they will inspire you, too, because that which has been lost can always be found again.

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Printed pictures.

Are we grateful for the iPhone and the compact, high-quality camera that it provides us? Yes. But as people with camera rolls filled with 150,000+ images, each picture loses its shine when it’s drowning in a sea of many. We have been filling up disposable cameras, as well as our 35mm film camera, for over eight years now. Each time we get the images developed, we order 4x6 prints, too. Each moment that is captured in the image is boiled down to its entirety, because there is likely only one. The inability to fire away until the perfect image has been captured means imperfect images, but ones that most closely resemble how it felt to actually be there. To hold that memory in your hand is the best part of all.

Assembling all of your printed pictures into a photo book.

The best ones are labeled with the year or the location. Our grandma on our mom’s side is the queen of this. Their shelves are stacked with book after book filled with printed photographs. Their adventures from their road trip through Europe in a yellow Winnebago, to backyard farm animal shenanigans, are forever memorialized. Grabbing one of the photo books, plopping down on their couch, and flipping through each page is a delight.

Some of the best parts of photo books are the clever or humorous little scribbles that are left on the sides, describing the scene or the picture. “Billy with his baby girl.” But it’s not a baby, it’s a car. Or, maybe there are little notes, ticket stubs, or recipes tucked into the sides. All of the little trinkets that infuse a memory with life. Scrolling through your camera roll on your iPhone is just not the same. We need pictures that we can touch and hold.

Bringing a book wherever you go to pass the time.

Walk through the airport and you’ll see. If we see someone sitting and reading their book by their gate, it’s a strong chance that it’s an elderly person. Now, whenever we’re out and about, we try to slip a book in our bags. You’ll find that you stick out from the majority, but with the select few, you’ll be in good company. Plus, it’s a great way to start a conversation with a stranger. As a matter of fact, maybe we should add “talking to strangers” to this list…

Picking people up from the airport, even when it’s not a special occasion.

Yes, sometimes people are picked up from the airport if it’s for a birthday or a long-awaited trip. But what about just picking someone up without a reason? Imagine not having to face the jungle of the ride-share parking lot and instead being met with a familiar face, a hug, and a cozy front seat in a car that is not a stranger’s? Not to mention the best feeling of all, which is that of feeling worth the extra mile. Some of the most love-filled places on Earth are the airport arrivals section (the movie Love, Actually knows). If you have the choice, always choose to pick them up.

Walking without earbuds or headphones in.

Especially when you’re walking in a place where you could hear the seagulls, or the breeze through the trees, or the laugh of old friends on the front porch. We love these lyrics from the song “You Might Find Yours” by Tom Rosenthal.

"The world that’s in your pocket is not the world. The world is the one that lies before your feet, and the people that we meet. The smells, the sounds, the sights, the skies. Tell the world that you are ready and it replies.”

Hand-delivering a gift to someone’s house.

Maybe it’s a friend’s birthday, or a neighbor just lost a loved one, or a family member just got promoted. What about, instead of ordering them a fruit tower or an assorted box of chocolates from Instacart to be delivered to their front door, you just… delivered it yourself? You walked up their front steps and knocked on their door and watched their face light up in joy and gratitude. Obviously, this is not always possible but when it is, what if you prioritize the connection? Yes, you can receive a selfie of them with the gift you sent, and written in the blue text box is “Thank you so much! Xoxox” But, a text does not compare to the warm, tight hug where you can feel their delight and gratitude, not just quickly skim it.

Introducing people in a conversation.

Maybe this is a lack of general manners that our generation has also lost, or maybe it’s connected to the ecosystem of social media. Everyone kind of knows everyone, or at least knows of everyone. Instagram, especially the app’s “mutual followers” feature, makes it so that it’s more rare to meet a true stranger. Because there is this undercurrent of vague recognition with most everyone, it has seemed to dissuade true, proper introductions when in a big group of people. The guy that just joined the circle is your friend’s friend from camp, so you know of them and they know of you and their arrival is just… unaddressed? It feels weird. Introduce people if you’re bringing someone new into the group.

Catalogs.

Most every memory of our grandma on our dad’s side is her beautifully-dressed, lipstick and all, perched on her couch with a side table absolutely stacked with catalogs. She had all of the long-time fashion classics. We would crawl on the couch next to her and flip through each page, oohing and ahhing at these blue shoes or that pink dress coat. She had her red flair pen and would circle, scribble, and star any of her or our favorites. Catalogs are having a renaissance, as they should be. The immersive lifestyle imagery of a catalog, compared to the one-dimensional e-comm images of online shopping, show the reader how clothing can inspire and accompany real, true experiences. Clothes are meant to be your companion in all of the little and big adventures of life, not the thing that you plan your whole life around.

Scribbling down recipes and keeping them.

Both of our grandmas (as well as our grandparents’ mothers) kept recipe boxes where they detailed all of their tried-and-true recipes. From scones to chicken roll-up to sweet rolls to lasagna, it was all written down—crinkled and splattered with butter stains, loved and used. This is how family recipes become “family recipes.” Written and stored in such a way that they are meant to be passed down. When you know and remember the hands that made the food before you, it all tastes better, we promise.

