Guilty Pleasures: In Defense of Bubble Baths September 26, 2008

You know, I’m not even going to call this a guilty pleasure. I have no feelings of remorse about it, because after a long day – and there have been a few of those lately – the only fool-proof way of setting my mood straight when I get home is a long, hot bath. And I’m talking loooong. Like, soaking long enough to get my fingers and toes all pruny and then adding more hot water.

Some days I’ll drink hot tea during, sometimes wine, sometimes a cocktail. Sometimes I’ll burn a candle, or add bubbles, or salts, or oils. Or maybe all of them.

Some days I’ll listen to music during, and sometimes all I want to hear is the rushing of the water. When I like accompaniment, it’s usually something light-hearted and girlie, like Life by the Cardigans or Youth Novels by Lykke Li (a new favorite).

And sometimes – embarrassing though it may sound – it’s the soundtrack to Something’s Gotta Give. Sounds horribly campy, and maybe it is, but it’s a fantastic mix of late 50s/early 60s pop and old French standards. And honestly, does it get any better than Louis Armstrong singing La Vie En Rose?

(There’s an unfortunate cover of the same song by Jack Nicholson at the end of the album. I generally try to forget that one).

For the most part I read during baths – my books and magazines are notoriously crinkly and water-marked as a result. But sometimes all I want to do is completely submerge my head in the hot water and hide from everything.

I’m not sure what it is that makes baths so comforting. Is it the sounds? The smells? All sensations combined? Enveloping oneself in such warmth is rather womb-like, I suppose.

But no matter the combination of accessories or additives, a long bath is an instant cureall to whatever ails me. Maybe that’s why the boy doesn’t complain when I disappear for hours at a time …

‘Shrooms! August 6, 2008

No, not that sort of ’shrooms, silly. I just like to throw in random words every once in a while to see how they influence Google searches. The variety of ways people search for things using the word pleasure is quite amusing.

No, today I’m talking about the tame, grocery-store bound type of ’shrooms, specifically those used on THE BEST DAMN MUSHROOM PIZZA YOU’VE EVER PUT IN YOUR MOUTH. Swear to god. And this in spite of having enjoyed Little Azio’s wild mushroom and truffle pizza. On many occasions.

We began experimenting with making pizzas at home after sampling some of my brother-in-law’s (Hi, Yippie!) exotic creations. (Cauliflower and tandoori salmon, anyone?) The only thing I’d say we have left to improve upon our fabulous ’shroom pizza is that we haven’t yet mastered the homemade crust. The DeKalb Farmer’s market has a pre-prepared whole-wheat crust that we use, and we adore it. But I’m sure making one from scratch would be even better.

We also haven’t technically landed on an exact recipe yet – we’re always throwing in different varieties of herbs, cheeses, and ’shrooms – but this is the latest, and in my humble opinion best, incarnation yet. I also don’t measure anything – as you can probably tell by the below “recipe.”

Avoid the temptation to add too many toppings here – it’s perfect as it is.

THE BEST DAMN MUSHROOM PIZZA YOU’VE EVER PUT IN YOUR MOUTH

• 1 Whole-wheat crust, lighty brushed with extra virgin olive oil
• 1 layer of cheese – a combination of mozzerella, (or something just as melty) asiago (or something just as rich and nutty). and peccorino (or something just as sharp and salty – my new favorite being kefalotiri) work great
• 1 layer of mushrooms – a combination of shittake, oyster, and portabellos or crimini are my favorites
• One large, finely minced garlic clove, sprinkled on top
• Any combination, or all, of the following spices: salt (sparingly, based on what cheeses you use), pepper, oregano, basil, onion powder, red pepper flakes, and parsley

Stick in a 400 degree oven till cheese is bubbly and golden brown.

You’ll thank me later, I promise.

The Fruits of Someone Else’s Labor July 14, 2008

I lucked out. In too many ways to mention, but I’m focusing on just one here. My humble little house has oddly disproportionate yard — and it’s full of wonderful little surprises.

To the right of my house, next to my driveway, is a good-sized peach tree. (How very Georgia, I know.) I’ve been patiently waiting, and the fruit is getting HUGE, but is still green and hard. The branches aren’t able to support the weight of the fruit any more, and many of them are dragging the ground. Looks a bit like a weeping willow.

