pre-Thanksgiving reflections

I cannot BELIEVE tomorrow is Thanksgiving. As always, this year has flown by. I remember last Thanksgiving like it was yesterday. Probably because I spent 14 hours on a Greyhound. (But who's counting?) I spent the holiday in Boston and had a tremendous time packing as many family festivities as possible into 4 glorious days.

This year will be a little different. I'm not ashamed to admit that I couldn't afford the trip this year. I'd have loved to join my Massachusetts-based family, and will miss them dearly. It was a tradition I'd hoped to keep, traveling up there every year. I hope to make it up next year. I will miss adventures like enjoying dim sum in Chinatown, exploring the coast in Rockport, making Boeuf Bourguignon together (my first time!) and the trek to the holiday feast at family friends Bruce and Bill's place in Concord.

Anyway, tonight as I was reflecting on Thanksgivings past I realized that I never published any photos from that trip. I never blogged about that trip. This time last year I was newly consumed with someone I'd met which unfortunately developed into nothing, and spent most of my time texting him and waiting all Thanksgiving weekend to not hear one word back. I was deflated. This Thanksgiving is far different. I am learning at 31 to let go when the interest is not reciprocated. It has been a hard and humbling lesson. I am also trying to learn about not pursuing people. Just imagine how many blog posts I'd have written this year if I'd been less focused on the man I spent the entire year pining after. Lastly I am learning that it is ok to be too much. A dear friend was giving me advice this year when I asked her if she thought I was being overwhelming in what I thought and hoped would become my new relationship. She said I wasn't overwhelming at all, and that, in fact, I wasn't involved enough! I said "I'm too much. I know I'm just too much." Without a beat she said, "Be too much." It was advice that I did follow, because life is about being genuine. It's about authenticity, and being who you are. On this blog I hope to come across as honest and candid, but also authentic. That's what this blog's purpose really is. Anyway, I was exactly who I am this year. I was too much. I have a big, emotional, transparent personality. What you see is what you get. And I am proud of myself for not dumbing myself down to be anyone else.

Now I am hoping that I can be generous in the letting go. Live and let live. It is hard though, right? Hard not to feel maimed when things don't turn out the way you thought they would. The way you prayed they would. When you meet someone and they'd be a perfect fit, and were a perfect fit, and then the whole thing just backfires. I'm really not mad at him. Just thoroughly confused with myself for following my heart and it leading to nowhere. I trusted myself and my gut feeling...Not his fault! My intentions were pure. I think his were too. He's a beautiful man, and someone whom I still deeply respect and look up to. But nothing ever came of it. I don't know. I don't know why this keeps happening to me. The whole wearing your heart on your sleeve thing is draining. And a bit embarrassing. But you live you learn, and this Thanksgiving I am going to focus on the people in my life who are excited to be there. I think that's the big lesson of 2014: looking at what's (and who's) right in front of you and being grateful for what and who you have. I "have" so many people. Any girl would kill to have the loyal family I have, crazy as we drive each other. There's nothing like my family and I can't wait to fight with them over Thanksgiving turkey tomorrow. ;)

Here are some pics from last year's festivities up Boston way...


Don't let the shining sun fool you in this pic. It was freaking freezing in Boston. That is one thing I won't miss. I had to buy this here hat, about 5 min before taking this pic, because my ears were ruddy and nasty red and also felt like they'd succumbed to frostbite. I couldn't feel them. So yeah. Virginia will be slightly warmer.

This was a beautiful drive. The path from Boston out to Concord... I love fall in New England and beautiful winding roads like this one. What a drive.

As soon as I got to our benevolent hosts' home and saw this pie I knew I'd made the right choice for Thanksgiving plans. OMG-Blackberry pie. Step ASIDE, pumpkin! Blackberry pie is my favorite in the world and this one was perfection. I will have to get my aunt's recipe. (Update: I spoke to my aunt on the phone just now and she said it was actually called Razzleberry pie.)

Appetizers and small plates are my favorite part of any get-together, and our hosts were incredible in this department. The appetizers were the star of the show until the turkey appeared, and our one host was constantly filling our champagne flutes with bubbly while the other basted and rocked out on the turkey. My favorite part of this was the cheese tray, with cheeses from a local shop...

Julia Child's turkey. Amazing. Having once (and for the last time) hosted my own Thanksgiving feast, albeit nothing like this, for my ex and his family friend, I can say that hosting Thanksgiving is hella hard. My turkey didn't even fit in my city basement apartment and we had to use our upstairs landlord's instead. We? Ha! I cooked the entire Thanksgiving dinner that year while the boys drank beer and watched football and I can definitely say, it was the most exhausting thing I've ever done. And I cooked about a quarter of what these two did. That being said, I will never, EVER let a Thanksgiving go by without complimenting the chef (and no, not by belching...I'll throw you out) and without offering to help clean up. But this turkey. THIS TURKEY. It was amazing in every way, and it reminds me to pick up Julia's recipe for tomorrow. Although my dad is technically in charge of the turkey this year, I'll try to get my hands in there too.

This was the carrot soup that my aunt brought over from South Hamilton. It was a delicious pre-cursor to Thanksgiving dinner, and a tradition I hope to uphold in future Thanksgiving feasts!