Handwritten notes.

Our parents have engrained this in us. Someone sends you a birthday gift? Handwritten card. A teacher writes a college recommendation? Handwritten card. Our family has gotten multiple compliments that we write some of the best cards. The little bit of extra time that it takes to pick a card, think about what you want to say, scribble down your thoughts, and sign your name multiplies into something much more meaningful and special. Writing a good card is a forgotten art, and there is only one way to hone your craft.

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So, with that — hang out with elderly people more often. Take note of how they move through the world. We have a lot to learn, and it seems that we will all be better for it.

We remember the specific giddy anticipatory feeling we would have as little kids when our family hosted the 4th of July BBQ. All day, under our parents’ direction, we would run around gathering wild flowers and plants to put in vases. We’d help our dad pop the Pillsbury biscuit canister to make “Lil Smokies,” always sneaking little bites of the prepped appetizers. We’d organize the piled shoes at the front door. We’d lay the table cloths, the plates, and the silverware. Bruce Springsteen and Colbie Caillat played on the speakers, and then that first guest arrived, followed by a train of others. These nights were easy and homegrown, and to this day, they are some of our favorite memories from growing up in the Pacific Northwest — and a big reason why we love to host.

We still get that excited anticipatory feeling before a gathering, whether it’s a birthday, an anniversary, a milestone, a holiday, or just a sunny Friday.

We put together a list of a few little things that we like to do whenever we are hosting a summer gathering.

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1. Wild Flowers + Foliage

The benefits of summer! We have quite a few little ceramic vases, in addition to one or two big “staple” vases. We’ll do one big centerpiece vase for the center of the table, and then fill all of our small vases and leave them around the kitchen, the windowsill, the mantle, etc. The more wild-looking, the better. We have a blue hydrangea plant growing right near our front door, and we are patiently waiting for the flowers to be fully-bloomed. We also have an overflow of daisies and wild roses blooming right now. The perks of living in the PNW are that even the roadside flowers are stunning, and we have talked about pulling over and cutting a few…

2. Hand Written Menus

The food is obviously a large part of the gathering. One way that we like to bring more of an element of celebration to our gatherings is by hand-writing the menu for the evening. We get a thick piece of paper, grab our watercolors, take our Notes app with the pre-planned menu, and get to work writing out the dishes. Whenever we write these menus, we have fun spicing them up a bit, as if it were a menu at a real restaurant. Vanilla ice cream is now “artisanal vanilla bean ice cream.” Fish and chips are now “beer-battered, freshly-harvested ling cod fish and chips.” Fries are now “hand-cut potato wedges.” You get the gist. Plus, these hand-written menus make a great keepsake to remember the event, gathering, or celebration by.

While we’re on the topic of food, one of the best parts about hosting in the summer is the abundance of seasonal produce that is available to cook with. Everyone knows that a summer strawberry just tastes better. So, designing the food with as much seasonal produce as possible is our move for summer gatherings.

When we are thinking about what to prepare for these gatherings, we also like to think about the actual logistics of the preparation — if we are going to be cooking something on the BBQ, which means going in and out of the kitchen, then we will try to do fresh sides so we aren’t juggling the stove and the BBQ. We don’t want to have an evening where we realize that we didn’t even get to enjoy time with the people present, so when we are coming up with a menu, we will try to keep that in mind.

3. Finger Bites

Appetizers that are reminiscent of a picnic or an elementary school lunch box are so delightful. Plus, having food upon arrival feels warm and welcoming. We bought a pack of toothpicks recently and wondered why we hadn’t always been using them for appetizers. Here are some of the appetizers you can make with toothpicks:

• Mini baguette sandwiches with a cornichon

• Olives and cheese

• Cherry tomato, mozzarella ball, and basil

• Salami and cheese

• Fruit slices (strawberries, stone fruit)

• Watermelon chunks and feta cubes

• Toasted bread for dips

4. Thrifted Tableware

Over the last year, we have become obsessed with buying tableware at the thrift store. You can always find unique shapes and sizes of plates, glasses, mugs, and jars — and literally for $1! Now, we have quite the collection of what many might perceive as “random” things, but what they don’t know is that now, we have the perfect pitcher for iced tea. Or, a perfect little bowl for olive pits. Whenever we are hosting, we will take out our thrift store finds and have fun finding a way to put them to use for the evening. Having mismatched water glasses, wine glasses, serving platters, and dinner plates just feels whimsical and fun.

As a way to elevate our sometimes hodge-podge tableware, we like to use nice linen napkins and wrap up the silverware like they would at a restaurant. Unnecessary, yes, but delightful. We also love rummaging through our grandparents’ cabinets and finding colorful tablecloths. Linen napkins and a nice tablecloth, paired with non-uniform tableware.

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Happy gathering!

More on hosting:

Introducing the Snackle Box.

We can’t take credit for this creation (thank you, Wyld Honeys). But, we found it imperative to spread the message of this delightful concept, and tell you how we put our own little spin on it.