In the back yard, near two TOWERING pecan trees (great climbing trees – I would have killed for this yard as a kid!) is a lovely little pear tree. This fruit isn’t quite ripe yet either, but that hasn’t stopped a plethora of wildlife from snatching it up. Little half-eaten pears can be found all over.

Honeysuckle, though now beginning to dry up, blankets the bushes in the front and back of the house, the fragrance tempting me to walk around with trumpet-shaped blossoms sticking out of my mouth like a little girl.

Wild strawberries pop up here and there, dotting the green lawn with flecks of red.

This cornucopia of treats brings all sorts of wildlife to the doorstep. We’re constantly catching glimpses of bunnies dashing across the grass – something that made last night’s “hare” themed Iron Chef a little uncomfortable. (Honestly, who cooks rabbit with CARROTS? That’s just adding insult to injury.)

But the very best thing about the yard are the loads and loads of blackberries cascading over the fence.

They’re absolutely gorgeous. Big, fat, ripe blackberries just begging to be picked, tempting to weigh the vines down to the ground. Every time we go into the back yard we stop by the fence to snack on some, and the sheer volume of them guarantees there will be more for later. The boy and I were playing Frisbee on Saturday and we constantly took breaks to pop them into our mouths like kids in candy stores – our fingers stained bright pink.

Not wanting the berries to go to waste, we decided to try our hands at making jam (or preserves – is there even a difference?). I’d seen Jamie Oliver make it with strawberries, and it seemed simple enough. We bought a few jars and began the picking process. One for the jar, one for the mouth, one for the jar…

But tasting how perfectly sweet they were made me realize that adding sugar would only ruin them. As I was shaking the jar to squish them down and make room for more berries, they burst and turned into a beautiful thick syrup. That’s all I wanted. We ate it last night on vanilla ice cream. It was absolutely delicious. I’m going to try it on yogurt next.

This is just too easy. I think I can dig this whole get-your-food-from-your-back-yard thing. Though I suspect if I actually had to plant anything it might dampen my enthusiasm. Previous residents (and Mother Nature) did all the work here. I just lazily hang out on a blanket in the grass with the boy and the dog, reaping the benefits.

Stir Crazy May 15, 2008

I’ve been thinking a lot about travel lately. With two friends vacationing in Budapest, and another two beginning their indefinite global trek in Indonesia, the view from my office on this rainy Thursday is looking a little bleak.

Sure, I can brew my coffee at my desk, clutch my mug between my cold hands and close my eyes, imagining I’m really sipping cafe au lait at a sidewalk cafe in Amsterdam. But soon the dull whir of the overzealous air conditioner and the incessant tapping of my coworkers fingers against their keyboards snap me back into reality.

At lunch, I’ll make a trip to the Farmer’s Market, with it’s strong smells of spices, coffee, and fresh herbs and produce, and its cafe that serves up everything from Asian vegetables to curried lentils to goat stew (no, I haven’t sampled that yet, though I’ve heard rave reviews). And while the diverse clientèle and flags from every possible country decorating the vast building may let me escape for a while, soon it will be back out to the sterile, concrete parking lot – back to the congestion that is DeKalb Industrial Boulevard. Back to the real world.

Later, when the business day is over, maybe I’ll put on my iPod, turn up some Brit Pop, and stare our through the rain. Maybe then I’ll be able to pretend I’m visiting London.

But for now I’m here, and I’m having an anywhere but here moment. Like I’m homesick for a place I’ve never visited. I want to see something new, and right now I’m feeling so dull, so monotonous, that I can’t even daydream of anything exciting.

I believe this is called ennui, no?

Strictly for Daydreaming. April 22, 2008

I want to be at home.
I want to be with my boy.
I want to talk with my friends.
I want to host a party.
I want to write a blog.
I want to write a column.
I want to write a book.
I want to work from home.
I want to travel.
I want to see Morocco.
I want to see the Eiffel Tower.
I want to see the Seven Wonders of the World.
I want to live on the Square.
I want to live in Canada.
I want to live in Paris.
I want to be a wife and mother.
I want to raise my family in Decatur.
I want to open a brewery.
I want to take improv classes.
I want to be in a production.
I want to sing.
I want to sing on stage.
I want to sing in a band.
I want to sing on Broadway.
I want Fantine’s death scene.
I want to be Tina Fey.
I want to be Hollis Gillespie.
I want to be recognized.
I want to make an impression.
I want to make a difference.
I want to retire to a chateau on a vineyard.
I want a glass of wine.
I want to be at home.

