The First Fires of Fall

It's hard to imagine mid-december as fall, but one can hardly call it winter when the temperatures are still spiking in the 70s. Alas, on those few chance, frigid evenings, I relish the opportunity to light up a big blazing fire in my fireplace. Please excuse my husbands shoes in the foreground, but I love this picture...makes me wish I were right there next to him under a heavy quilt with a spiced cider in my hands.
I suppose, for honesty's sake, that I should admit I have the tendency to take things to the extreme, as evidenced by my husbands suggestion that I take a break from throwing yet another log on the fire during a 65 degree Sunday. I can't help it though. I love the smell of a real fire, the cracking, popping and hissing of the wood, and even the act of trudging out to the wood pile to grab a few more logs. There's something very comforting in it all. Especially if there's marshmallows involved. I could take or leave s'mores, but a nice charred marshmallow is hard for me to pass up. I suppose, for me, it makes home feel more like...well...home.

Happy Fall my darlings.

"This is Calcutta. Bohemia is dead."

I decided to take veteran's day off to spend it with Steven. We forced ourselves to get out of the house, and away from the homework, housework and endless distractions that keep us from focusing on the most important part of our lives: each other. We spent a couple of hours walking around our local art museum, giving insights into our interpretations of each piece, including the sad realization that most of the male nude sculptures had their penises broken off. This was more than a little disturbing to Steven and mildly disappointing to me. Its funny how interesting it can be to view a nude form with your significant other. We both found a barely draped woman with a rather ample bottom, and shockingly perfect breasts to be the subject of our admiration for the better part of ten minutes. Ah, to be an alabaster sculpture, without dimple, wrinkle or flaw, perfectly preserved for all time...in true writer form, I digress.

Afterwards, we drove over to a local restaurant for a little bit of lunch. We sat in the back lounge, eating and drinking for hours, just talking and talking and talking. It was relaxing, wonderful, and badly needed. The restaurant had a sister coffee shop just next door. Our server informed us that they served a Turkish tea that we should try. Both die-heard caffeine addicts, we headed over after lunch and ordered up two tiny cups.

The tea was pretty good, however, the tea is not the point. When we sat down to enjoy our beverage, we started to take stock of our surroundings. Nothing matched. The artwork was a mishmash of random paintings, pictures and sculptures of no particular theme. The chairs and couches seemed to be plucked from a few random, dated living rooms, and the music was definitely not anything you'd find on the top 40 list...thank god. What struck me as refreshingly peculiar was the blatant lack of commercialism. It was a true coffee house...cozy, comfortable, and eclectic. It was all of the things that Starbucks had aspired to be before they reached the ultra-globalized-corporate status that they enjoy now.

Where I grew up, coffee houses were for outsiders. Nerds, goths, vegans, lesbians, artists, musicians, and the like, could all find solace and inspiration in a local haunt they could call their own. They weren't for elitist, organic, soccer moms with jogging strollers, anti-bacterial wipes, and gas-guzzling SUVs, and they certainly didn't have drive throughs.Your coffee was served in mismatched mugs instead of logo'd paper cups, and if you ordered a quad, venti, half-caf, no-whip, two Splendas, stirred latte, you'd be shown the door. I'm sorry, but when my coffee cup becomes a fashion accessory, it's time to rethink my beverage.

Let's recap...
Has Starbucks lost their way, forgotten their roots and turned into just another corporate circus? Definitely.
Does Starbucks still serve up a damn good product? 
Yes....(sigh)
Am I a raving hypocrite for continuing to darken their door? 
It's called an addiction.

La vie boheme my darlings.

All Hallows Eve

 Go out and stir up a little bit of magic tonight. There's a chill in the air and an electricity that is making the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. Even my cat, Mackie, is acting wide-eyed and paranoid. Legend has it that the veil between the living and the dead is at it's thinnest tonight. Hopefully we'll be blessed with a visit from a loved one or maybe just a visit from some mischief-making trick or treaters. Either way, I hope you light some candles, watch a few scary movies and enjoy the excitement of the unknown.  I'll be watching the latest episode of American Horror Story (in the dark, of course) with an inky glass of red wine and an ominous bowl of black bean soup. Afterwards, I might just be having a little costume party of my own...after the kids have all gone to bed (wink, wink).