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We can already tell that the Snackle Box is going to be a classic for our Pacific Northwest summer — for days on the water downrigging for salmon, or picnics at the edge of the forest, or as a way to bring some fun and delight to an outdoor dinner gathering with friends.

What you’ll need to build your own Snackle Box:

• A brand new fishing tackle box

• Parchment paper (optional)

• Your favorite snacks

Our Snackle Box ingredients fall somewhere along the line of a charcuterie board, but the best part is that you can really do whatever “snacks” you are in the mood for. You could also play around with different themes for the Snackle Box — maybe you do one all for dessert, or another is filled with different kinds of sandwiches and chips. Choose your own adventure!

In our Snackle Box, we like a mix of different flavors and textures. A little tart (pickles or cornichones), a little sweet (fruit or jam), a little salty (charcuterie meats), a little crunchy (crackers and chopped veggies), a little creamy (hard and soft cheeses).

In this Snackle Box:

• Smoked salmon

• Cream cheese

• Cheddar cheese cubes

• Sliced gouda

• Blueberries

• Plums

• Carrots

• Crackers

• Salami

• Pistachios

• Strawberries

• Cornichones

• Whole fruits (tip: to keep the box from tipping over once it is full, place whole fruits or other heavy items on the bottom level)

• Napkins and cutlery

We pre-assembled the Snackle Box, stored it away in the fridge, and pulled it out a few hours later for a sunny afternoon snack. Best enjoyed near the water, with a cold beer.

Let us know if you try this! Happy snacking.

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There is no better feeling than…

The first bite of a farm-grown strawberry

A warm sweatshirt after a dip in the Puget Sound

The smell of a campfire

A bite of a s’more marking the beginning of summer

Sitting on the patio with the even sun still warm

Smelling flowers from the farmers’ market

Ordering an iced vanilla latte

Asking to sit outside at a restaurant

Seeing a fawn run through the field

Lemonade at lunch

Bare feet on the ground

Hearing a song that reminds you of summer while out running errands

Windows down, bathing suit on, hair wet

The moment you pick the first vegetable from your garden

Licking ice cream off the cone

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Every kitchen is different, but you can feel a good one. You can smell the lingering scents of spices, you can trace the nicks and dents in the well-worn counters, and there is a sense of openness that serves as an invitation.

Kitchens, like every other part of a home, are influenced by the surrounding place. The window made specifically to overlook the sea in the distance, the shelving to hold the vegetables from the garden or the farmer’s market, the wooden beaming to match the trunks of the evergreens in the backyard. The environment and the locale create an experience, too.

Heating elements like a wood-burning stove or a fireplace to bring warmth into the room. Rustic, open shelving with lots of space for ceramic bowls and plates, jars of preserves or ferments, and vases of wild flowers. An open layout, designed to be a place for informal gathering. Lots of windows to bring light into the room, even on a typical overcast Pacific Northwest day. A combination of hardwood floors and thick wool rugs, suitable to fuzzy house slippers on a brisk winter day or bare feet on a breezy summer day.

This letter is an ode to our ideal Pacific Northwest kitchen—our favorite part of the home, in our favorite part of the world.

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We didn’t notice it until a few weeks ago, when we were walking to our car, ducking slightly under the branch overhang of the trees that line our front yard. We must have been moving in a frenzied hurry, because we heard the bird equivalent of a “yelp!” as she flitted away rapidly.

We looked up, and right there, tucked expertly in the crook of a sturdy branch, was a nest.

In the days after that, we moved slowly and calmly under the tree, earning the trust of the momma robin, and affording ourselves the chance to see her perched on the nest. We checked on her every day for a week or two, and every day, there she sat. Ever-dutiful, ever-watchful.

On one sunny day last week, we noticed that the momma robin was not on the nest like she had been. We pried our necks a little farther back, eyes scrunched as we looked through the leaves and twigs of the tree. There — something different. Something new. Something, plural. Four little beaks.

In their early days, they looked like baby dinosaurs. They had pink, translucent skin. Big beaks with a bright yellow outline, held open and beckoning for the parents to drop food into their mouths. Their eyes were open, but in those first few days, they weren’t able to see anything. Little fuzzy hairs stuck to the top of their heads, giving them a disheveled, almost bed-head look.

During the mornings, we would sit outside and watch mom and dad circle in and out of the nest, every 10 to 20 minutes. We learned that for American robins, the mom and dad share the feeding responsibilities. It is the momma, though, who scouts the location for the nest, shapes it with her belly, and nests on the eggs. She is already caring for these little creatures, before they have even arrived.

The nestlings would erupt in a cacophony of chirps whenever mom or dad arrived with earthworms, insects, and other tasty, nutritious snacks. As we watch the parents flit from branch to branch, we can see that they are a well-oiled machine. Maybe they have done this before. It is likely that they have, but even if they haven’t, there is an invisible force that has instructed them. Without knowing what to do, they know what to do. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

Just this morning, we snuck a glance at our little neighborhood nestlings. Their dinosaur appearance has lessened, their beaks have darkened, and they present more like a bird — although, they still have that endearing little bed-head look. They are growing, but they are not yet grown. Mom and dad are still cycling through with worms hanging from their beaks. But, the little ones are getting braver. They are beginning to stand on the outskirts of the nest, instead of remaining tucked inside the confines of it. Nature is directing them, always.