I love dinner parties featuring all different sizes and shapes of beautiful glassware, and this table had them all. I love the look of champagne flutes next to different kinds of wine glasses. Gorgeous display.

This was the bottle of red our hosts provided and it was lovely. I drank so much of it. I very well could have been responsible for downing the whole thing. I was into it. Just as I was trying to remember the name of it and write it into my notebook, Bill brought over the bottle. I held it up to take a picture and am so glad I did. I'd forgotten about the bottle since, which is why I need to blog things when they happen instead of incessantly texting gorgeous, if unavailable, men! ;) #imnotbitter #wineovermen #okalittlebitter #buthewascharming

And finally, a shot of my Thanksgiving plate. I have it so good and am so grateful. I will focus on the blessings of food, family and good friends tomorrow and for Thanksgivings to come. #gratitude

everybody needs cake on their birthday

I learned this lesson the hard way on August 11, when I let my own birthday go by without cake. I know, I know...what was I thinking? I was thinking of not celebrating my birthday this year, that's what. (I was also thinking of permanently going gluten, sugar and dairy free. Hahahahahahahahaha.) But that didn't go over so well.


Three months later I find myself on my mom's birthday in the kitchen making a cake. I am embarrassed to say it's a box mix cake. I've never lowered myself to this point, but I'm broke and didn't have the money to buy tons of frou frou ingredients (heavy cream, German chocolate, buttermilk, DARK RUM. What broke ass can afford a bottle of rum, like for cooking?!?!) to bake the cake I want to be making: David Lebovitz's extremely decadent-sounding German Chocolate Cake. I'm going to make that later in the week, after I get paid. Unfortunately such is life when you major in English and are tethered to Sallie effing Mae and THEN get chronically ill in your twenties. Best laid plans and savings aside, for the time being I am a paycheck to paycheck girl. And tonight, heavy cream is a laughable luxury. (But it won't be Friday night.)

Soooooooo. Box cake. It's really not that bad. I mean the cake is still in the oven, but it poured into the cake pan very well. Very much like homemade cake, in fact. Small miracles.

And there's the taste test factor, wherein I shove an entire spatula into my gaping mouth. Truthfully that is the reason I made a cake. Nothing to do with my mom's birth. (But mom, thank you for being born.)

25 minutes later, cake is now out of oven and smells like a bakery in here.

Now to Google some recipes for icing.... come back for an update later.

**********FOUR HOURS LATER **********

Ok so the icing didn't go off without a hitch...I am the WORST when it comes to icing. If you think I am bad at making cake--and I am... this one totally fell apart despite coating the cake stone with spray oil beforehand-- just wait until you try (or don't try, as the case may be) my icing.

I once made a chocolate cake for someone's birthday party and my cake fell apart so badly that I had to "ice" it back together...a tip from my pastry chef friend. Except when she texted "ice it" I thought she meant like actually take ice cubes out of the freezer and sort of finagle the cake back. Welp, there is a reason I am not a chef. Aaaaaand there is a reason I so related to the Amelia Bedelia books when I was a child. Still do, in fact.

So the icing recipe my mom sent me via Pinterest tonight tasted too sweet for me, and kinda mapley, despite not having a single drop of maple syrup. No idea where that flavor came from. But it DID turn out looking just like the picture. And for me that is a huge win. Because my icing never looks like the picture. The trick this time was to wait for the brown sugar, butter and evaporated milk mixture that I cooked down on the stove to cool completely. And then use the KitchenAid to mix in the vanilla and confectioner's sugar.

I know these sentences are not making much grammatical sense but it's way after midnight and I need to get to bed. This blogging every day until the new year bit is HARD.

Here are some icing pics, and one of the final product! I haven't actually tried the cake with icing yet because I'm trying not to eat after 10:00 pm. I'm also trying not to go to bed after midnight, but will have to try again tomorrow. Either way, thank you, mom, for being born and I love you. I love you so much that I made you cake. I hate making cake. From a box or otherwise. On your birthday. That's love.

The Gift of Philly-Style Italian Hoagies

A generous cast mate and her husband were gracious enough to host our cast party last Sunday. Right after set strike the majority of our eight-person cast and guests were welcomed into their home just outside of Gordonsville, about a 20-minute jaunt from the theater. Stephanie is a Philadelphia-born and raised Italian-American and the part of the night I most looked forward to was her "mean giant hoagie."

It did not disappoint. The selection of meats were fresh, the lettuce crisp, the bread firm and crunchy on the outside yet soft and perfect inside, and there was not one sign of mayo. Just before each rehearsal one of my aspirations was to find out as much as I could about an authentic Philly cheese steak from impassioned Steph, but I had no idea how good their Italian hoagies are. Hearing the history of how a hoagie came to be (involving workers from Hog Island on their sandwich breaks) also captured my attention. I myself a Pennsylvania gal, I never knew this important tidbit on what surely is our state sandwich. How privileged we all were to experience an authentic Philly-style Italian hoagie from a Philadelphia native herself.

