My Cup (and my plate) Runneth Over

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.  That may be true, it very much applies to this she-man as well. When preparing for our trip home for the holidays, I found myself daydreaming about the things I was going to eat and, of course, the people I will share it with.  Many family members asked for "requests" (so sweet!).  Some, already primed from years past, just threw it out there - it went something like this:

"Hi Uncle Milan, Lewis and I are coming in town and want to make sure we see you while we're home."

"Great!  Come Tuesday around 5.  Let me know if you want smoked shrimp dip."

He Read. My. Mind.

When I worked in radio, most of the artists had what they call a "rider" where they would send their requests...ahem...demands to the radio station ahead of time.  These were to be filled prior to their arrival to the studio or concert location.  One of my favorites was a Britney Spears request that "no plastic cutlery of any kind is permitted in the dressing room."  I wonder if she'd shudder to know that the silverware we provided came out of the $0.50 bin at the nearby thrift store. I ended up inheriting the "Britney Spears flatware" after that.  In fact, I think it is still floating around here somewhere. Perhaps her diva-ness was contagious and I caught it as a result of using said silverware. Anyways, I digress...it started to occur to me just how much I associate meals with people.  When in "Germantown", I always request Kristin's cucumber and tomato salad with that magic marinade that she blesses it with, Bville - Mama Susan's Chicken and Dumplins,' Dad and Ann - grilled steaks (or smoked lamb chops if I'm feeling like a total P.I.T.A) with Ann's ratatouille or tabouleh depending on the meal, and my sweet, self-aware-that-she-is-culinarliy-challenged mama - a trip to Bacco (love ya Mo!).  I know I'm a sentimental sap.  I guess I really shouldn't be surprised that it generalizes to food. What a lucky glutton I am that my family makes all my culinary dreams come true!  I'm feeling so blessed to have these loving people as my family and so lucky to have shared these traditions of breaking bread with them. Can't wait to see ya'll soon!

At least I'm not this bad, right?

Gratitude and Edification

In 4th-grade, I had this spunky first-year teacher named Mrs. Waldrop.  She was young, full of energy and eager to put into play all of the creative ideas she'd had while preparing to become a teacher.  There was the balloon dart throwing game where you'd pop a balloon and have to write a sentence with the spelling word that fell out (which seems a bit dangerous now that I think about it - I mean really, how adept could a 4th-grader possibly be at wielding an object considered a state-of-the-art weaponry in Medieval times?), her very own version of The Price is Right that I'm sure instilled some math component, and the daily "Gratitude and Edification" segment. After the morning announcements and Pledge of Allegiance, students who chose to do so could raise their hand and share something they were thankful for or a way they had improved themselves.  Often answers involved bragging about winning a softball game or getting new Nike sneakers under the guise of being "thankful" for them - after all it was 4th grade and still very much in the "I am the center of the universe" phase of one's childhood.  However, it was a great vocabulary lesson - what 4th-grader (or 30 year-old for that matter) knows the definition of "edification?"  Edification: /ˌedəfiˈkāSHən/. n. Intellectual, moral, or spiritual improvement; enlightenment.  Well done, Mrs. Waldrop and all before the days of Pinterest.  How did you do it?

So being that it's the time of year to reflect on what you are thankful for, here's a little "Gratitude and Edification" session  - adult Caroline version, and only a sample of a much larger list, in no particular order:

1.  I am thankful for my sweet furries - there is no better expression of unconditional love than that of a pet.  I saw a quote once that said, "a dog is the only thing that loves you more than he loves himself..." which brings me to #2 on the list:

2.  I am thankful for my Oreck vacuum.  Without it, we would certainly be overtaken by the pet-hair tumbleweeds that accumulate in our house daily. 

3.  I am thankful for real mail.  Nothing makes my day like seeing a letter or card from friends and family.

4.  I am thankful that my daddy taught me how to properly use a knife - an important skill for someone who finds herself in the kitchen as often as I do.  Never expose your fingers. (if only I had generalized this rule of thumb (ha!) when using The German's fancy Pampered Chef mandoline tool.  That was an unfortunate little mishap.  Thank goodness for the Colonial and his Army first aid kit)

5.  I am thankful that every time I turn on my shower or sink faucet, clean water comes directly to me.  I can't believe how much I took this for granted in years past.  Traveling to other parts of the world made me realize how much of a gift this really is.

6. I am thankful that there are people in this world with the fortitude and gumption to fight for the underdogs.  They are a source of inspiration and are selfless in their efforts to make our world a better place.

