The culture we find ourselves in

In the days since November 9th I've found myself succumbing to the thoughts of despair I never thought I'd succumb to prior to November 8th. I've journaled some, but my writing has become so pessimistic that it's difficult to re-read even in editing. I want to say something smart. But the truth is, our country isn't interested in intellectual stuff. Do you know how many people watch The Bachelor? Too many to count. I used to watch it myself, and then one day I realized how shallow and ridiculous the show was and how into it I was getting. I wanted to watch it to have some pop cultural thing for my sister and I to talk about on our weekly phone calls. I was living in DC and she in Georgia, and I felt like our relationship was falling by the wayside, and I wanted something to have in common with her. So I started watching The Bachelorette, because I knew she watched it, based on her passionate tweets. I wanted us to be close. When she started reading Moby Dick I was thrilled to have something more in my wheelhouse. I had never read it. When I started reading it I was just as bored as when I tried to pick it up in high school and my mind wandered to guess what, The Bachelorette. 

Our culture is past Moby Dick. We are not in a place to sit down and read a long-ass book about a whale anymore. Maybe "we" as a collective never were. The culture we find ourselves in is uninterested unless it's fast, cheap and we can do it while staring into our screens. I count myself in as one of the zombies. We've become desensitized to what's going on beyond us. Why would we spend half a year slogging through the feats of a captain fighting a whale when we can go on Instagram to get more likes? Now we've become caught up with how many followers we have and how much content we're producing and how many likes a selfie gets as opposed to a landscape scene. We are obsessed with attention of the reality show sort. We want it to last but only from week to week so we can forget what embarrassing event happened on last week's episode. There's more drama to come. Stay tuned. I spent the two weeks prior to Nov 8 reading up on how to restructure a blog and how to post content on Instagram to gain a greater following. I used to only care about how true the writing was. But now I know it's about what gets read, and by whom. Great if my high school teacher, whose approval I still find myself seeking, reads it. Greater still if my mom reads it and texts me about it. But you hit the jackpot when it gets tweeted by someone you've never heard of but is trending on Twitter. It's not about captain Ahab anymore and perhaps it never was. We live in the land of Kardashians and Trumps. Until Justin Bieber subscribes to a paper edition of The New York Times, not a lot of millenials are going to. But then he has to post a selfie of himself reading the Times with a Starbucks drink of the minute  in order for it to work. And even then, I'm sure some blogger would write a piece of snark, crying that the Times has now become bastardized. We have become watered down. Our culture of advertisements, media and marketing has to be talked into something. We don't make decisions of our own accord anymore.  This shouldn't come as a shock to anyone. Just look at the now defunct circus of our most recent election. Clowns, elephants, donkeys and a pile of shit to clean up. Now we watch as the clown car keeps filling up with our nation's most colorful mimes. The trouble with these mimes is that they talk. He promised to drain the swamp but instead he's filling the tent. That's our White House, by the way. The newest rendition of Cirque du Soleil: Washington Style. Last week a client came in looking for red silken tablecloths that were made in China for her victory party. I would've assisted her but I was caught up bubble-wrapping the 6 Baccarat crystal Champagne glasses for her comrade. It would have been a shame for them to shatter. 

Notes on an election

I have been meaning to write this but couldn't find the words. I was angry and processing. I'm still processing but no longer as angry. I'm angry but it's a different kind. Like not raging, but not calm. At all. I'm more at the righteous anger the Bible talks about. (Is that even a stage?) I think Jesus even had some- righteous anger. I had to look up the five stages of grief tonight and realized the one I'm on isn't even on the list. I'm numb again. I go through phases. A friend is off Facebook but on Instagram liking things. A lot of friends left fb. I didn't. I need to know it's there. Facebook is a little crutch for me. I mostly like it now that I've unfriended around 100 people. Someone tried to guilt me about that and it worked and then I got pissed off and unfriended him too. These people aren't even people I see, ever. It had been over 15 years since I'd had a conversation with him, online or otherwise. But he popped onto my wall to make a snarky comment after I'd poured my heart out in a post. And I just don't have time for that shit. And then he became patronizing and condescending. To the point that I stopped engaging. I thought I was overreacting like I've been told (by men) I do, but I had my mom read it and she confirmed the condescension. I wish I could be more like one of those people who says "what a dick" and leave the situation right there. But I keep thinking about it. What made him say such a shitty thing? I'm a nice person. He's a dick. I can say it and not feel bad. It's the truth. My Christian upbringing has me trying to be all love and light and what would Christ do and that's just hard right now. It's hard always, but harder now. This election absolutely sucked, and continues to suck. And I'm 33 not feeling bad about saying "suck" even though every time I say it in the context of something being supremely bad, instead of someone making the inhaling of breath act, I think of a family member when I was around 15 about it meaning "sucks penis" and how vulgar it sounded. To this day anytime I hear or think the word, that's what my mind goes to. And I'm 33.