Since Sunday night I have not been able to think of much else. This hoagie was giant indeed, cut into generous portions. I was polite of course and just had one hoagie after filling up on scrumptious bruschetta (I have a weakness for tomatoes and crostini) and red wine the entire evening, B-U-T the delicious, crisp hoagie taste never quite went away. I savored every oily and vinegary morsel. And could have eaten about ten. Gluttony for the win.

Today I found myself a bit, and this is going to sound dramatic, but...bereft... after temporarily deactivating my Facebook at work yesterday. It was a rather abrupt decision, as per usual. I'd recently made one too many lifestyle comparisons and realized that I needed a social media respite. I looooooove Facebook. Too much. I love reading my eclectic newsfeed and catching up with old friends and keeping abreast of all the moon forecasts and hippie writing and horoscopes and especially food stuffs. But another couple babies emerged and I'm having trouble with that. Don't get me wrong...I'm thrilled for the parents. Babies are like crack to me and EVERYONE AND THEIR MOM IS HAVING THEM. I adore kids and jump up and want to rush over to them and give them hugs and candy when they come into my workplace but that's suuuuper creepy and anyway it's clearly not my time.

I had set the intention to work with kids at a Montessori-style type of school in August but then did not get accepted for the Reggio-Emilia position I'd interviewed for. It might have been an omen that I got a speeding ticket on my way to the interview. Not a good sign. In the end it was not a good fit for me in any way but I was disappointed I did not get it because it felt like another rejection to add to the pile. I know, martyr martyr. I had really wanted to work with babies, but the way the center is run is totally comical and all I could think about was all of the humor essays I could write if I worked there. PROBably not the girl for those babies. Realistically speaking, so much has to happen before kids enter my universe. At the moment my big project is trying, unsuccessfully thus far, to remove some stubborn fleas from my poodle. If that gives you any big picture of my world...

Soooooo deactivating felt like the right decision. Plus I need to focus on some sort of realistic career. Ideally one involving my English major. Despite how out of sorts I feel in the modern American workplace. Fish out of water...

Once the play wrapped I felt glum, looking for the next production to jump into, thinking acting was going to be a part of my life again. But I hardly wrote during the course of the play, and as much as I love acting, when I'm not writing I'm miserable. The applause was addicting and I felt such a rush before and after each performance but there is no feeling that comes close to just having written. It's a necessary purge. One that I haven't felt in at least 2 months. So I deactivated Facebook to develop my writing a bit more. Here's hoping it helps!

With the absence of my greatest social media addiction, all I could think about was what I would be eating and by extension, blogging about, during the month of November. I can't believe this year is almost over and, as is the case with me, I've hardly blogged at all. I'd like to post every day until Jan 1, (when I go back on the good book) but I always say stuff like that and then never get around to it. I think about ideas incessantly but usually my expectations are too high and the whole "comparison is the thief of joy" quote dances through my mind as I'm reading food blogs and eating spoonfuls of Nutella without committing to working on my own. There are so many impressive blogs out there. Sometimes I feel like I don't have anything original to add to the force. But there is something satisfying about having blogged. Even if I'm the only one reading, I like blogging because it's a way for me to keep a record of my days. Oh to be disciplined and inspired enough to blog every single day... Maybe a New Year's resolution for 2015.

This is getting way too long, so I'll say what I wanted to say in the first place. About 6 paragraphs before now. This weekend couldn't end without another Philly style Italian hoagie. So I Googled a bit this morning and found this recipe.

The original recipe sounds tasty but I tweaked it some. I hate boiled ham so standing at the deli peering into the meat case my dad suggested to use tavern ham instead. Genius. Despite telling us to not use pickles at all, I did. I didn't use mayo except by request, and liberally doused each prepared hoagie with an extra virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar dressing. I made these hoagies for my family of 5 so I doubled the recipe. Spent almost $25 in cold cuts but it was worth it. I told my dad, who is very generous, that if he donated the cash I'd make dinner and then told him my ideas and you've never seen someone drive to a deli so energetically. He even called the local Harris Teeter to see how late the deli was open. Freshness matters. Now that I've made the hoagies I realize it will be part of the repertoire. It's quick and easy for one or two people but also satisfies a ravenous family. When ordering make sure to sample each piece of deli meat and cheese. Best part.

Without further ado: my version:


Classic Italian Hoagie

Yields 5
Ingredients:

5 (12 inch) Italian-style rolls
1/2 pound thinly sliced tavern ham
3 oz Boar's Head thinly sliced capocollo (this was pre-packaged bc my deli doesn't have it another way)
1/2 pound thinly sliced provolone cheese
1/2 pound thinly sliced Genoa salami
4 cups shredded Romaine lettuce
1 thinly sliced large tomato
4 tablespoons olive oil, divided
8 teaspoons red wine vinegar, divided
Salt, pepper, Italian seasoning
Kosher dill slices

Directions:

Slice roll horizontally, being careful not to slice all the way through.

There are hilarious comments on the website about this. You should go read them. Man people take this seriously. Eat it like a taco!

Open up the roll and layer on ham, capocollo, provolone cheese and Genoa salami (about 3 slices each).

Be sure to drink some scrumptious, sweet hard apple cider from France if you at all have the opportunity. If you don't have the opportunity, make one! The hoagie will taste better. Trust.

