One of my favorite platitudes is “don’t reinvent the wheel.” I mean, who has the time to reinvent anything when there are naps to take and George R.R. Martin books to abandon halfway through (sadly this is true for both reader and author)? And it’s so practical. Why reinvent something already perfect in its simplicity? Take the shirt. The shirt is a marvel of human innovation, with or without sleeves. We don’t need to cut out its shoulders. In fact, I’m not sure anyone has ever uttered the phrase, “This feels like a real shoulders-out moment to me,” except for maybe Emily from Pretty Little Liars. And to her I’ll say, “Your shoulders are cold, girl. They are cold.”…
Oh, summer in Missouri . . . how I haven’t missed you. Trust me, Missouri possesses virtues you can and should miss, but summer’s simply not one of them. This is one of those sticky states where stepping outside is akin to bathing in simple syrup and forgetting to wash off. Where you keep waiting for Virgil to materialize because this is surely the hottest circle of hell, and we’ve got to get a move on if we want to reach Gluttony by dark. Now, Missouri in springtime? Less inferno, more divine. Missouri in fall? Classic—and the season I miss most when I don’t live here. But the summer inevitably drudges along, and we drudge with it—some of us—ahem—without a pool to warm/cool our spirits between the hours of 6a and 10p….
Like certain other members of my generation, I tend to dismiss trends without giving them a proper shot. That’s right, I’ve never seen Braveheart, and I think Mel Gibson’s attitude over the last two decades has born my decision out. Choices. But—knowing full well that I’m a slave to the sexy, sexy food blogger aesthetic—I love avocado toast. Fudging love it. Crisp some bread, smear that ripe avo, and add whatever sort of nonsense floats your boat….
Kyle and I recently celebrated our four year anniversary here in Hawaii. When I dreamed of moving to ‘paradise,’ and the reality of 6 months of vet visits and the liquidation of all my material assets had yet to set in, I harbored a naive vision of what my new life would be like. It wasn’t quite Gilligan or Hawaii 5-0, but it did involve picking fruit from the tree in my yard, driving a VW bus spray-painted variegated colors, and waking up early to salute the sun on a surfboard. Knock my hubris all you want, but I knew there were many different ways to live in Hawaii, and this represented my idealized version. And when moving all the way across the globe seemed scary or less than feasible, I would picture this life in all its idyllic perfection. To be fair, sometimes I also fantasize about joining the Parisian royal court, with an unlimited supply of macarons and champers at my disposal, so I get when I’m being unrealistic. “Let them drink wine!” if you will….
I imagine many of you are like me and reserve certain activities for special occasions. Like how I insist my friends toast their birthdays with pink bubbles or how I’m saving 3 inches of my forearm for an Uncle Jesse tattoo (so plotted ever since I discovered that uncles who aren’t related to you can be sexy, though Fuller House has delayed this plan for at least another five years; I’ve never been one for trends)….
Perhaps as a metaphor for this mortal coil, potatoes are fairly easy to cook but difficult to master. Anyone who’s ever enjoyed (here, a relative term) soggy french fries, gummy mashed taters, or mushy “pan-fried” spuds can attest to that. Unlike some other veggies (again, a relative term), potatoes want to be cooked and only benefit from a second round in the frier or oven. My favorite kind of potato is crispy, and not because it’s been prepared al dente, but rather cooked so thoroughly that its skin crackles and has relinquished all moisture. Like my tear ducts or this fine earth of ours in 40 years. Topical!…
Today I’m here to dispel some myths. Just call me Mythbusters. Or don’t. I can’t handle being sued by another cable television franchise (Did you hear that, Ina? I said I was sorry). But, be that as it may, I’m still up in this gig busting some myths. I want to tell you that a) magic is real b) Santa Claus is not and c) homemade tamales are not as difficult as the mainstream media would have you believe (I’m trying to improve my SEO by referencing the mainstream media. Like a lot)….
We all follow certain unspoken rules: like holding the door open for the person directly behind you; or, the more discreet rule, wherein most folks with good sense have agreed not to validate Carrot Top and the majority of his life choices. And then there are the rules more specific to particular demographics, such as not serving white wine with waffles nor wearing closed-toed shoes after Memorial Day. For the sake of clarity, I ignore the former and follow the latter. To a toe-shaped tee. In this household, Micah’s created the inexplicable rule of not eating sandwiches for dinner. As a person who can—not only eat sandwiches at any time of day, let alone eat them literally at every sanctioned meal—I honestly don’t get it. His standards, however, have influenced all of us, and I applaud him as soon as my hands are free of all the sandwiches I’ve recently shoved into my mouth….
I’ve arrived at some of life’s pleasures a little late. Take wine, for instance: the first time I tried it, my friends and then-roommates insisted that a $6 bottle of Australian Chardonnay, purchased at the nearest gas station, paired well with most pizza rolls and string cheese. For a girl who didn’t like the taste of alcohol and who that very night enjoyed a responsible number of Smirnoff Ices, this might not have been the best approach (Disclaimer—I’ll still drink a Smirnoff Ice and enjoy it, only in a dark closet where no one can see me with my phone switched safely to airplane mode). I thought the wine tasted like acidic wood with light notes of rotten apple, and I was having none of it. I wouldn’t try wine again for two more years—but now you can’t find me without a glass of the stuff in my hand and and a bottle chilling in the toilet tank. Most of that is true….
I’ve always loved stories about unsung heroes. They aren’t quite underdogs, scraping and struggling until they win the game or depose an unjust monarch; instead, they’re usually the best friend or the sibling who never quite got the glory. That’s right—I’ve resorted to loosely quoting a Beaches song to arrive at my point; however, don’t let that dissuade you from my argument, or rather lack of one, since now all I can think about is cry-laughing through Beaches and maybe taking a dance break during the trippy yet oddly accurate song about industry. Whatever will become of me, am I right?
But back to my point—the character who almost never gets a thanks or a blank check or a hug has always been my favorite. Yes, you Joan Cusack. Yes, you, the humble breadcrumb….