Foodie

I'm definitely not a genuine foodie, though the fact that I love food and also that I happen to be wildly, sometimes uncontrollably opinionated might lead someone who doesn't know me well to wonder where I might stand on the food snob spectrum. And the truth is that I don't really so much as rest in any particular part of that space, but rather dot around based on food to food, from the upper tiered Snob factor of an absolute, fundamentalist's belief that most American cities cannot make real Mexican food (the lackluster ketchup-y crap trying to pass as ranchero kills me...and don't even get me started on plastic Velveeta "queso") but I will settle shamelessly on the low brow spectrum of things with a big bowl of Kraft Deluxe Macaroni and Cheese, the kind with the imitation, artificial cheese goo that is just. so. delicious. And I won't even explain myself.

But more than judge it, I like to get involved with food in a way that tends to string me out as a major, and totally unnecessary stress monster, taking on waaaaay too many projects until the only logical place to go is the Land of Utter and Disastrous Disappointment. So it would be logical to assume that this year, as co-hostess of an Orphans' Thanksgiving, my ever-expanding of must-have-recipes and my ever-dwindling-graduate-school-budget would meet somewhere under the umbrella of Epic and Insane Expectation in an explosive, terrible mess.

But it didn't.

Maybe it was because my co-host mandated that I not stress. Maybe it was because I decided somewhere between three pies, two kinds of cranberry sauces, turkey, the apartment, dishes and beverages, my contribution was enough. I cut the bread last minute. I delegated the salad and potatoes to a friend. And the night before, I made three beautiful pies, two sauces, and an all-butter pastry so flaky I took food-porn photos of it, and then I went to bed. On Thanksgiving Day, I helped clean in the morning, made some breakfast and watched the parade, went for a run, then proceeded to apparently eat significantly more food than anyone else in the room without even noticing. It was perfect.

I had nothing to do with this turkey, save a minor part in the purchasing. It was the chef's first bird and it turned out perfectly!

One of our orphans was our friend Ayako, a poet from Japan, who came with these tasty treasures!

Round One.

And Two. In my defense, this plate is mostly salad.

And my big contribution: the pie plate and densely whipped, lightly sweetened cream.

I used Joy the Baker's salted caramel cheesecake pie recipe, and it was far easier than I anticipated. Making caramel made me feel kind of like a kitchen rock star.

LOOK at that pastry! After the many botches and batches of the summer, I'm a total convert to the pastry blender and the all-butter recipes for these kinds of crusts. Now if only I had a pretty pie pan...

Glistening pumpkin fresh from the oven. I got fancy with the crust, making a kind of snaggletoothed pattern that gave the pie a funny, hoe-down look. You can see the bourbon pecan pie in the background, which was decidedly the least delicious of them all- I was determined not to use corn syrup, but I also used a light brown sugar (oops) and too much whiskey. It was quite boozy!

We ended the night with a hike up Mill Mountain, a decision that really improved what would have surely been a beached-out, sickly-full kind of evening, which always sounds more fun than it actually is. We rented a movie and spooned some of the leftovers later, and I woke up feeling the most normal I've ever felt after gorging on too-much holiday food.

I am, however, trying to swing back into some kind of normal eating before Christmas, which means a ton of soups and salads this week. I've been reading Michael Pollen's Omnivore's Dilemma and keep coming across the alarming realization that much of what we eat is barely "food" at all, which makes me just want to stuff myself with nothing but organic plants and rabbits killed by my very own cat. In addition to his mantra that we should "Eat Food," he also claims we should "Eat Less," which is all a lot harder than it is obvious. In addition to all kinds of studies showing that people (and animals) with more restricted caloric intake living longer and more disease-free, American culture has ingrained a "are you full yet?" mentality that isn't essential to our health, treating our digestive system as a gas tank instead of a system of organs that may not function properly when brimming. While I'm not much for dieting (I find that saying you can't have something when you love food leads to catastrophe..) I'm a huge believer in moderation. Bottom line: I'm committed to my health, and while stuffing myself on feast days is something I never intend to change, my every day need not be quite so epic.

(Dinner tonight: half a homemade baguette from Jim Lahey's No Knead method, a bowl of bean, spinach, garlic and barley soup, and a juicy navel orange. Not pictured: apple and spinach salad in artichoke vinaigrette.)

I don't mind eating less if it's good, anyway.

Ketchup

Today is another review en fotos day, and mostly just in horrible Blackberry ones (Must. Get. Camera.), though I feel a little bit better about my poor photo quality after reading this week that Joy the Baker started off using an even older camera phone. Bah, I'm just lazy. Anyway, these days have been mostly cooking, baking, and milling about my apartment in boot-slippers while drinking copious amounts of Harney and Sons tea and reading too. many. books and stressing over The Meat Parade. Along with the book-length or long poems I've been using for research (Littlefoot, Pinion, Crash Dome, Song of Myself, Venison, and I-don't-care-what-you-say-this-is-a-poem-too As I Lay Dying), I have been obsessed with cookbooks, mostly this one, and this one, though I definitely haven't outgrown Miss Dahl. David Tanis' "Heart of the Artichoke," is giving her personal essays a run for their money though-- a cookbook with top ten kitchen rituals as the first chapter? And a bread recipe for "An Honest Loaf? Sold. Not to mention the totally refreshing declaration that all a cook needs is water, fire, a good knife, and his hands. Love, love, love.