Wanderlust. April 11, 2008

I lost a trip to Paris.

Ok, so it wasn’t a trip to Paris. THAT I would have cried over. But I let an absolutely amazing door prize – a vacation package with lodging and airfare included – slip through my fingers at a recent benefit dinner for a client.

I bought a raffle ticket. I actually bought one. I never buy those things. I don’t like them. I can’t really explain why. Some sort of sense of dread – maybe of getting my hopes up and then having my dreams dashed to pieces before my eyes all because of chance. Because of a number.

I’ve never been good with numbers.

Still, I bought the thing. Only ten bucks! It’s for a good cause! What’s there to lose?

Honestly, I’d had a few drinks and had completely forgotten about the ticket when a coworker rushed out of the auditorium – to where I was situated next to the doors – yelling, “The winning number ended in 47!”

That’s me!

“They called it out five times and then drew the next number!”

WHAT?!?!

And there you go. Hopes built. Dreams dashed. And numbers? Evil.

“You have to be in the room when they call it to claim the prize … blah, blah, blah”

I never win these things. This is how I rationalize. I don’t win stuff like this. If I had been in the room, they would have called another number.

Truth be told, it all just seemed too nice anyway. A little above our heads, the boy’s and mine (though he was just as upset when he heard of my simultaneous win and loss later that night). Who knows? It may have been a lovely trip. But it also may have been a little stiff, a little forced. When the two of us talk of traveling together, I generally have a different image in mind.

I’m fairly certain, in my own experience at least, that these sorts of all-inclusive, “we’ll take care of all the details” sort of vacations actually hinder the experience of traveling to a new place. Not that comfort isn’t a welcome part of any trip. But when the travel, lodging, entertainment, dining, and every other detail has been decided for you, how can you really feel anything other than being shuttled around like cattle?

When I think of travel, I think of writing my own itinerary. Deciding to go see something at a moment’s notice with nothing holding me back. Packing belongings in a car and taking off in whatever direction sounds good at the time. Making a scrapbook along the way of photos and postcards and words describing who and what we saw. Planning a soundtrack that later will transport us back to that time and place instantly. Wandering aimlessly between the historic and the odd; between the Grand Canyon and the largest ball of yarn west of the Mississippi.

Or maybe Mt. Rushmore. That seems it would be a perfect combination of the revered and the weird.

Yep. Paris would have been completely sterile compared to the trip I’m planning in my own head.

Right?

My Cup Runneth Over. Sort of. March 19, 2008

I’m back at work after a very LOOOONG two-week, um, vacation.

Yeah.

Anyway, I’m finding it difficult to get back into the swing of things, and have been relying more than a little on my soy lattes to get me through the day. I found this the other day and had to repost it. Just call it my serenity prayer.

Coffee is my shepherd; I shall not doze.
It maketh me to wake in green pastures, It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses.
It restoreth my brain, It leadeth me in the paths of consciousness for it’s name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of sleep,
I will fear no artificial sweetener for thou art with me; Thy cream and thy sugar they comfort me.
Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of my zzz’s, Thou anointest my day with sunlight;
My cup runneth over.
Surely richness and flavor shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of Cappuccino forever…

Let us sip… or whatever…

Mmmm … Kissable … January 21, 2008

I’ve often told the boy that if I were ever to leave him for another man, it would be Burt.

As in Burt’s Bees. The only other man who puts me in a kissing mood.

I’m addicted. Absolutely addicted. Not only is the lip balm wonderful (feels all tingly and not overly waxy, and it smells and tastes just slightly minty), but I’m beginning to experiment with the other products the company offers, and they are equally as fantastic.

Everything is completely natural, and whether or not you think those other products on the market containing mineral oil/petroleum jelly/what have you will one day prove detrimental to your health, it’s always good to be the safe side, right?