After some cider goes coursing through your veins, you are ready to pile on the meat.

Top with lettuce, tomato slices and pickle, make a dressing of the red wine vinegar and olive oil and douse, sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste and Italian seasoning.

Devour. It doesn't take long. And yes, one is plenty.

Roasted Cauliflower Comfort

The short version, because I want this to be more about roasted cauliflower than theater: I was recently in a play. It just ended. It was a wonderful and yet emotionally draining experience which I miss now that it's over. Go figure. I thought I wanted to do another play, so I auditioned for one but did not get a callback. I was not very bummed about that, and felt guilty about not feeling more disappointed than I thought I would.

The play wrapped Sunday, I auditioned Monday, and voted Tuesday. Again with the short version, because I want this to be more about roasted cauliflower than politics. Tuesday night's GOP takeover of the Senate floored me. I was sick sick sick over it. Trust me you prefer the short version of THAT.

Wednesday I was a bitch to everyone at home and at work and in my overall daily life. I think I snapped at my dog. It was a bad day. Thursday I decided on a good mood and it seemed to carry through to evening, wherein I opened up the fridge and realized I'd bought cauliflower.

Like weeks before. So I roasted some. The process was healing and cathartic for some reason. Usually cauliflower doesn't have this effect on me, but last night it was divine. Like, it actually might have connected me back with Spirit.

It was the first night in about 2 months (since before the play started) where I did not rush home from work, frantically walk my dog, grab a water bottle and a banana and trek 42 minutes out to the theater, usually whipping through a drive-thru if I was desperate. I'd eat at 10:30 pm every night before crashing. Like I said, acting was wonderful. Everything else...kinda draining.

Last night I came back to the kitchen and back to myself a bit more.

This recipe is simple. It's not even a recipe, per se, just a method. Take a head of cauliflower and wash it well. Cut off the bad parts, which mine had a lot of. Don't let your cauliflower sit for 2 weeks. That's vegetable abuse.

Remove stalky part. I don't know what it's called. The stem? Anyway, the thing at the bottom the head grows from. Remove that. Cut cauliflower into bite-size florets. I keep the hard white part, too. When roasted it softens nicely. And I'm no nutritionist but it's probably packed with nutrients. Parts like that usually are.

Take florets and toss into a bowl (I use stainless steel) with olive oil (eyeball it), sea salt and black pepper. There are all kinds of spice variations online but I like to be a purist when I'm first roasting. Next time I may go with garlic and thyme like one recipe called for. MAYBE. To add some excitement to my life.

Toss until the olive oil coats the cauliflower nicely. Munch on a piece. Sigh contentedly.

Throw all of those suckers onto a sheet pan. I use my mom's huge and clunky lipped stone. That is probably called something much fancier in the Pampered Chef catalog. I'm no Martha Stewart and don't use correct terms.

450 for 20-25 minutes or so. To be honest I started it at 400 and the heat just wasn't kicked up enough. Kick that up a notch like Emeril and voila!

Roasted Cauliflower Comfort. I love the buttery, nutty taste that seems to emerge though I used neither butter nor nuts. You can eat the entire head of florets yourself OR you can share. But not gonna lie, that part is kinda hard.

Before:

During: By all means, feel free to polish off a bottle of red while waiting for cauliflower to roast up. As one does.

AFTER. Nomnomnomnomnommmmmmm.

A Favorite

The very best way to eat an artichoke, in my humble opinion, is just like this:

Roasted to within an inch of its life, stuffed with as many cloves of garlic as you see fit (I use no less than ten--for the selenium, of course-- nothing to do with perfectly roasted flavor), and drizzled with olive oil.

Get that oil all over. It should pool. Once you wrap the whole yummy thing up in foil, you're going to actually hear oozing and popping sounds from the oven.

Totally acceptable.

Let cool. That sucker would burn your lips right off. Then.

Peel off each petal, one by one, and dip into melted butter with a squeeze of lemon, tearing the flesh off and pulling through your teeth.

Oh God.

You didn't think you'd be reading a zombie blog. Did you?

I have prepared about 4 artichokes this way in the past couple of weeks. They are EXQUISITE this way.

Despite the outrageous price of artichokes (out of season) at the local Harris Teeter. $3.49 for ONE ARTICHOKE. What? I am a cheapie and that is a very high price to pay for a snack that is literally inhaled. Last night I didn't even wait for the petals to cool.

(And now my lips are singing.)


I tell myself that it's a "healthy" snack, and keep forcing myself to read all of the articles about how high in antioxidants artichokes are. BUT there's the butter factor. And of course, a little does not go a long way in this case.

So I pretty much eat a stick of butter with my antioxidants.

It's whatever.

The heart is the very best part. And if prepared the right way, it's more tender than any other food I've ever eaten. There is no toughness to a properly roasted artichoke heart. It's safeguarded by the petals, and disguised by the choke (which comes out ever so gently with a spoon).

The heart of the artichoke is perhaps one of the most radiant simple pleasures of this life. I am grateful it exists.

Here is the recipe I have used, and will continue to use, until I finally learn how to stuff an artichoke like the Italians do.