This election was awful, and I protested and for that night I felt on fire. It hasn't worn off, but it's not as strongly nihilistic. I felt like an anarchist carrying a sign someone else let me hold, screaming "love trumps hate!" and "not my president!" and other slogans until my voice was coarse. But I'm not one. I protest and I sign petitions and I post on Instagram and I've even been reading up on law school programs for public interest lawyer types. 

None of it feels like enough. I do it, but it's not enough. How much solidarity am I even really capable of showing? I'm straight, white, blonde, leggy, blue-eyed, professes to be Christian, and educated. What the hell can I show up for? What right do I have? I'm the face of privilege. The first time I read about the safety pin movement, I rifled through my box of nails and started pinning one on. Someone I respect posted an article mocking the movement and I felt shitty again for trying to show solidarity in my little, inconsequential way. I wore a safety pin on my shirt for 3 days in a row and felt like I was actually making a difference. I'm a recovering sarcastic cynic who did not grow up that way, but life got a hold of me and down that road I went. But I've been trying to tap into my empathy again, and watching cynicism fall by the wayside is not easy. I like holding onto it. It's another crutch. If I'm cynical I don't have to be true to myself and my emotions. I won't be mocked because the entire world is cynical. Read Slate and Medium for a few minutes. Nobody responds to empathy. It's not "in." It's too sheltered and innocent. Adults don't write about stuff like that. They're grown-ups. Well I'm going to try to write more true to self. And hopefully it'll reach someone where they are. Maybe I can make some kind of difference that way. 

Another Move!

I am overjoyed to announce that in June of this year I made the move back to one of my homelands, Florida! I currently reside in Lakeland, Florida, the same town as my sister and her husband and NEW BABY. With the birth of Lailah Faye, I felt like God hammered (lightly. with one of those plastic blow-up hammers) into my head that I needed to up and move. So I did! Actually, my whole family did. But for the first time in over three years, I'm living on my own,  in my own apartment, in sort of my own town. 15 minutes away from my sister. And I have never felt so blessed. What's more, I've been cooking more. Just about every night. With the move back to Florida, where I spent high school and some college years, I feel like my old self is back. I feel like a lifelong issue with depression is starting to lift. And after years of putting cooking on the back burner (no pun intended), I am happy to be back in the kitchen. I haven't blogged in so long, because I feel like I wasn't sure how to tap into my voice. But I have SO much to write! And SO many recipes to try. And life is improving for me. And I couldn't be more thankful. It's as though the dark fog has lifted, and there is light again. So, I am blogging again. I cannot promise any kind of routine or regularity, because this IS me we're talking about, but I can vow to try. :)

Oh! And I changed the name back to the blog's original name, And Be Merry. I have decided to stick with Blogger instead of other hosts, because I'm more content-driven than tech-driven. I tried Wordpress but I honestly did not even know what I was doing. I'm not that into techie stuff. I AM into writing and cooking. And I want to cook and write as much as I can, for as long as I can. I started this blog in college and had high hopes of becoming a food blogger/food and restaurant critic. I won't go into EVERYTHING that's happened over the past 8 years or so, but being diagnosed with an autoimmune disease sure put a pause- stop- rather, on my hopes and dreams.

But God has brought me to the point, with tons of prayer, a new scene and wonderful family and friends, to the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. And how grateful am I!

For so many years I felt like I was willingly wandering in the wilderness (English major- Can't stop won't stop the weird alliteration), and just about a month ago I realized that my faith informs everything I do, that I want, CRAVE, my relationship with Christ, and that it is the very thing I've been searching for for so many years. I'm grateful for the journey, but my how much better it is with my Savior. I am hoping to stay strong, steadfast, and sincere in my approach back to God. And I am overwhelmed by this newfound desire and PASSION to cling to Him and the Scriptures. It feels like my 16 year old self is back, smiling, saying "welcome back, I've missed you."