Any day now, the time will come for them to leave the nest. Fledglings, they will be called then. They won’t be able to fly efficiently, but they will flutter and hop around. Dad will take over most of the parenting duties now, showing the little ones how to forage on their own. Soon after that, they will be self-sufficient. Able to fly and dip on the wind and call to their fellow robin friends and chug down big, juicy worms.

And then, the process will begin all over again with a different brood. Maybe in the same nest, if the robin momma deems it suitable. Or, maybe she will begin the building process again. In a different branch in a different tree, somewhere we will never know. And May will be June which will be July. And we will wonder, with every robin that we see, if it’s them. Our robins.

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Those first feelings of warmth transport us to BBQs on sun-soaked decks, to crowded tables under yellow string lights, and to colorful charcuterie boards at 5pm. We are entering one of our favorite seasons — hosting season. And while we still make an effort to host those we love in the winter season, everyone knows that in the Pacific Northwest, winter has a hibernating effect.

Summer, on the other hand, is for gathering. Especially outdoors.

With lots of gatherings on the horizon, we have begun to think about a few of the things that make gatherings particularly enjoyable. There are many things, we realized, that we love to do when we are hosting. Wild flowers in vases, real linen napkins, extra cheese on every appetizer platter, and more…

But, there is one thing we do that has become our favorite part of hosting, and something that always sparks delight in those attending.

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That thing is a hand-written menu.

We think that this tradition started for a birthday dinner. We set the table and included a handwritten menu at the head of the table, at the birthday “guest of honor” seat. It was the first gift of the evening — the meal itself, meticulously planned with all the birthday girl’s favorite dishes and ingredients.

Another birthday followed, and then a wedding anniversary, and then an autumn solstice, and for each gathering that accompanied a celebration, we included a hand-written menu. Now, we can’t imagine hosting a celebratory meal without it.

Whenever we write these menus, we have fun spicing them up a bit, as if it were a menu at a real restaurant. Vanilla ice cream is now “artisanal vanilla bean ice cream.” Fish and chips are now “beer-battered, freshly-harvested ling cod fish and chips.” Fries are now “hand-cut potato wedges.”

Not only do these menus spark delight and joy in the moment of the gathering, but they become keepsakes, memories of a meal shared long after the meal has been enjoyed. They are reminders of the place, the season, the laughs, and the stories. They are a physical, tangible memory of an evening that has long passed — the wine has all been drunk, the candles have all burned down, the plates emptied and washed. But, there the menu remains. A commemoration, one to tuck away in a drawer, store in a box, or pin on the fridge.

So, here is our suggestion to you: the next time you are hosting a gathering or celebration, design your own hand-written menu. Spice the dishes up with elaborate language and descriptions. Display it at the guest of honor’s seat, or prop it up in the middle of the table.

And, most importantly, keep it.

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For many, Alaska exists as its own world. There is Alaska, and then there is everything else. It is, to many of us who call the United States home, the Last Frontier. This wild, rugged, unknowable place, jagged and with sharp edges. But for a lot of people, it is always and forever, “home.”

For Claire and Emma, the Salmon Sisters, Alaska is simply — home.

We call Claire and Emma on a bright, sunny day in Homer, Alaska, a small city in Kachemak Bay. The dazzling blue sky has done nothing to trick us — it is still winter in Alaska. Big, fat snowflakes had fallen the day before, and we can hear the crunch of their winter boots on the snowy walking path. Both Claire and Emma have babies bundled against the cold, tucked to their chests. We are lucky enough to catch them during their babies’ mid-morning nap time.

Claire and Emma are sisters, commercial fishermen, and the co-founders of Salmon Sisters, a maritime-inspired clothing brand and sustainable seafood provider. We have known of these legendary Alaskan sisters for some time. You’ve probably seen their clothing donned in Pacific Northwest harbors, spotted their cookbooks displayed in book stores, visited their retail shops in Homer, or maybe even been lucky enough to taste their delicious Alaskan-caught salmon. They are true Alaskans, through and through.

Today, Claire and Emma are also mothers, each with two young children. But, before they were mothers raising their children in Alaska, they were the little ones being raised in Alaska.

Tucked away in the Aleutian Islands, a remote archipelago in Western-most Alaska, two little blonde sisters spent their days dashing through swaying grasses, staining their hands purple with blackberries, and lifting big rocks on the beach, just to see what’s under them.

Claire and Emma’s parents, both from out of Alaska, had fallen in love with the wild magnificence of the Aleutian Islands. They found a remote homestead and decided to raise their two daughters there.

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Their homestead was off-grid, with waterwheels and dams generating electricity. The large greenhouse that they tended to with their mother provided a large chunk of their food — so did the surrounding beach and tundra, filled with berries, shellfish, and wild plants to forage. The nearest village, with its population of under 100 people, was a 20-minute boat ride away. There, they could stock up on dried pantry goods, check the mail, and maybe even interact with other kids their age. Living on the homestead was, in the truest sense of the phrase, “living off the land.”