I fell pretty hard for Burt a few years back. And the more I learn about their company and their green initiatives, the harder I fall. For example:

~~~~~~~~~~

“Burt’s Bees maintains its founders’ green philosophies. Employees’ bonuses are based in part on how well the company meets energy conservation goals, and there are prime parking spaces for staff members
who drive hybrid cars or carpool. It buys offsets for 100 percent of its carbon emissions and is working toward a goal of sending no trash to landfills by 2020.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The above was taken from a New York Times article called “Can Burts Bees Turn Clorox Green?” (http://tinyurl.com/37xn2x)- a very intriguing, well-written article about the history of the environmentally-friendly company and its recent sale to Clorox. Go read, and decide for yourself what the answer to the title’s question is.

There’s also a cute little picture of Burt at the top. He seems to have been somewhat shafted in the various money-making moves of the company. But I’m still a Burt convert. Turkey coop or no.

I’m a Closet Oenophile January 16, 2008

Ok, so I’m not a closeted oenophile as much as I’m a fiscally-challenged one. I have a tiny little wine rack, not a wine cellar, and as of late it’s been filled with nothing but bottles of Two Buck Chuck.

(Don’t event try to knock it if you haven’t tried it …)

I watched Sideways again the other day, which embarrassingly causes me to over zealously swirl my glass of wine and sniff between each sip while I watch it. Yes, I’m THAT person.

But I once again took notice of a monologue in the middle of the film which I’ve always loved. It’s a response to the question “Why are you into wine?”

~~~~~~

I like to think about the life of wine. How it’s a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing; how the sun was shining; if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it’s an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now.

I like how wine continues to evolve, like if I opened a bottle of wine today it would taste different than if I’d opened it on any other day, because a bottle of wine is actually alive. And it’s constantly evolving and gaining complexity. That is, until it peaks, like your ‘61. And then it begins its steady, inevitable decline.

… and it tastes so fucking good.

~~~~~~

In vino veritas.

The Best Part of Waking Up November 1, 2007

I’ve written about my caffeine addiction and love for java on this blog enough already that I should rename it Strictly for Coffee. I guess I get my best ideas in the morning in the line at Starbucks. Well, maybe not my best ideas, but ideas.

When I get a cup in the morning, the first thing I do is bring it up to my nose, close my eyes, and take a loooooong whiff. This puts me right in the morning. I can hardly think of a more fantastic scent, and it makes me enjoy the taste that much more when I bring the cup to my lips. Then I drink it slowly, enjoying every last drop. It’s one of my favorite parts of the day, honestly. My little treat.

I never see anyone else do this. (They probably look at me and wonder what’s wrong with the “special” girl enraptured with her beverage.) I think a lot of people look at coffee more as an upper than as something to enjoy, mainlining it rather than experiencing it. Poor souls. I may look ridiculous while sipping my dark roast, but I’m in heaven.

I think most people look at food in the same way, actually. Not as an upper necessarily, but strictly as fuel. Somehow we were taught that this is the appropriate way to view food. It isn’t for enjoyment, it’s a necessity. Just eat it (nothing too tasty, now) and go about your day. If it tastes good, chances are it’s not good for you anyway.

Book after book has been written about the French Paradox; how is it that the French (and other European people as well) eat cheese, heavy cream, bread, chocolate, drink wine, and yet are healthier (and certainly thinner) than their American counterparts? All the while we live on Lean Cuisines and Diet Coke and all manners of processed foods which promise to increase our health and trim our waistlines, and still we’re one of the fattest countries in the world.

I like what Michael Pollan had to say in The Omnivore’s Dilemma — perhaps it’s really the American Paradox. How is it that a culture so obsessed with the science and health of life are less healthy overall than most European cultures?

Perhaps it is that the acts that make up our daily lives are made to feel like work and not enjoyment? Stress can wreak havoc on your body, manifesting in nearly any way possible. So how can it be healthy to worry so much about food? Why not cook a nice meal, sit down at a table, and let yourself savor every bite you put in your mouth? I bet you’ll eat less than if you were shoveling tasteless food into your mouth in front of the TV.

Food (and drink) for thought.