7.  I am thankful for Pumpkin Spice creamer.  Now that I can purchase an entire vat of Autumn in a bottle, I am no longer a slave to Starbucks and their cranky baristas. 

8.  As shameful as it might be to say so - I am thankful for Facebook.  It is like a portal to home and the friends and family that I miss so much.

9.  I am thankful for my new Time Card Pro app.  Before I discovered this little gem, I had to calculate monthly work hours by hand (causing smoke to spew from my ears as a result of over-loaded, non-math oriented brain).  Changed my life. 

10. I am thankful that I succeeded in "edifying" myself by passing my Board Exam.  Whew.  What a relief.  I worried poor hubsy to death when I called him crying last week.  It took a few excruciating seconds for me to squeak out the words, "I passed."  That wonderful man rushed home, opened a bottle of "the good wine," and took me out for a celebratory dinner.  Husband of the year. 

...and I'm extremely thankful that spiders can't fly.

Let's Catch Up

I'm sure you're thinking that I must have won that big house of my dreams and become a reclusive rich person swimming in my pool of gold coins. With all this new nouveau riche-ness, I couldn't possibly have time to blog. Nope. Shocking, I know.  We didn't win - but I have been busy in the time I've been away.  For one, I've gone from brunette back to my beloved blonde. I've discovered my disdain for fondant (and well, confirmed my disdain for baking), started a new job, made "brow history" at the Benefit Brow Bar, and perhaps most significantly, I finally sat for my Board Certification exam. Eeek, now I've said it out loud. Human behavior is funny - I've found myself guarding the fact that I was taking it. Because, you know, if people know, then they will ask how you did. What if I don't pass? I'll have to tell them. Oh, the shame. Will I have an invisible scarlet letter "F" for failure across my chest? Perhaps, but I'm sure it will only be self-imposed. I will find out in 45 days. So for now I'm basking in the ignorance of the impending answer and enjoying the fact that I am DONE! My life is once again my own!  Look out you bunnies of dust; Mt. Pile O' Laundry, I will soon be conquering you...and finally giving some attention my poor, neglected blog.

Buh-Bye Brown... we never were a good match for one another

Born again Blonde

Just some of the fall-out from Operation Study 24/7

My first and last attempt at cake decorating.  There is a reason why fondant is an "F" word.

The Benefit Brow Bar was trying to set a Guinness World Record for the most brows done in a day. I did my part.

annnddd...I have found a "Southern Girl Sisterhood" out here in Cali!  More on this to come...

Ticket to A Dream

Birthdays are kind of a big deal.  I am still like a 5-year old when it comes to my birthday.  My parents always made my big day pretty special. Mom would decorate the kitchen table, make a special-request breakfast, and cover the front door with one of those $0.99 plastic "Happy Birthday" cut-away banners sold in most grocery store floral departments (she sill uses the same one to this day to celebrate family birthdays. The corners are saggy and puckered - each pock mark representing another birthday gone by.  I am embarrassed to say that I scoffed at the plastic banner and its pitiful faded, tattered state last time I saw it. Shame on me.)  She once called the local radio station and had the "Light Lunch" segment dedicated to me on my birthday.  Dad would pretty much spoil me with whatever I asked for (thankfully within reason...no ponies or the 3000 GT I lusted over for my 16th birthday.)  Yeah, birthdays were a big deal.  So I'm happy to report, that my husband has picked up the gauntlet and done a pretty good job with keeping the tradition. He endures the weeks (read: months) of my pointing to things in stores and magazines, "this would be a great present for my birthday!"  or after reading a new restaurant review "How about we go to _____, for my birthday?" Somewhere in the back of his mind I know he is chanting, "for better, for worse, for better, or worse..."  I am a bit...eh...enthusiastic about the whole thing. He lets me pick where I want to eat, pretends it is the first he's heard of it when I exclaim, "THAT'S really what I want for my birthday! (secretly knowing it will change 45 times before I actually decide)"   He's a good man.  So this year, has been really no exception.  I have gone from wanting a mirror from IKEA, a gold charm for my bracelet, a food-processor, to a new pair of cowboy boots. But isn't the process part of the fun?  Was I the only kid who eagerly awaited the Toys R' Us ad in the Sunday paper so I could circle the things I wanted?  Or dog-eared pages in the Service Merchandise catalog?  I think not....it just seems like I haven't quite grown out of it yet.  So it is with a slight caveat that I reveal the latest item on the birthday wish list...this house:

"Edwardian-style residence totals over 3000 square feet, comprising a glorious 3 bedroom, 3 bath home with a gourmet chef's kitchen and sweeping views of the San Francisco Bay."  Yes, please.