“We were outside all the time,” Emma shares. “There’s this big reef just down the beach and we’d walk down there and check out the clams and find food, play, make fairy houses. Just build stuff in the rocks. And then, above our house was pretty much endless rolling hills and tundra. [Our] dad had a big, big workshop and so we’d be in there with him… doing little carpentry projects or just pulling weeds in the garden, helping our mom plant stuff.”

Living in a place as isolated and untamed as this necessitates a true, genuine companionship with your neighbors. It is not just the surface-level friendship of pleasantries, like many of us know it today. When you’re living in such extreme places, those check-ins are crucial.

Claire puts it plainly: “Your neighbor is your one and only. Your safety. Your everything. Those characters of our childhood are very, very pronounced.”

Emma’s voice warms as she tells us about one neighbor in particular who cared for the sisters and their family:

“We were far away from any other people. But there was an older man who took our family under his wing when we moved out there. Our boat is actually named after him now, his name is Stanley. And he would boat over and check on us and bring us comic books and juice and stuff like that. He would call on the radio every time we skiffed back home to make sure we made it.”

Claire and Emma lived full-time on their family’s homestead in the Aleutian Islands until they were around eight and nine years old. Then, they began to spend winters in Homer, a small town on the coast of South Central Alaska. Here, they could attend school and immerse themselves in a larger community. They still returned to the homestead in the summers, beginning to join their dad on his commercial fishing trips for salmon and halibut. Eventually, the sisters entered their college years, both attending universities on the East Coast. However, every summer—no matter what kind of fancy internship or job their peers were chasing—they returned to Alaska to fish.

Claire says, “It sounds silly, but that’s just what we did as a family. Like, there is no question that we would be returning, even when we were in school or exploring young adult life.”

As fishermen, you live in a symbiotic relationship with the ecosystem, the sea, and all the animals that call it home. The health of the ecosystem is very closely tied with the health of the business, and your overall livelihood — if you take care of it, it takes care of you.

“Being fishermen is a really special opportunity to be really connected to these wild places we get to live in. I think that is, honestly, a big part of that feeling for us,” Emma explains. “Working on the water and being able to feel a direct connection to the ocean and to all the fish that live in it.”

In the summertime, life as a commercial fisherman is all-consuming. Daylight is in full supply after the winter months, where up to 18 hours of the day are cloaked in darkness. It’s time to take advantage of it. Claire and Emma, along with their dad, other family members, and their community of commercial fishermen, would be out at sea all summer long.

“We would leave in early June. And we would probably come home in late September. That would be kind of our seasonal flow, and we’d be fishing with our family the whole time,” Emma recalls. “It always felt like this big coming home.”

Commercial fishing in the summertime is long days and honest work, sometimes with beautiful conditions, and other times with rough, unpredictable ones. Mother Nature is the one running the show, no matter how many seasons you’ve had out on the water.

Claire tells us, “All rules are out the window. You are a harvester, and everything is directly related to the catch — the stewardship around it and all of the regulations and time and temperature and weather and what’s coming down the pipeline on working and living on the ocean… You’re fully present in your work and on a boat, not in control, and at the whim of Mother Nature, working very closely and tight-knit with your captain and crew.”

Not only is having a strong-knit community essential to life on land in Alaska, but it’s just as crucial on the water. Many commercial fishermen have “radio groups,” composed of other boat captains in the area, to help maximize the safety of life at sea. Claire tells us, “In the commercial fishing world of being on the vessels, your neighboring boat is everything to you, when you’re working at sea… They are kinda like your lifeline.” Emma adds, ”Just keeping track of your people and making sure everyone ends up coming out of this season together because there’s wild conditions, and it’s dangerous work.”

Eventually, the bright days of the summer season begin to shorten, and the time on the water dwindles to a close.

“In the fall, that would be the time to kinda come back together with your community. And that’s sort of the rhythm that our community has with fishing communities. People are coming back in the fall, and you’re getting together and telling fishing stories and figuring out what life looks like again on land.”

In Alaska, the seasons influence everything, not just life on the water. They determine the food that is available to forage or catch, the pace of the day, the daylight that is available, the flow of local businesses, and the energy of life at home. In Alaska, living with the seasons is not a choice or something to rebel against — it’s something to embrace and fall into.

These days aboard the commercial fishing boats are a large part of what inspired Claire and Emma to start Salmon Sisters in the first place. Salmon Sisters began as a small clothing business with sweatshirts and other apparel, all with creative designs inspired by their heritage as Alaskans, their pride for their profession as commercial fishermen, and their love of being women at sea. Their clothing was incredibly well-received, finding its way into the hands of other fishermen, Alaska natives living out in the bush, and many other individuals with a love for remote areas, wild places, and the sea at large. In the decade since it was founded, Salmon Sisters has expanded to include other gear and lifestyle goods, wild seafood subscriptions, and popular cookbooks. In Homer, they have additional shoreside endeavors, including two retail shops, a coffee shop, and a seafood processing facility.