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/simply-roasted-artichokes/

Of course you must add more garlic. One clove? What is this, Transylvania?

Like Biting into August

I've become nostalgic lately. A friend and I were texting back and forth a couple months ago, and she said that with all that happened last year, I've had to come back to zero. Back to zero. I wrote that expression down on a sticky note and tacked it to my wall. She's right. In order to plod on, it's necessary to start right where you are. To be here now. To come back to zero. Oftentimes I feel like life is one of those childhood gadgets. The Etch-a-Sketch. I was obsessed with drawing pictures and writing words, and midway through, shaking the little toy like there's no tomorrow. Funnily enough, life would similarly follow suit.

I believe each word of the empowering quotes out there about being very gentle with yourself. Tenderness is required. It will be ok. Therapy has revealed a necessary, critical even, step backward in order to move forward. And I've always identified with the old Japanese proverb, "fall down seven times, rise up eight."

So it comes as no surprise to embrace nostalgia in the form of food. Do you ever find yourself preparing foods from your childhood in order to stay young, of course, let's be honest here, aging isn't a picnic...but also something more. Something deeper. To remember? A nod to innocence? I recently watched the film The Hundred Foot Journey (twice) and was captivated from start to finish. That is a blog post in and of itself. Breathtaking. Exquisite. The first time it was all visual and my senses were on overload. What a feast of the eyes. Upon a second viewing the language started to hit me, the writing, and the quote "food is memories" struck a chord. Food IS memory. Food is identity. Food is nostalgia. Remembrance through flavor of a time long past, fondly held onto.

When I left the theater all I could think about was sea urchins and what it would feel like to carefully pinch my fingers into one and insert that flavor into my mouth. Then I thought of tomatoes. Not sure how the two were related but at first glance they were the two scenes that captured my attention the most. I hope I'm not giving too much away, but when the main character, Hassan, bites into a tomato like an apple a wave of nostalgia overtook me.

Immediately I was transported to central Pennsylvania, summer in the 90s. Walking through the tiny lanes and avenues of my grandfather's small garden. It was my comfort zone, in an otherwise anxiety-ridden environment. When tensions were high I was able to walk out to that little plot of land and immerse myself in the tomato plants. They were high and they smelled like nothing I'd smelled before. Hot, raw earth. I'd sort through, scanning the big red globes with my eyes. I was probably 7 or 8. I'd spot a ripe one, instructed by my grandmother to only go for the ruby red ones, the ones that felt bulky and soft in the hand, and gently tug. Such care and obsessiveness. It was in that garden, safe, where I started my lifelong love affair with food. It was there, plucking that huge tomato, dipping it into the pool and crunching in, where I felt the healing properties of food, the bright sun and deep soil and rainwater converging in my mouth. The welcome pause on summer. Like biting into August.

Few experiences are as gripping for me. I've yet to grow a tomato myself that in any way compares to my grandfather's beefsteaks. The burst of sun-ripened flesh and seeds (combined with a little chlorine) is what kept me going the long weeks of summer.

I want that feeling again any time I pass by a farm stand during the month of August. Anywhere. I'm in Virginia now, in a town where I'm happy to discover farmer's markets and local food to be trendy. I was driving one night and veered off into a little Episcopalian church parking lot on the way home. A tiny farmer's market. Virginia country roads beg for you to stop alongside and see what the locals are growing. I love taking drives and finding fresh eggs on the side of the road, sitting out in a cooler next to a little envelope. The honor system. Americana. Or a veggie share, composed of a wooden rack covered with cucumbers and zucchini. The benevolence of neighborhood farmers. This day, I was drawn to a friendly-looking vendor selling homemade canned dill pickles, the old-fashioned style in a large Mason Ball jar. I had to get one. I've purchased 3 since. In 3 weeks I have spent $28 on pickles. Then this past Friday night I was driving home again and saw the same farmer on the side of the road by himself. Stopped again. And the most marvelous grouping of tomatoes were splayed out on his stand. Smelling one, it took me back. There's that nostalgia again. I know it's repetitive, but isn't nostalgia supposed to be? I was again in central PA clambering among the thick green vines, searching for solitude and the perfect pluck. I bought the gnarliest looking tomato and another jar of pickles, and couldn't wait to get home.

There was one thing on my mind. A tomato sandwich. Just tomatoes. Nothing more. Plain and simple. The tomato, the bread, and maybe a little salt. That's it. I searched some websites for recipes. Well not really recipes, because it's kind of self-explanatory, but stories. I needed to read through the familiar history of tomato sandwiches even though this would be my first of the kind. Luckily there were a plethora of articles and I settled on a few, one from Eatocracy and one from The Huffington Post. They did not disappoint. (And Kat Kinsman is a brilliant and hilarious food writer. I just love her. And kind of need her job.)