I don't have any photos from my birthday hike, as it turns out, which is too bad because it was a particularly beautiful day, and my friend's dog was particularly adorable and photogenic. We're planning on doing the same hike after Thanksgiving dinner, so I'll be sure to document then. In the meantime, please indulge my girlish need to brag about some of my gifts and activities-- it turns out that living alone in a hayloft makes it difficult to share the experience of opening really good presents without having to take to the inter webs to boast.

So this has been my life (generally) lately:

Phaidon makes the most beautiful books, and I got this on clearance at B&N for $14! J.Crew catalogs also make lovely lunch buddies. Lunch was: chicken pesto sandwiches on homemade spelt mini loaves, sparkling water, hot peppered portabello soup.

My lovely birthday pile from my family: it was truly an exercise of restraint that only a 26-year-old could commit to: not to open any of these enticing packages for the whole three days they sat on my table before my actual birthday. Though I hated the wait, I was glad I did.

Makes my heart go pitter patter...

I was lucky enough to get TWO Anthro gifts this year: my initials in these gorgeous mugs from my mostly companion...

...and this beauty from the G-pas. What I love about this shirt is that I never would have picked it out on my own, but LOVED the way the pattern breaks my usual solids or horizontal stripes habit.

This beautiful Tory Burch tote I've been lusting after is the perfect computer and book bag, and I've been carrying it with me absolutely everywhere. Love is an understatement.

Also from my sweet parents: a Wildflour cake waiting under my name on the day. Never mind that it's called Better Than Sex Cake. It was delicious.

I'm a little obsessed with my mini loaf pan, though I've decided I prefer it for quick breads rather than yeast ones. This was Sophie Dahl's Musician's Breakfast bread-- it's a really simple spelt loaf that takes absolutely no brains to make at all, though it's a little on the saltless side and tastes best straight out of the oven.

My lovely friend MC and I have begun a weekly ritual of Sunday Night Dinners, where we debrief the week and gear up for the next, over several glasses of wine, Grey's Anatomy episodes, and some ambitious recipe we'd feel too intimidated to try alone. My favorite so far has been a pumpkin mascarpone risotto, though I'm really excited for the squid pasta we're going to try next. Also on the list: Challah!

(P.S. that apron was a gift from the owner of a restaurant that hosted a reading I was lucky enough to participate in over the weekend. After I read part of the Meat Parade, the owner saw me admiring his meat-covered apron and unceremoniously gifted it to me. It was a total delight. I plan on wearing it for inspiration as I continue to hack at the thing.)

The baby kitty. He's not always such a monster.

I can't remember when this happened, but I walked out onto my porch one day and was greeted with this totally surreal, saturated world. Unbelievable.

Life is busy, and I've been working on trying to avoid the Floof Parade as much as possible by reading really good books, having long, positive conversations with close friends, and spending as much time as possible indulging in "good for me," time, like slow long runs and slow long recipes. I know that sounds super self-helpy, but anxiety- and depression-prone people do what they gotta do.

Happy Monday!

Old loves; newly obsessed.

In the cool fall months I get to be a little obsessive about being "warm & cozy," an elusive experience that involves big chunky socks, sweaters and scarves, several quilts, beautiful dishware and many, many kinds of "warm & cozy" foods to fill them. Here is what I'm currently over the moon for:

Mark Bittman's Banana Bread.

Oh. Em. Gee. Granted, I change the recipe a little (no unsweetened coconut on hand, plus I like my b-breads as moist as possible, so I use half white sugar and half brown [at least] and I added a 1/2 C of homemade cinnamon applesauce). I recently discovered that storing the loaf in wax paper is KEY to keeping it moist. A few days ago I made the batch in a mini loaf tin and now I have 8 tidily wrapped breakfast-to-gos for the week! Almond or peanut butter is my favorite topper.

Roasting Veggies.

Obsession is an understatement... it doesn't matter what kind of veggie it is, because if it came home with me this season it's going into a bowl to be tossed with olive oil and sea salt, then on to the cookie sheet and into the over for 30-40 minutes at 350 degrees. I'm doing this with everything from sweet potatoes to parsnips to cauliflower to carrots, but especially to...
BEETS.

Can't get enough. My favorite combination is a beet-brussel sprout-sweet potato dish, whose leftovers get reheated in Brianna's artichoke dressing and served on a bed of mixed greens. Too. Much.
This is the best tea in the world. Ever. I'd back that statement with money.

Quinoa!!