The view from my future balcony.  You can see Alcatraz there on the right.

Ok, before you start thinking that I may be overshooting slightly (and feeling really sorry for poor Lew), I assure you this birthday wish, may actually come true thanks to The Fourth Annual San Francisco Dream House Raffle. I actually have a shot.  For $150, we are entered to win this dream house (or $1.5 million in cash if we so choose).  There are also four "mini-drawings" leading up to the Grand Prize raffle bringing the grand total of getting-excited potential to FIVE! Five divided by $150...$30 a pop. Not bad for the gift that keeps on giving...
until the July 14th drawing anyway.

Date with Downtown

Inspired by the beautiful Fall weather, I decided to take myself on a date. I made myself a hair appointment, did a little recon on fun places to target, made sure I had my handy Clipper Card (the new "re-loadable" magnetic card that all in-the-know city folk use to ride the BART), donned my comfy boots and set off. Today was the day I was chopping off my hair - well 6 or so inches of it anyway. I felt empowered!

Having researched short hair styles on-line, I was ready with a photo that represented the look I was going for. While showing Ledora the picture (and wondering if she was secretly hating me) I gave all the disclaimers I could think of..."I know I might not have the hair for this, not sure if this style will look good with my face shape, I  mean, I know I'm not 'Heidi Klum'"...and several other self-doubting statements that we girls are so good at coming up with before a major beauty change.  After talking me out of that particular style, but assuring me that she had a plan, Ledora took the first snip.  It felt good.  Once she was finished, I have to say...I didn't completely hate it. After a few more minutes I actually started to love it. (in this cloud of bliss, I momentarily lost sight of the fact that $30 for a can of mousse is downright outrageous and agreed to tack it on to the bill. damn. it better make me look like Heidi Klum.)

Enjoying the "swish" of my new do, I found myself walking more quickly down the street.  I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible while attempting to steal a glance at my reflection in the store windows.  Finally reaching the nail salon, I was pleased to see that I was the only one there. No wait= lucky day. Continuing my bold streak, I picked out a deep purple for my toes and plunked my feet into the soothing bath water. Bliss. Attempting to make conversation, the nail lady asked about my day.  I told her about my daring move to chop off my long hair and she looked at me puzzled saying, "why you do that?" hmmm. Wasn't expecting that. After a defensive giggle and mumbling something about "ready for a change," I closed my eyes in attempt to signal I wasn't really up for conversation. To this ingenuitous young lady, my relaxation signaled I must want to upgade to a foot message..."ten dollahs...ten minute?" ok...what the hell? I had already blown 30 on a can of compressed air...what was 10 more? Gotta say...best foot message...ever. Completely worth it.

With my new shiny purple toes, I headed down the street in search of more adventure (and specifically a quest for the perfect pair of black riding boots).  I pass so many alluring shops Anthropologie, Sephora, Prada, Urban Outfitters...it was like the Candy Land of shopping. Enter Tory Burch. Can no longer resist. Defenses are down. I go in. I am greeted by two "associates" at the front. Two. Young preppy girl with long blonde hair and fabulously gay Asian man. YPG must have laid her claim to me as she was the one that followed me to the boot section. No sooner do my eyes land on the holy grail of all riding boots than her perky voice eggs me on, "would you like to see these in your size?" Can't do it. These have to be well...above my price ran...oh lord...yes. Staring back at me...$495 price tag. I muster up some kind of "Christmas list" excuse and evacuate. Need cool air.

Head on to try to find the Benefit "Brow Bar" that I've heard so much about. In retro throw-back form, I have the address written on a piece of paper (GPS has burned me badly before while downtown. we're currently working out our trust issues).  485 Market Street. Find Market. Determine that I am on "even" side of the street. Cross over to "odd." 463 Market Street. Keep walking to determine if I am walking in correct direction. Pass Aldo shoe store. Could be hit or miss. Worth a look. Lust over authentic looking cowboy boots. Muster will power. Exit Aldo. Walk past several store fronts without seeing any address identification. Feeling frustration mounting.  Pass open doors of Abercrombie and Fitch store. Model-eque boy greeter makes eye contact. Use this to my advantage and ask him for direction. He passes me off to not so model-esque security guard (should have known using addresses and map location to find places was waaaay before Boy Wonder's time).  He tells me to walk back the way I just came from. Frustration now oozing. After retracing my steps for the 4th time, I ask a Victoria's Secret girl. She tells me illusive Brow Bar is located inside Macys. Of course it is. Would have been excellent if they had mentioned that little tidbit next to the address on their website. Eurekea. Brow Bar is in sight. A few less brow hairs later, I am on my way to BART.