I faced my fear of mayo and dove into the Hellman's jar. It was a quick swipe, but one that I think produced the full effect. What you need is two pieces of store-bought white bread. I know, I know. No artisans, please. A huge tomato, thickly sliced. My slices turned out to be all different sizes and cuts. Some were thick and some were thin, but only because I don't have knife skills. And clearly I will be gifting my parents with a knife sharpener for Christmas. The trick is to not use overkill. A little salt goes a long way. It pulls the juices. A tiny dash of pepper, just enough for me to start sneezing all over the kitchen. The bread can't be toasted. It will be the kind of bread that sticks to the roof of your mouth. That's actually how you know the sandwich is working. And when pressed ever so slightly with the tip of your finger, a little fingerprint emerges. Totally normal too. You pile the perfectly haggard tomato slices on one side. And then cover and cut. Bite into it, preferably at 1 am standing over the kitchen sink. In your pjs. I'm not sure there is a better sandwich. Sorry BLT, I'm breaking up with you.

The photo does not do the experience justice, but I'm glad I took one. To remember. It's all about nostalgia here. Again, biting right into August. Ideally one should eat one a day at least during the final month of summer, which is why when I discovered Jonathan's (the name of farmer) tomatoes at a little Amish store, I bought 4 right away. It is 12:40 am and I think I'm going to go have one right now...

Bad Birthday

My birthday was kind of lackluster this year. In therapy I've been learning about setting intentions. So I set some. I set the intention not to celebrate my birthday. At all. To not have ANYONE celebrate me or toast me or take me out for a drink. I still can't quite understand my rationale in setting those intentions. Couldn't I have taken an eensy weensy little bite of cake? I LOVE BIRTHDAYS. But for whatever reason, there you have it. I didn't want to be celebrated. In fact, should they post my picture on the work Facebook page I was going to humbly please tell them to take it down, giving my best Mother Teresa smile. Should my family plan a dinner out with cake and ice cream back at home, I was going to say no cake for me, thanks! And don't worry about taking me out, there are starving children in Ethiopia so let's donate to a good cause. The past few months I have felt the same mania that followed me around during college, and I just haven't been much up for celebrating. So I set the intention to celebrate others and sort of give back.

What was I thinking. I am a LEO. We like parties. Even an introverted Leo, like myself, would be lying if we told you "Nah, no party for me. I'm good." A leo thrives on events.

Even if they are the ones standing in the corner nursing their gin martini, observing, a Leo wants to be at that party. You can count on that. What did Andy Warhol say about attending the opening of a cardboard box? That is how a Leo is. That is how I am. I like dressing up and going to fun things every now and then. (I probably majorly butchered the Andy Warhol quote. If it was even Andy. I'm bad at remembering quotes.)

So my birthday came. And I went to work. And my birthday went. Oh, and I threw myself a party! A great big pity party. I was crying and so bummed, with mascara running all down my face and then Robin Williams committed suicide. On my birthday. Like he died, the day I was BORN. I sobbed myself to sleep just after dragging my dad down to the family room to watch Mrs. Doubtfire together. We laughed and cried together. But I mostly cried because a legend had just vanished from the earth, and all I could think about was how alone he must have felt right before he went. So it was not really the best sort of birthday. The next day I called in sick. I hate doing that. But I was paralyzed with no birthday depression and paralyzed about Robin Williams and when I tried to get out of bed, all I could do was fall over. Vertigo. Excellent.

But while I was laying in bed all day, between sobbing and hiccuping and reading all of the horrendously sad and upsetting and heartbreaking tributes, all I could meditate on was newness. Life. Growth. Togetherness. I started counting my blessings, truly counting them. All of the people in my life I am so grateful for, the people that haven't abandoned me and who I know never will. I've struggled with depression and anxiety at different points of my life, and it's all through my family. And yet, we're all still kicking, bum birthdays and all. I can call up my sister and vent. She is still alive. In fact, we are closer than ever and best friends again, and she loves me so much that she split an airplane ticket so I can fly down to see her at the end of this month. Because she misses me and wants me to see her beautiful new house and share that with me, and meet her incredible ball of fluff new dog and make dinners together. And she sent me a gorgeous moon tote for my birthday and it is so me in every way, and supported an etsy shop in the process. I love that.

Then my other sister and I went out for cupcakes last week, and she agreed to buy me a cupcake. With her birthday money.

So we got our favorite cupcakes and went out to one of our favorite lunch places. Together. And she is 13, and suffering through some incredible teen angst and half the time calls me lame, but it was FUN. We laughed a lot. She blocked her face so I couldn't take any pictures of her. You know. Teen sister/31 year old sister bonding time.

And then my brother MADE DINNER on the night of my birthday. Pizza. He is 19 and doesn't really prefer cooking per se but he did and he even told me happy birthday. And then my mom and sister brought a little mini rose bush plant to my work, and I was so resentful that my face wasn't on the office website even though the other receptionist's was for HER birthday, that when I saw them, I sort of burst into a smile and a biiiiiiiit of an ugly cry once they left. Flowers make a girl feel special. Family makes me feel loved. Laying in bed, all of the memories of my family started flooding in. We are a close family. I didn't have a curfew in high school because I never went anywhere. I didn't want to go out on Friday nights. I wanted to be home with my people. Prom was fun and it was exciting to get all glitzed up and go to a nice restaurant, but I couldn't wait to get home and tell everyone about the night. Home was my place and I couldn't leave them. It is hard to think of being apart from any of them, no matter how crazy we all can drive each other. We are thick as thieves, for lack of a much better metaphor. There is no breaking our family thread. Laying in bed all day of August 12th, all I could think about was the memories. The good times. Going to Maine every year together, Christmas traditions, Mom's eggnog, New Year's celebrations at grandma's, Liverpool Rummy games that go on for hours on end. A lifetime of having a really precious family. 31 years of love. So it wasn't a bad birthday at all. It was one I will treasure because while mourning someone's death who I didn't even know personally, I could focus on and celebrate the ones I do.