"The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing." -Zephaniah 3:17

Binge eating weekend- halp.me.

Ok so I'm going to try a little activity.

Healthy food. Let's talk about it. My bod hurts. My moods, well, swing. And lotssssss of happy-sounding peeps on Instagram post ridiculous pictures. Stuff like raw cashews mashed up and stuffed into dates, with a little antibiotic free whipped maple cream on top. 

I just had a burger. And a huge one, at that. And now I feel like one of the pot bellied pigs at a local farm whose picture I just favorited. On Instagram. I spend way too much of my life on Instagram. Ok!

Massively healthy eating in 2016. Prob not a big deal. Prob not gonna happen. But I didn't think I'd get a car in 2016. Or a passport. But plans change. 

Miso Sad

I have to say I'm super bummed. I'd been looking forward to the opening of Miso Sweet, by name alone, since I heard Eppie's closed. I was counting down the days until August. I thought about it on my vacation. I dreamt of camping out in front in a little pup tent, waiting for them to bring me a steaming bowl of ramen. For breakfast. Followed by donuts. Because who do you know that could resist ramen with DONUTS?! Nobody I know. Nobody I'd associate with. 

Which is why today for lunch I had to partake. I'd been looking forward to ramen allllllllll weekend. I don't work far from Miso Sweet, which I was going to start affectionately terming, "Miso" for short (because I'm annoying), so I was even fantasizing those paychecks away. I read the menu last night. 12 dollars for a bowl of soup? Bring it, miso. Miso GAME. 

Miso excited. Miso loves it.

Except I didn't. I had such high hopes. That were quickly dashed. The storefront is adorable. The hostess perky. She shouts at you as you walk in the door, bleary eyed from legal work and ready to slurp. "HELLO! Welcome! Will you be dining in or out today!!!!!!"

"Ahm, hi...in, please!" I try to sound excited but not overly so. I didn't want to come off as trying too hard. I mean, maybe my knees were knocking together in excitement anticipating nectar of the pork gods. But I can't show her that! Need to come off as cool. Cool as a cucumber in the epic ness I'm about to eat.

"OKAY! AWESOME! JUST HAVE A SEAT ANYWHERE AND WE'LL BE RIGHT WITH YOU!!!!!!!!"

She was definitely a cheerleader in high school. The charm is not lost on me. This will be the place for me; I just found my new everyday lunch spot. I'll write here. I'll read here. I'll JK Rowling it up on napkins. This. This is IT. They'll say "That's where she wrote it! At Miso Sweet!" And twelve dollars? Who cares! I'll moonlight as maybe an actual writer during the night, draft letters during the ol nine to fiver, and eat ramen every damn day. I don't have to try Momofuku now. THIS will be my Momofuku. This will be my David Chang. This will be my everything. 

Everything is overrated. The service is good. They're eager and at the same time understated. My server didn't bug the hell out of me while I slurped and pretended I could use chopsticks. Which one can definitely appreciate. I love me some discreet waiters. 

But I didn't love me some soup. It was those instant noodles. You know the ones. 18 cents a pack. Now boil up some pork. And tear it apart with a plastic fork. And get some sloppy fat in there. Now throw in a nori sheet along the side. And an almost completely boiled egg with a brown egg white (?!?!) and hard orange yolk. Dipped in sodium. Now pour in some lackluster broth over everything, which cooks the noodles to death. Sprinkle some weak bean sprouts. Chop up a scallion.

The bamboo shoots were good. At least there's that. And the MexiCoke, which I was super psyched about because of the natural cane sugar. And it's in glass. That's cool. I love drinking caffeinated sugar out of a thick rim. But it's like 4 bucks a bottle. Which pushes the meal to almost 20 bucks, whiiiiiiiich. 

Isn't worth another go. I was too broke to try a donut.