Happy Halloween my darlings.

Une Bouteille Du Vin Rouge

In my seven and a half years of 30 minute commutes, I once tried to take advantage of the time by learning French. This attempt at cultural immersion lasted for about three weeks, during which, I learned one useable phrase: "une bouteille du vin rouge, si vous plait".

"A bottle of red wine, please" is about all you ever need to learn in your adult life, especially if you have children, a husband, a job, or even just a cat. At the end of a long day, slowly and methodically running the knife edge along the bottom of the lip, gently lifting off the cap, inserting the worm and twisting it until it is fully submerged into the cork, gently dislodging it from the neck, and slowly watching my glass fill can be very, very relaxing.

It must be the task immersion that takes my mind off of the hours behind me; the slow, rehearsed actions that result in a well-aged glass that makes it all fade to insignificance. To be honest, there are day in which I am so desperate for relief that I slash the knife down the side of the foil, rip it off, and remove the cork with the fastest means available in an effort to remove any obstacle between myself and the contents of the bottle, ceremony be damned.

Funny joke; how do you spell therapist? w-i-n-e

One glass leads to two and before I know it, I don't even care that Steve is entertaining himself with Yoda-based youtube spoof videos. I even begin to enjoy the giggle that follows the five minutes of Star Wars impersonations. Ok, to be honest, I hate Star Wars and he knows it. Good thing he's so damn cute.

Happy drinking my darlings. 

Minimalism in a Maximalism World

Every year or so, I'll come across an article, study or book that mentions the fact that we really only wear about 10% of our wardrobe. While doing laundry a few days ago, I realized that I keep wearing, washing and re-hanging the same 10-20 items. After taking quick count of the items I own, I realized that I only wear about 5% of my actual wardrobe. Everything else is too small, too large, or something that I plan on wearing someday, eventually...maybe.

Inspired by my latest favorite book, Parisian Chic by Ines de la Fressange, I set out to compose my wardrobe of only those things that were essential to me. If I was not head over heels for it, out it went into the massive pile of donations. After about six bags worth, I had to quit. It was scary to me how much of what I owned was disposable. I had only managed to rescue about one quarter of my closet.

Here lies the issue, I live in America. Americans, for the most part live obnoxiously, consumer-driven lives. It's very easy to get swept up in the latest this or the newest that. A girl at heart, I frequently get distracted by pretty, shiny things and hastily decide that I absolutely must have them.  Unfortunately, I have spent a great deal of money on things that I don't really love, didn't really need and don't actually wear.

Seeing one little corner of my closet become streamlined and clutter-free gave me an eerie sense of calm and happiness. I had no idea the effect that a cluttered closet could have on me compared to a minimalist one. Now, when I look at that space, I get excited about my choices, not overwhelmed. I don't feel depressed looking at skinny jeans that I can't fit into because I gave them away. I also now don't have a backup plan for gaining a few pounds because my fat clothes are gone too. What's left are high-quality, timeless items that will last for years.

Happy minimalism my darlings.

"The Spartans weren't big on amenities."
-Eddie Morra

Pomme de Terre

It's spring and all I can think about is gardening. I walk around my backyard and plan things out in my head. Berry bushes over here, a vegetable garden over there, 

maybe a fruit tree or two. 

I turn the corner towards my side yard and...wow. 

I am faced with the most crazy looking rosemary bush you've ever seen. 

Planted 3 years ago, it is now a mammoth monster that decided it was tired of standing upright. It is now a resting peacefully on its right side, continuing to thrive and grow like crazy. I try to give it away, I try to cook with it, and yet, it never seems to get smaller. The more I hack away at it, the more it grows. I could have worse problems, I suppose, than a behemoth rosemary monstrosity in my back yard.