Mood Swings and Midnight Fajitas

I was watching a Joan Didion interview while stalling on making dinner tonight. She is aged now and witty without trying. Unequivocal...a dream of a writer. The kind of essayist one yearns to know. There's just something godlike about her. Maybe it's all of the tragedy, but no, she was like this before the magical thinking. Or was it all magical thinking? Is it all magical thinking?

I find everything of my own unbearably nauseating and cringed today while reading over old blog posts. Like full body quiver. Too saccharine, silly girl. Maybe I should start looking up starchy art history programs instead of loosey-goosey MFAs to sober up a bit. All this creative nonfiction is getting a bit dreamy.

Put off making the bed, folding laundry, and making important appointments. In an effort to become a better doggy mommy I did, however, finally set a date with the country vet to get George neutered on May 12th, a task I've been putting off for five and a half years but all of a sudden started having panic attacks about George suddenly falling ill with testicular cancer, so I am considering today a slightly productive win.

Raced out of work at 5:05 intent on going to yoga at an actual yoga studio instead of pretend yoga where I sit in my bedroom on the blue, tree-decaled yoga mat simultaneously drinking red wine and scanning vegan recipes on Pinterest.

[Necessary aside: There is no way I am ever becoming vegan. I just ate an entire package of Port Salut. Orange crinkly paper and all. Followed by pâté de campagne. I had a large chocolate milkshake for lunch. But there are no rules in pinning.]

Typically when I flap out my yoga mat George comes running over excitedly and clacks his bone against a prominent body part, like an ankle or kneecap. Not to worry, just need those for walking. No big. Please, toss your rawhide with full force against my shin now! Just to cover the whole leg. Then he starts stretching it out.

Turns out my dog does more yoga than I do.

Went to Trader Joe's instead of real yoga, on the hunt for large artichokes. TJ's artichokes seem a better quality than Harris Teeter's and Kroger's (read: they are actually green and not wilting), but after ogling the produce section four to five times with no luck I decided to segue over to the poultry section and call it a night.

But that damn sample counter always gets me. You know the one, with a million little dentist-rinse cups of whatever sultry beverage is being featured that day. Today, pomegranate lemonade. I might have partook of more than one complimentary sample. (Apparently so did the checkout guy, who went into great detail regarding how much he loves the juice samples and how he may have had 9 or 10, to which I responded, "Or eleven...or twelve, but who's counting," in an honest effort to get out of there faster, but alas, I must be chatty only when starving and in a mad dash to get home and the conversation went on and on. Why do I have to engage? I just want my chicken-thanks-bye!)

Also, don't you just love how you're holding one item, like a packet of chicken, say, and the guy in front of you with spilling-over cart who gets to counter at the exact same time as you, ok, maybe one millisecond faster, turns and smiles

BUT DOESN'T LET YOU GO IN FRONT OF HIM?! Really?

I am a 30 year old single woman here to prove by my mere existence that chivalry is, in fact, dead.

Not just dead. Chivalry got taken out back and had the shit kicked out of Her.

Wow. I digress. I'm sorry. This is why I will need therapy and charcuterie for the rest of my life.

Took a roundabout way home reminiscing about Monday night's glorious sunset whereby I had to stop in the church parking lot before bells practice with my hand deep into a canvas bag searching for my camera just to grab as many shots as possible. Of course two turned out. Yep, I'm the girl who has 476 sunset photos on her laptop and won't organize or delete any.



And then yesterday's Spring day was inspiration enough to plan a picnic for the weekend. The key is to stay busy. Keep occupied. Don't let your hands idle.

Blah blah blah blah BLAH. I'm so over people telling me to stay busy. Ya know what? I'm not good at life sometimes, and that is OKAY. It's ok to NOT stay busy. It's OK to binge-watch 12 episodes of House of Cards on a Saturday morning/afternoon/evening/ all day Saturday, all day LONG, while stuffing your face with GMO popcorn and non-organic butter. (Hashtag Season two, hashtag ermagerd) It's OK to be going on the 8th consecutive month of reading the same food memoir that you already read last year and the year before. It's ok to just BE. You don't have to have ALL your ducks in a row. Ducks flying in V shapes are more interesting. It's OK to eat an entire raw/vegan/non-GMO/all natural/cacao nib/organic/fair trade six dollar boutique chocolate bar and tell yourself you are doing it for the Belizean rainforests. It is ok to listen to Katy Perry's "Roar" on repeat and then switch to Cat Power's Ramblin Woman and then back to Katy. It's all OK. To figure out who you are, one recipe at a time, one criminally overplayed pop song at a time, one continuously savored book at a time, giving up one vice at a time (FB and alcohol for Lent, more on that little topic later), one new outfit at a time. You can wear stilettos one day and Toms the next. You can look like a hippie with long, unbrushed, scraggly hair, glasses, no makeup, flowy skirts and purple feather drop down earrings one day and pearls and cashmere and nude pumps and too much mascara (that melts down your face in the rain) the next. IT IS ALL OK. Have some flavor. The world needs more spice. We're all human here.