The Salmon Sisters know how to keep busy. And in the last few years, “busy” has been taken to a new level because now, they are mothers. Claire and Emma each have two young children — a toddler and a baby. Needless to say, their time on the water looks a little bit different. Gone are the untethered days of their late teens and early 20s living on a commercial fishing boat for months on end. Now, they have their little people to tend to.

Claire laughs as she tells us about recent summer expeditions on the fishing boat, and how starkly different these days are to the summers of their past. “With our babies and kids, we’re not helping at all. We’re just there. We’ve been looking out the window. Chaos. Just creating chaos until we’re finally like, ‘Okay. Our time is up!’”

While involving their kids in their work can be, in Claire’s words, “frustrating and mind-bending,” it is also how they both choose to raise their little ones — as a part of the adventure, not excluded from it. We spoke to Claire and Emma the day after Easter, which in Alaska, does not mean that you’re anywhere close to spring yet. We can see on our call with the sisters that there is still snow covering the trees of their walking path. It’s difficult to imagine — in our Pacific Northwest home, the daffodils have been up for over a month, and the cherry blossoms are in full crescendo. We can hear the notes of playful exasperation in Claire’s voice as she tells us about trying to smoke salmon and have an Easter egg hunt at the same time — “It’s such a tricky and very funny phase of life but… we’re just doing it.”

We laugh together about their chaotic family adventures, something we also know quite well. We get to talking about the nature of our Pacific Northwest homes that we all see daily, and how we are soaking in the last of the slower season before the summer surge.

“I crave the seasonality of life here. And I like being able to live simply in that way. And it’s kinda fun to pass it on to kids,” Emma says. “It is such a simple but animal thing, where we’re so connected to the way things slow down and speed up and get to really just be outside a lot. And Alaska’s so special in that there’s such epic, epic outside. Even just walking down to the beach and looking out at what we get to see every day. It’s just huge mountains, and then we’ve got our neighborhood eagles. Then, the orcas might show up.”

We think to ourselves what a beautiful, wild childhood it must have been for Claire and Emma. How special for their children to get to know the same mountains, the same ocean, and the same sky. To wait together, little chubby toddler hand wrapped in their strong, capable ones, and watch for the shorebirds to arrive every spring.

We ask Claire and Emma what they hope their children will say about their Alaskan childhood when they are older and grown.

Emma shares, “I hope that our kids are able to develop a connection to the natural world where they feel connected and appreciate where they are. I think about growing up, and I just have these characters in my head of the mountains that we looked at, and the bears and the land formations, and the birds that came and flew on the deck, that we fed. Those little touch points were very grounding.”

Emma continues, “And then also just the opportunity to feel capable, and that’s one thing that Alaska has really given us too. You know, you can try anything here, and that’s what our parents gave us, too. [The] workshop had a bunch of tools, and I will not say that we are super handy…”

“No!!!” Claire laughs as she interjects.

Emma grins and says, “But we at least know what the tools are called. You realize when you leave home and go out to the big world, you’re like ‘Oh! I do know a thing or two.’ But just that grounded knowledge of how to do things yourself as a little person.”

Of course, we have to ask the Salmon Sisters — “What is your favorite way to enjoy salmon?”

“In the summer, the main way we preserve salmon is filleting it and vacuum sealing it and flash freezing it. So you preserve all that texture and taste and everything in this frozen form. So in the winter, we eat a lot of frozen salmon. And it sounds so silly, but either barbecuing or just baking it in the oven is such a reminder of seasons in the past and collecting it together and everything in that way,” Claire shares. “There’s always a piece of salmon on our plate.”

For the sisters, there is an emphasis on gathering around the table, remembering the experiences of the harvest, and feeding people good food. When you enjoy a piece of their wild Alaskan salmon, there is a gratitude for how the land and the sea provide. It is an honoring of their lifestyle — the place, the people, the honest work, and the churning sea. It’s a tether to all that is special and meaningful in this life.

As the bustling summer season in Homer quickly approaches, Claire and Emma are beginning the big push to prepare. Their retail and coffee shops are about to open their doors, and the fishing season is almost upon them. Then, just as quickly as it arrived, summer will fade and the slow embrace of autumn will find them once again. And so go the months and years of life in Alaska.

Salmon Sisters brings its community into the life that Claire and Emma lead — one of dramatic seasons, rugged coastlines, wild berries, shared laughs, salty air, babies in one arm and salmon filets in another.

And Alaska?

“It’s just hard to leave. It sucks you back.”

Claire and Emma, Salmon Sisters.

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Connect with the Salmon Sisters on Instagram, shop their goods and wild fish on their website, and check out their retail shops in Homer.

We also know grey. The dark, near-purple grey when the clouds are about to drop the heavy weight of rain. The churning, foamy grey of the sea on a stormy day. The soft, peaceful grey of the horizon at dusk.

We know rain, and we know grey. But we also know rainbows.

In the Pacific Northwest, the spring is known as “rainbow season.” A rainbow needs both rain and sunlight in the sky at the same time, at exactly the right angle. In the spring, the sun is higher in the sky, but not as high as during the summertime, creating an optimal angle for rainbows. Additionally, the frequent passing rain showers that flow through the Pacific Northwest region at this time of year, coupled with the pops of low-angle sunlight, are the magic formula.

