Over the course of the next weeks, my blog posts are going to become spartan, if not nonexistent. Partly due to travel plans to Bermuda and partly out of a need to reevaluate this little blog project, I need some time off. At the moment, I feel I've lost my creative zest. These days I feel more like Taupe Czechie or Gray Ruskie---my joie de vivre is not exactly emanating from my spirit lately.
It seems I swing pendulously from reading quite voraciously to reading nothing but blogs and magazines. I am either in a complete literary dry spell or conversely I am thinking about ways to carve out extra seconds from my day to read my latest novel.
At the moment, I am entangled in the later phase---all I want to do is sit in my favorite comfy chair and read...and read...and read.
On occasion, I question if I were born in the wrong era. I like casseroles and gimlets and circle skirts a little too much to be a 2010 girl---the 1960s seem to be more my pace. Sleek mid-century modern furniture or Hollywood Regency designs suit me so much more than the behemoth leather sectionals of today's homes. I'll take a tidy and elegant French twist in my hair over a boho braid or bump-it any day. I am relatively certain that I own more sweater sets than any twenty-eight year old I know.
In a 2009 episode of No Reservations, Tony Bourdain considered a vanishing breed of New York restaurants: restaurants that were unchanged since the first day they opened their doors. He visited Jewish delicatessens and Italian pasta shops, but his stop at the anachronistic Le Veau d'Or is what delighted my Francophilia the most.
The minute he set foot in the tiny Upper East Side gem, I sensed I HAVE to eat there and soon, before the place becomes culinary history. Le Veau d'Or was established in 1937, and the cozy red banquettes, menu of frog legs and escargot, and eighty-five year old maître d' Robert continue ooze Parisian charm and timeless sophistication.
"The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks." Tennessee Williams
Almost every Friday, as many of my faithful readers know by now, I indulge in a bunch of whichever flowers are freshest. For a mere eight or ten dollars, I enjoy at least a week of delightful blooms. Today I discovered petite lavender calla lilies and freesia at Trader Joe's. As they sit in a trio of my favorite little vases, I am taking in the sweet floral aroma of this simple weekly pleasure.
As I've mentioned many times over, most of my baking inevitably involves mushy bananas---not because I especially love them, but because they are always sitting on my kitchen counter. I feel some sort of Depression-era guilt for throwing away produce that can be re-purposed. I simply can't bid adieu to ye ole' bananas.
Last night, with four overly ripe nanners awaiting my experimentation, I set out to make yet another boring banana bread. On this particular evening, however, I wanted evolved banana bread, banana bread with an attitude.
Whoopie pies are the fad-du-jour in the baking world according to Saveur magazine. They are the nouveau cupcake, if you will.
For those of you who haven't been inculcated into the cult of Whoopie (poor you), my prediction is that you will soon be seeing these cakey confections in bakery windows from Brooklyn to Boulder.
Whoopie pies, according to food anthropologists, were invented by the Pennsylvania Amish and later made wildly popular throughout New England. When the Amish ladies would bake these treats and include them in their husband's lunchboxes, the hungry hubbies would remark,"whoopie!" at the joyous sight of the black and white cakes in their lunch pails.
Any attempt to summarize the plot of Chris Nolan's new film Inception ends up sounding like an unconvincing lecture on Jungian principles of psychotherapy or quantum physics. The plot dives in and out of France and Japan, past and present, the conscious mind and the dreaming mind. Viewing this film requires complete attention: this is not the film for bathroom breaks or popcorn runs or glowing Blackberries.
Sometimes I think about the movie of my life. Who would play me? What moments would feature prominently in the plot? Which tunes would play in the background as my story unfolds on screen?
On occasion, I hear a song and am immediately transported, like Marty McFly in his DeLorean, back to the past. Yesterday afternoon, casually working to the sound of Pandora radio, Dave Matthew's Band song "Crash" streamed across the internet. In an instant, it was 1998---I was back in high school: acne, awkwardness and all.
I have never been an especially athletic person. I tried volleyball. Rather than passing and hitting the ball, Gabby Reece-style, I preferred the duck and cover method. I was far too worried about the ball smacking me in the face to succeed as a blocker.
Why are we so hard on ourselves when we do something that is perceived as wasted time? Reading this blog, flipping through a design magazine, spending extra time perusing junky jewelry at Target or painting your toes purple---these are all activities we women often view as time wasted.
In the middle of a hot summer evening, the last thing I want to do is fire up my oven or hover over my stove. Often when the temperatures soar, I opt for a dinner of chilled salads and other nibbly bites.
I have enjoyed two fun weeks with my four nieces and nephew who came out from Texas for a little SoCal vacation. As you may have noticed by my absence in blogland, instead of blogging, I've been roasting marshmallows by the beach and splashing in the pool and reading lots and lots of kiddo books.
This weekend, rather than lounging by the pool or celebrating the fourth with fireworks, we spent the holiday in Mexico. Yes, this was not exactly a patriotic spot, but our visit proved to be a fun-filled getaway nonetheless.
Destinations like Cozumel or Mexico City or Oaxaca probably top the list of Mexico's tourist sites. So, when I discovered that our weekend cruise stopped in Ensenada, I wasn't expecting a transformative travel experience---I was wrong.
Like Amélie Poulain, my life is all about the littlest pleasures: the freshest, pinkest raspberries; the deep blue of a Vermeer painting; the perfect crispness of a glass of Prosecco; the divine simplicity of an afternoon at the beach; the heavenly scent of a vanilla bean. Here I blog to celebrate the good life, la dolce vita, la belle vie. Cherish life's petits plaisirs and enrich your daily existence.
You should know that I take liberties with grammar, punctuation, & diction. Do not fear! I assure you I've been educated about the woes of abundant comma usage or the impropriety of ending a sentence with a preposition. Here, as this is not my dissertation, I write as I talk. I also make up words on occasion.
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