During my walk, I attempt to rationalize purchase of more-than-a-car-payment boots. "I mean riding boots are classic...I could wear them pretty much forever. So if I amortize $495 out over the next say....25 years...that's totally affordable."  Pass H&M (remember I am in shopping Candy Land); see perfect black riding boots on model. I walk in with a purpose...not going to look at clothes. Just boots. Navigate self to shoe section. No black riding boots. Hunt down snooty associate. Points at the shoe section we are two feet away from. Yeah, got it mister, that's where they should be. I plead with him and show him the ones on the model.  Snoot McGrumpyPants informs me that those are just for show...they do not actually sell those. Fantastic. Feeling dejected after being so close to my goal, I see a gorgeous double-breasted coat with brass buttons...and it happens to come in a fabulous 50's turquoise.  Wait...what's that....there's a 50% off tag on it. Oh yes, please come home with me!

Regaining focus, I descend to the BART station. After being briefly verbally accosted by a man "needing a favor...and it's not money" (he was wanting a BART ticket home or so he said.  I say he needs to work on his intro a bit),  I was on my way home (still, of course,  attempting to rationalize boot purchase) feeling pretty successful about my date. This could definitely lead to a long-term relationship.

Ignorance is Bliss

Dear Pepperidge Farms,

I agree that you have captured the essence of a great pretzel with your Baked Naturals Pretzel Thins.  I am a fan. However, your packaging department leaves a lot to be desired.  It seems that on average there were about 12 wholly intact thins in my box. This is a problem.You see, I have this new app on my iPhone that allows me to track my caloric intake for the day.  I've become a bit obsessive about it. (I tend to do that.)  It's become like a game...it even has a bar code scanner.  So you see, I scan your little box of carby-crack...ahem...pretzel thins and there it comes to my iPhone...11 crisps 110 calories. I dutifully dole out my allotted 11 crisps. For a brief moment, I marvel at how health conscious and responsible I am being. My first few crisps are too soon replaced by a gaping void on my paper towel. I want MORE. Those are soon added to the carbohydrate cue waiting to become inches around my thighs. I reach my hand into the box to repeat process but all that my hand grabs are pretzel shards. How am I supposed to keep caloric track of these? I'm not. I don't. It is soon a prezel-shard free-for-all. I then realize that almost the entire box is gone. There's no point in saving this piddly amount - I might as well finish it off. Quickly assessing the salt to crumb ratio at the bottom of the bag I opt for the old "down the hatch" motion tipping the bag up to my mouth (my mother who tortured me with "etiquette school" would be so proud...no really, she did. ). Really bad idea...which brings me to another point. Could you please foresee that gluttons like me need protection from ourselves and either (1) make the salt actually affix to the pretzels in the first place or (2) dye the salt a bright neon color so that I may better assess ratio in the future.

and no this has nothing to do with lack of self-control. Thank you.

Southern Comfort

There's just something comforting about being home.Your body melts from holding the attention stance of being in an unfamiliar place. There is a lightness to your step and an effortlessness about your behavior.  You have conquered this place and know exactly what to expect from it. This is where you are rooted.

The drive from Bluffton to Charleston is a spiritual one for me. It used to be 45 miles of two-lane road along the coast of South Carolina. Breathtaking views of the Coast are interspersed with miles of forest and remnants of towns that once thrived in the Old South.  For most of the drive, the land revealed no signal of time or era or having been touched by man.  I feel a twinge of anger and regret at the sight of the large cranes and orange cones as they manipulate this beauty to bend to man's whim. I fear it will never be the same. It will never be the same. Almost as soon as a pit starts to rise in my stomach, the sultry smell of pluff mud and sweet grass brings calm over me. My lips begin to mouth the words of a familiar country song that comes across the radio as if it is an innate response.  I open the windows in order to take in every moment.  The chirr of the cicada signals it is summertime and sunset is coming. The whoosh of thick, warm air envelops me as if offering a hug.  I smirk at my moment of nostalgia thinking this, too must be the thought of each generation enduring "progress." So I concede to the four-lane highway like many Carolinians before me. Our beloved Carolina will never be the same but it will always be beautiful.  It will always be home.