Anyway, you might be wondering about the title of this particular post. Why on earth did I 

label it "potato" and then ramble on about rosemary? 

If this is a mystery to you, my darlings, then you clearly have never had 

my rosemary roasted potatoes.

My favorite method of cooking vegetables is roasting them. There is something about the concentration of flavors and the caramelization of the natural sugars that turns any vegetable into a little piece of enchantment. Potatoes are no exception. I take small red potatoes, wedge them, toss them in fresh rosemary, granulated garlic (fresh garlic will burn), olive oil, a healthy dose of salt and fresh ground pepper, and roast them as high as my oven will allow until they are brown and beautiful. 

Add a nice bottle of red and a rotisserie chicken from the store, 

and you have the makings of the perfect dinner.

I happen to be having mine tonight with a little bit of prosciutto, brie and baguette, 

accompanied by a lovely bottle of French red. 

Bon appetit my darlings.

Feeding Body and Soul

(I am now posting all of my work from January on, the timing may be off but the relevancy still resonates...some where)

My house smells like yeast and garlic again. After a long hiatus, which included two very painful deaths in the family, I found my way back to my place of solace and comfort...my kitchen.  It is in this place where I began to feel human again. It was my bread machine that did it. I made a garlic thyme French loaf that permeated every corner of the house. I took the loaf straight out of the machine, cut off the heel, slathered it with softened butter, salt and pepper and ate it hungrily over the kitchen sink. Never before had a meal been so satisfying.
Sleepless nights,  teary-eyed days and the constant parade of well-meaning friends and family took the life out of me and I became a shell of my former self. I did as best as I could to maintain some sense of normality in my family's life. I kept up on my homework, put up our tree, swept the chimney, did the laundry and kept rather busy. I lost fifteen pounds and ran myself ragged. I hid myself in whatever work I could find. I found no pleasure in the things I was doing but with everything else falling apart around me, I had to make something go right...right?
I digress. The point is that tragedy does not last forever. It ends and life goes on. I went back to my kitchen to continue my life. I found that, while nurturing others, I wound up nurturing myself.

**It is with mixed emotion that I report that those 15 pounds have found their way back, the world has not ended and my wardrobe now fits me again.   ;)

The Gardener

Spring has sprung...well, sort of. In an anxious leap to get a head start on beautifying the exterior of my home, I made the fatal mistake of planting before the last threat of frost had passed. A moment of silence for my tomato plants please.
Luckily, my brussels sprouts, berry bushes, azaleas and forsythia made it. I do not have what you would call a green thumb. Mine is more of a drab olive thumb...that lovely murky color reserved for canned peas or overcooked asparagus, not quite the bright green of spring that it should be.
I stumble quite a bit when it comes to gardening. Somehow, no matter how badly I screw it up, how big the disappointment, I still come back every year and try again. Sometimes I learn from my mistakes, sometimes I don't. All part of the learning process, right?
Any-who, my point is this; it's the effort that counts and the payoff (when there is one) is pretty darn great. There is a sincere feeling of pride and accomplishment when I pull up to my house and see that the ivy has finally taken off and made the top corner of my front lawn look amazing, or that the lilac bush that I planted three years ago just might bloom this year. Even better is that first warm tomato of the year that I just can't help but to pull off and pop in my mouth on the spot.
So my darlings, if you're great at gardening, well, goodie for you. For those of you who are not, no matter how bad you may think you are, you will not get better my sitting on that pretty little tushie of yours. Go forth! Make your mistakes...and when you succeed, smile and be glad that, for once, something in your life went exactly as planned.
Now, any suggestions for taming a ridiculously wild rosemary bush?

Stay Tuned...

After a long and painful end to 2010, I am writing again. It's mostly just a random jumble of melancholy, confused and angry thoughts but at least I am putting pen to paper (or finger to key, should I say) again. With that said...stay tuned. I will be back, my darlings.

P.S. I have missed you dearly and 

sincerely hope that your holidays were great.