We know rain, and we know grey. But you know what we also know? Rainbows. Live in the Pacific Northwest long enough and you will be able to feel when a rainbow is coming, simply by the tactile quality of the light. When you spot one, it is a gift of glee. What an unlikely thing to ever see on this planet — a rope of every color, arced across the sky. A completely unnecessary phenomenon, but a wondrous one.

After a cold, dreary Pacific Northwest winter, we’ve earned rainbow season.

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Here are a few of our favorite rainbows:

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In our Pacific Northwest home, we know that it is spring when we see the goslings. They are fluffy and playful, adventurous yet cautious. They don’t venture too far off on their own, their devoted momma making sure that they stay in line. We watch them as the weeks and months go by, spring tumbling into summer. They get bigger by the day, and braver, too. We feel lucky to get a peek into the instinctive ways of these spring babies.

Watching for the goslings every spring has transformed into watching for other spring babies. We quickly realized that we didn’t know the correct terms for the babies of some of our favorite animals. So, that is where this post comes in.

No adult is ever too old to feel like a kid again.

A baby hare is a leveret.

A baby otter is a pup.

A baby eagle is an eaglet.

A baby goose is a gosling.

A baby duck is a duckling.

A baby deer is a fawn.

A baby rabbit is a kit.

A baby horse is a foal.

A baby chicken is a chick.

A baby owl is an owlet.

A baby goat is a kid.

A baby orca is a calf.

A baby swan is a cygnet.

A baby sheep is a lamb.

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There is no better feeling than…

Seeing the first pops of green on the branches that have been barren for months.

Eating dinner outside on the porch for the first time this season.

Driving through fields of yellow daffodils and pink tulips with the windows down.

The palpable energy in town on the first warm, sunny day of the season.

Tucking away the winter beanie in a drawer and trading it for a baseball hat and sunglasses.

Walking into your local coffee shop to see the front door already propped open and a warm breeze flowing in.

Firing up the BBQ on a sunny Saturday night.

Running out the back door to catch the last of a rainbow after a spring storm.

Washing the dirt from underneath your fingernails after planting in your garden.

Feeling the sun warm your face as it finally pokes out from behind the clouds.

Biting into a warm lemon poppyseed scone, fresh from the oven.

Seeing fawns bounding through fields and ducklings paddling in ponds, nature’s spring babies.

Your favorite farm stands dusting off the winter and opening up for the growing season.

Filling lots of tiny colorful vases around your home, because there is finally enough growing to fill them.

Sipping an iced coffee from the coffee shop’s spring menu.

Leaving the puffy jacket behind for your long walk catching up with a friend.

Indulging in a stormy, rainy day because you know that soon, they will be few and far between.

Wandering the farmer’s market and noticing the bursts of colors in the stands.

Tossing a bright, fresh salad.

Falling asleep to the loud chorus of the frogs.

Going on a little walk after dinner with plenty of daylight still left.

In the early morning light, she crouches over the prickly raspberry patch. She’s got her berry-picking jeans on—her trusty washed-out blue Levi’s—because it’s June, and that means it’s berry-picking time. We are crouched there beside her, three sun hats floating above a sea of green speckled with the bright, ruby red of fresh raspberries.

It is always in the berry patch that we are granted a window into our grandma’s life, the time before we knew her as “Nana.” Her rambunctious, farm-life childhood, her strong-willed young adulthood, and her full, vibrant years as a mother. First, it’s the raspberries of early June, followed by the blueberries of July, and finally, the blackberries of August and September.

Tucked away in that little raspberry patch, she tells us about the berries from long ago.

“I picked strawberries for my entire youth, that’s how I got Banner. My parents had promised me that if I earned the money to get a horse, I could have a horse. I’ve always loved horses, from the time I was a little kid.”

It was every little farm girl’s dream — her first horse. On the day that she had finally picked enough strawberries, she excitedly ran and informed her dad. On his way to work, he saw a kid walking a horse into an auction. He followed the kid and bought the horse right off of him, then and there. This would be our grandma’s horse, Banner. We wonder if she sees Banner in the tens of other horses that she would come to own and care for. We should think so — a girl never forgets her first horse. We can hear the smile in her voice as our grandma recounts this story to us. Many of her favorite things are contained in this little story, happily shared — her farm, her horses, and her father.

An expansive farm of rolling green was the backdrop of our grandma’s childhood. There were fruit trees of all kinds, apples and cherries and plums. Their farm animals roamed as free-range as her and her four siblings did. They “had animals galore” — pigs, goats, cows, chickens, horses, and many other two and four-legged creatures. Her father taught agriculture, and her mother taught home ec. A big, overflowing garden was tended to by both her mother and father, as well as her siblings. Their farm was a culmination of the best of her father and mother.

“Growing up, we had a huge garden, which my parents spent a lot of time with because they liked the gardening and they liked the results. As we got old enough and learned how to be more useful, we were encouraged to hang around. Or ‘Shut the gate, dammit!’”

A chuckle and a few seconds later, she says, “My mom would never have said ‘Dammit.’ That must’ve been my dad.”