Don't get me wrong. It's a tough market. Downtown mall realty is precious. That shit ain't cheap. But for SUCH a good location, and SUCH a promising concept, couldn't they spring for actual noodles? Can't they slow roast a flavorful pork butt? You could throw a rock and hit 6 pig farms in this town. I practically run over Wilbur on the way home from work. Subpar pork is all they got? And can't they perfect that broth? Is that too much to ask? I know it's not Momofuku but damn. It's hardly momo-anything. And it definitely isn't sweet. Sad face. 

a step down memory lane

Sometimes you just want a good, hearty meal. That you don't have to leave your house for. Or go to Sweden for. Though I hear they do sell this at IKEA? (And they may not sell it in Sweden.)

I was raised for a few formative years by a single mom who juggled a million balls all the time. I have no idea how she had time to take a bite out of an apple let alone provide 7 days and nights of well-balanced meals for the three of us each week. During our single mom years, my sister and I always had a hot meal on the table. Never went hungry. If my stomach was growling it was because I was picky and wouldn't eat my broccoli and cheese. Mom kept her babies FED. This recipe was a mainstay. I wasn't always a fan as a youngin, but in my adult years it has come to represent comfort and going the extra mile. To me it means, I will make this for you with my tired hands even though my energy is exhausted, your dad hasn't paid child support, and my feet hurt.

Swedish meatballs are pretty basic. Not casserole, but almost. They're tasty and filling, but you can also make them light. If you're looking for a good, hearty meal (like I was the other night), you can add fillers which are mad unhealthy like evaporated milk. This is strictly because we were out of regular milk, but it did the trick and actually tasted better. (I did also supplement with almond milk.)

I get emotional when I eat this meal. It's become a cathartic experience for me. It represents love and good cooking and a mom who didn't always have the time of day, but made the time anyway. Sometimes I'll ask her how she got through it all and she'll just say, "I had no choice!" But she did. She just made the right one.


Swedish Meatballs

(recipe adapted from my mom's dog-eared, splashed upon Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book)

1 beaten egg
1/4 cup milk (I use almond milk)
3/4 cup bread crumbs
1/4 cup snipped fresh parsley
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/8 teaspoon allspice
1 lb ground turkey
1 Tablespoon butter  (My mom uses olive oil.)
2 Tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons instant beef bouillon granules
1/8 teaspoon black pepper again, for the sauce
2 cups milk, for the sauce
3 cups hot cooked egg noodles

In a large bowl combine egg and the 1/4 cup milk. Stir in bread crumbs, parsley, 1/4 teaspoon black pepper  and allspice. Add turkey. Mix well. I do this with my hands. Shape into 30 rather small meatballs. Not the ones you eat on a meatball sub; these are miniatures.

In a large skillet (or you could prob bake them to be healthier) cook half the meatballs at a time in hot butter over medium heat about 10 min or until done, turning to brown evenly. Remove meatballs from skillet, reserving drippings. Drain meatballs on paper towel. Measure 2 T drippings. If necessary, add some olive oil to make 2 tablespoons.

Stir flour, bouillon, and the 1/8 teaspoon pepper into drippings. Gradually stir in the 2 cups milk. Cook and stir over medium heat until thickened and bubbly. Cook and stir for one minute more.

 Return meatballs to skillet. Heat through.

 Serve over noodles.

a good egg (sandwich)

I'm into egg sandwiches. On a toasted poppy seed bagel, on an English muffin, or just plastered between two slices of Wonder bread. At a restaurant, at home. In a box, with a fox. Preferably one sandwich after the other, with egg bits dripping down my face. Cause I'm classy like that. I prefer a simple egg sandwich. Just the eggs, a drizzle of olive oil, a pinch of salt and dash of cracked black pepper. Today I was craving a good messy sandwich. Bodo's Bagels is a personal favorite but I didn't want to drive into town. And I hate mayo. I didn't want just any old egg sandwich. I wanted a glamorous one. One that was ready for her close-up. All fluffy and yellow. One that I spent ample time and energy on.

You have to start with good eggs. One of the best aspects of rural living is next-door neighbors who raise hens. Any time of day I can pop outside and see hens frolicking through the woods, clucking away. I see them now from where I sit. Roaming to and fro. Not a care in the world. One day I was walking my dog and glanced over to see a wayward hen scampering on by in neighbor's front yard. She looked to be a rebel, flitting coyly away from the other hens. I liked her immediately. Could have sworn she had a smirk on her face. If they had hen headphones she'd be listening to Beyonce. All the single ladies. Put your hands up! This is the definition of free-range. I'm stoked about it. When I asked my neighbor, painstakingly cleaning off an enormous egg, what kind of hens he raised, he joyfully informed me about Golden Comet hens which produce eggs known for their size and for beautiful, golden yolks. I'm delighted to be able to not only see how psyched about life the hens are, sashaying through the forest/yard like nobody's business, but to be able to speak with one of the people responsible for their livelihood. As local as it gets.