I want everything now, have little patience and even smaller self-control, am moody and self-deprecating, which comes off as charming in some people's writing, like Anne Lamott's, but in mine it's just vomit-inducing. There is no other word for it. But that is OKAY. I just read some stuff I'd written in the late fall. Gag me. I sound like a princess whose crown was just knocked off and now she's demanding the peasants summon it for her. Let them eat cake. Obnoxious nine year old regressions are still obnoxious. And that is OKAY, too. When I started therapy I was regressing to age 5. That was one year ago this month. Progress. Or as my therapist says, "You are catching up with yourself."

There might be one good sentence in two entire notebooks full of blah blah blah blah BLAH. Which is, what again?

OKAY. It is ok not to be perfect, to still be a dreamer making slow and steady positive changes. I have held down a part-time job for seven months now. If you know me, you know that that is the definition of slow but steady progress. I started Googling eco-friendly cars, a necessary evil in this great town. I've located my birth certificate to change my name but still hunger for the courage to actually walk into the clerk's office downtown. It will feel so final. I have had many anxiety attacks on this. Baby steps. Looked at two apartments this week and changed George's dog food back to California Naturals lamb meal. Had to write that on a sticky note and keep it tacked to the rear view mirror to not forget, but guess who's eating natural dog food now instead of his own feces?

The universe is shifting and we shift with it. Don't resist!




Elena may or may not have caught me drinking wine, dancing in the kitchen, making lumpia one night last month. In the kitchen there will be dancing. In the kitchen you locate your sanity.

Which is why I made fajitas at midnight. I'd promised my brother fajitas tonight if he did the dishes. To my shock he did them. If only I'd learned the art of the bribe sooner. Last month would have been less of a disaster with two kids to try not to boss around but at the same time gain the respect of while their father was suffering a heart attack. In the Philippines. And their mother had to get an expedited passport and fly over. To Manila. By way of South Korea. My little blonde mom flying solo across the globe to get to her husband as he's just opening his eyes from an emergency double bypass. Their cinematic love story continues.

These fajitas are either a labor of love or a quick fix for a hankering for Mexican food.

You can make them as simple or as complex as you prefer.

Turns out I like complexity.

Feel free to doctor the list of ingredients to your liking. I like it spicy so I use jalapenos sometimes. Not for my brother's fajitas.

You must use fresh cilantro. That's a rule. Homemade guacamole is another must. After that you're on your own. Be creative.

Keep in mind after making these that you have to walk into your brother's room dramatically turning "The fajitas are ready" to "The VUH-JIE-TAHZ are ready" while he is gaming, so that all gaming teens on the network laugh and then ask if he is a pimp. True story.
#goodinfluence


Chicken VUH-JIE-TAHZ For Zach, Upon Doing The Dishes


Ingredients:

1 1/2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts (Thighs will not work; I tried), cut into thin strips
4 T oil (I use coconut and olive, but canola, grapeseed or safflower works. Something with a high smoke point.)
1 large onion, sliced into thin strips
1 yellow bell pepper, sliced into thin strips
1 orange bell pepper, sliced into thin strips
salt and pepper, to taste
chili powder, to taste (I like Hatch green chile pepper from New Mexico.)
1 whole lime
1 bunch fresh cilantro, roughly chopped
1 small tomato, seeded and chopped
1/2 cup cheddar cheese, finely grated
1 cup homemade guacamole, OR the flesh of 1 avocado, thinly sliced
12 corn tortillas (although this is not authentic; flour tortillas are)

In a cast iron pan melt 2 T coconut oil on med-high heat until slightly sizzling. Generously season chicken with salt, pepper and chili powder. Sear chicken on both sides, turning until nicely browned. Remove chicken to platter. Sear onion and peppers on both sides until nicely charred; add chicken back to sizzle. Squeeze juice of 1/2 lime into sizzling pan, turning chicken and vegetables with wooden spoon. I find that microwaving 1/2 lime for 20 seconds draws out the juice. Yum. Turn heat down to low, cover. Let flavors meld together perfectly.


In a small skillet heat 2 T oil (I use olive oil for this part.) Using tongs, carefully place corn tortillas one by one into hot oil, browning on both sides. Tortillas should bend and not crunch. Liberally salt both sides of tortilla; place on paper towels/linens on plate to cool. Stack tortillas then get ready to serve.

I always let each person make their own fajita to their individual tastes. My brother hates onions and peppers, so he built his fajita with chicken, cilantro and extra cheddar. I layer mine with guacamole on the bottom, then one or two pieces of chicken with extra peppers and onions, then tomatoes, cheddar, and sprinkles of fresh cilantro, and lastly a fresh squeeze of lime.

The only complaint is our mouths are too small. Ideally one would fit an entire fajita inside and just lapse into a food coma.

Enjoy. xx