Hers was the epitome of a Pacific Northwest childhood. Little bodies running through fields and scratching knees. Morning chores and muddy responsibilities. Climbing trees, splashing in puddles, and picking ripe fruit off the lowest-hanging branch. The five kids, her father’s agriculture students, and even the neighborhood kiddos, tired of their “boring life in the city,” inundated the farm. It was a revolving door of chaos, and one that she adored.

“Fun should not necessarily be verboten, it ought to be right up there on the top of the list. With all hands on deck.”

The sun rises higher in the sky, and all of a sudden, it’s July. The rising heat of the summer had dried up the last of the raspberries, and it was time to move on to the next. We find ourselves crouched with our grandma over another berry patch: blueberries. They are so firm that they pop in your mouth when you bite down — a little sweet, a little tart. She, of course, has her berry-picking jeans on.

Our berry containers begin to fill with plump blueberries as she tells us about her father. He speaks about him often, always with a tone of love and adoration. We are hungry for every little crumb, attempting to piece together an image of a man that we never got to truly know.

“There wasn’t anything my dad couldn’t do. As a kid, I used to be so proud of him because he could build anything, he could drive anywhere, he could fix anything.”

He learned everything he knew from his father, a carpenter and handy-man kind of guy. Her father then shared as much as he could with his five children.

“He loved to try to get my siblings and me to know darn near everything. So we were always going somewhere, or trying out something, and my mother was a very good sport about those things.”

We wonder about the kind of generational knowledge that has disappeared between her grandfather and us, born four generations later. There isn’t much to do but wonder — and listen. So, we keep picking blueberries, and we keep listening.

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Our grandma begins to talk about the relationship that her parents had with each other. She speaks about their relationship often, too. Her voice always warms. In this specific instance, her voice brightens and then takes on a tone of playful sarcasm as she says,

“My friends used to ask me how come my father loved my mother so much. Well, let’s think about that for a while. What are you, dumb as rocks?”

That’s hard to argue with.

“My dad loved my mother, you know? So they were a joy to be around and as a kid, I felt like I learned so much from that, from how they treated one another.”

Through her stories, we have been able to construct an image of her parents and their partnership together. Today, we see glimpses of it in the relationship between our grandma and grandpa, together 61 years this June. While at university, our grandma met a dapper young man, a “city boy” as she likes to adoringly call him.

“I was dating David, and then your grandfather came along and ripped me away. Over the years, though, he’s proven to be better than the next best. I would’ve driven David crazy! Not to mention that I have driven your father crazy.”

We chuckle because if our grandpa was in that blueberry patch with us, instead of on the lawn mower or doing some other chore around the farm, he would’ve rolled his eyes and nodded in adamant agreement.

Our grandpa had grown up in Eastern Washington, in a government town with cookie-cutter housing and a hum-drum rhythm to his days that directly contradicted the chaos of our grandma’s upbringing. That wild, rambunctious farm-life childhood turned out to be one of the reasons he fell in love with our grandma. In the summer after they both graduated from university, they married on our grandma’s family’s farm, the pocket of land that she was raised on.

“I think he’s wondered a time or two why in the world he ever married me, but that’s ok. I don’t take it seriously.”

She then dishes out some priceless dating advice for us:

“You need a really good one, because, like your grandmother, you would drive a plain ordinary one crazy!”

That’s also hard to argue with.

The days pass. July tumbles in August, and then it’s September. The vibrant green of the spring grass is now brown, but the blackberry bushes have never been better. There is a rhythm to our grandma’s Pacific Northwest life — our Pacific Northwest life. Three sets of hands that are busy and stained with the colors of the summer. The season’s last gasp, in the form of an explosion of juicy blackberries. One look at our stained hands, and it’s known — it’s blackberry season.

After college, our grandparents had a stint in Washington D.C., followed by four years in Ann Arbor where they both attended graduate school and had the first of their four kids. A new project later took them to the land of heat and humidity: Miami. Florida is about as far as you can possibly get from the Pacific Northwest and still be in the United States, but there they thrived. Three more babies followed, until the beckoning call of home was too strong to ignore. They loaded up their four young kids, their Lhasa Apso dog named “Yokeko”, and all their belongings in a 19-foot Winnebago RV, and began a six-month trek back to Western Washington.

Suddenly, our grandma was back to living on a Washington farm, and this time it wasn’t her and her four siblings running around in chaos, but her four children. Time is a funny thing. It cycles and repeats in unpredictable, delightful ways. The same green Pacific Northwest childhood, now belonging to her crazy bunch of four. A thread that is still connected.

As we lean over the blackberry bushes, hands reaching inside the tangly, spiky depths with precaution, we understand our grandma more and more.

We understand how she spots the woven bird’s nest tucked high away in the branches of a tree. We understand why she always has to have horses in the field beyond the kitchen window. We understand how she knows when to expect the barn swallows back. We understand why she loves that her farm is a revolving door of family. We understand how she knows when it’s time to bike down to the raspberry patch for the first day of the season.

And, we understand why she has always chosen the Pacific Northwest as home.

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All images taken on film by our grandparents. Last image captured on Super 8 over the summer.