The steps are simple: start with fresh eggs. Google a recipe for hard-boiled eggs. Crank some Joni Mitchell, relieved that she isn't in a coma. Putter about in the kitchen on a sunny, Spring, Friday afternoon. I've found that "California" is good for egg sandwich making. Sing loud and proud.

I've been hard-boiling eggs since I learned how to boil water so I've had my fair share of army-green yolks. The ones that could bounce off the counter-top. Not ideal. I've also had my share of gloppy yolks when I was going for "soft-boiled." I like my egg yolks pretty simplistic. Not runny, for sure not bounce-able. And very, very yellow.

Despite her attack on Gwyneth-my-pretend-celeb-bestie, there's nowhere to turn but to Martha. Because even though she's opportunistic she's also precise. And accuracy is important in hard-boiling. Le conscious sigh.

I loosely base my eggs on this recipe. Place 3-4 eggs, or however many you need depending on how many sandwiches you want, into a medium-size saucepan. Fill with cold water. You want to make sure to start with cold water. There is probably some important scientific explanation for this. I just follow directions. I usually use a medium saucepan but today went for a tiny one and got boiling water all over the stove-top. You want to bring the water to a boil while the eggs are in the pan, instead of adding them in when water starts boiling. Again, probably a science-y reason for this. Then when water comes to a boil, cover and remove from heat, setting timer for 12 min. This part is sort of tricky. And today I mis-read the directions. I let the eggs loll around in there for 8 minutes and then took off heat, removing them to a cold-water bath. It's crucial to trust Martha on this. At this point she transfers the eggs to a colander and runs them under cold water, but I just delicately remove each egg from pan with tongs and gently place into a nearby bowl filled with cold water. It's important to let them cool because they'll burn the bejeezus out of your fingers if your eyes are bigger than your stomach and you were born without patience. You may end up with finger welts. Not attractive. Speaking for a friend.

Once the eggs are cool get to peeling. With fresh eggs it's a bitch to get those shells off, and I'm doing this gardening project where I'm using eggshells to plant spinach...aaaaand today I thought I'd try a little trick involving a chef's knife, cutting hard-boiled egg in half, still attached to shell. It doesn't work. But I was able to test the inside of the yolk for doneness. Perfecto.

Once the eggs are peeled we come to my favorite part. The break and mash. I cut each egg in half, pry out the yolk and break it up with my fingers (and eat some) and then do the same with the white. Place into a bowl and start mashing with a fork. Not aggressively. If you make guacamole it's sort of like that. Just a tender mash, really. You don't want to get the eggs super teeny. I like a chunky egg sandwich. You definitely don't want a food processor for this. Then, once eggs are to a desired consistency, this is the part I switch up. I never really eat the same egg (salad) sandwich because I'm either really hungry and NEED. ALL THE FOOD. Or I'm feeling experimental and looking for new ideas. But like I said, my favorite way is the simplest. 

At this point I'll mix in a tiny stream of olive oil which I've found gives it a kick. Since I hate mayo, I have never added it to my own sandwich. Only if I'm making for others. But today I wanted to experiment. I've always wanted to try making mayo at home. Using this recipe, strictly because I used to occasionally watch Alton Brown on Iron Chef America and liked his charming personality (I also judge books by their covers), I made my first-ever batch of homemade mayo. It tasted nothing like I thought it would on its own and I'm not sure I loved it or would make it again (super lemony), but it did add a nice tang to the sandwich. If you do make this, mix it very well into the eggs and only use about a tablespoon or two.

To be perfectly honest, next time I won't even use mayo. I think the eggs and very light seasoning and touch of olive oil speak for themselves. If you do try this method, I'd love your results/feedback. If you have a perfect egg sandwich that you swear by, help a picky girl out. 

Oh! And for the adventurous/non clumsy there is also the open-faced egg sandwich. I've done this dozens of times and it's especially yummy with a super toasted bagel and super loaded up with eggs. You should get egg yolk all over your new sweater. On the way to a job interview. Happy eating!

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.