When I was sick as a child, my father made quinoa soup: a bland, chicken stock base with this magical grain in it that I could stomach regardless of how much gatorade or saltines hadn't stayed down. I'm currently sipping on a quick bowl of my grown-up version: veggie stock, quinoa, mushrooms, onion and spinach. Que rico.

Orange iPod shuffle.

This little guy is my running buddy, pushing me up hills to LMFAO and Jay Z while all that cozy rich food settles. I don't know what I was thinking trying to run outside before without an iPod, or even with one of the old nanos that didn't rock the super-convenient clip feature (I used to wedge it into my sports bra or waistband instead, and wouldn't you know that the things are not sweat proof at all).

Soon I'll update about my recent birthday, which included some more delicious foods and a gorgeous autumn hike up one of Roanoke's most picturesque mountains. Happy fall!

The Floof Parade

Living on the Appalachian Trail has many perks, the first

being that hiking is an incredible way to reduce stress.

This is from a few days ago, resting on an overhang near Tinker Cliffs,

looking out at Carvin's Cove Reservoir.

Hiking has become a big part of my life lately, along with the wonderful new experience of running regularly outside. I'm sure the shift was weather-related, as my first real attempts of breaking away from the treadmill were over the summer in 90 plus degree heat. Now, I can't get enough of the 3-5 miles in weather that, depending on the time of day, is anywhere from the crisp 50's to comfortable 70's. I loaded up my shuffle with nothing but booty jams (Major Lazer to Gaga to MIA to JT) and one day I found myself running by the gym entrance, and to my surprise up the enormous hill by the barns. To my greater surprise I found myself able to push through all the usual brain-doubt that slows me down when I run outside or uphill, and now the two to three loops are so enjoyable, they feel easy. And there's something about feeling strong and physically capable that I'm discovering is essential to my well-being.

A friend of mine here refers to those grumpy, gutter-stuck times when all you can seem to think or say is less-than-sweet as "going on a Floof parade." This is especially resonant with me because I am, for the most part, smothered in a thesis titled "The Meat Parade," and drifting from one to the other seems dangerously easy.

Things have been getting to me lately-- stupid things, things outside of my control and things that have absolutely nothing to do with who I am or what I'm trying to do. And there's only one possible reason: somebody's been slipping me the Haterade.

Based on some of the things that have been getting particularly under my skin lately I can venture a guess that all this grump has something to with what I feel has been a massive emotional and mental upheaval amidst a relatively static environment: why can't all the people around you change at the same time and rate as you do? It's such a downer. The entire grad school experience has been an enormous growing one, but this year in particular I feel like it's been an extraordinary series of lessons in humility, commitment, and singular old fashioned hard work, but sometimes I find that these things don't seem to be at the forefront of everyone else's experience here.

I'm not saying I'm surrounded by bums. It's probably just that I'm surrounded by better multi-taskers and time managers-- people who can work all day and play all night. I never got the hang of that.

I recognize that this is the downside to personal growth-- it's not a publicly mandated thing. Part of the new tension is learning to change against the grain, and find a new place for yourself in the community. For me that means learning to ignore the part of me that really really wants to go play with everyone instead of holing up with the Meat Parade when I know the latter needs the attention. And to not be angry or jealous when it seems like everyone else is constantly having fun doing non-writing things. I mean, 1) this is prep for the writing life, right? Not to mention this is what I came to do. and 2) I'm not a complete hermit. Prioritizing the completion of my book is changing my social life so that weekends can't always mean "playtime," but I'm by no means cut off from the world around me.

I'm just a drama queen. And I love, love, love to play.

Also, I've been dealing with this lately, with increasing stress:

As if I don't feed him 150 times a day.

This one had its eyes eaten out before I could get to it.

I love my cat, I do. But I do not love what's happened to him in this tiny hayloft apartment. He's demanding and loud, and becomes destructive when I don't let him out, and when I do he kills everything within a 2 mile radius. And I'm squeamish. Picking up carcasses is not my favorite thing to do.

Little monster. What am I going to do with him?

En fotos

Between writing and reading and thinking about art, I've been getting into some new projects to clear my head a little. Camera phone pictures are best for these things:

Writing Habitat.

Rainbow cake in gradation using mini bread loaves.

Baked.

Double-waterfall braid-- so much better than boring half-ups.

Burning Bush.

Best friends.

Lil monster.

The best writing event by far: Tobias Wolff gave a reading at Virginia Tech and it was absolutely fantastic. Not only was he a stellar reader (how rare it seems to be for a great writer to also be a great reader... often I find myself wishing for them to hire an actor) but he also talked about inspiration and long-term commitment to the writing life for about half an hour. It was an illuminating and compelling talk. The thing that's stuck with me is the necessity of writing the "bad work," as we "build our careers on a foundation of discarded work." It's funny how I feel i need permission to write badly sometimes, or reminders that writing badly is essential to learning to write well.

Just FYI, that mustache is 46 years old.

Life without art is stupid.

Today my new Macbook Pro arrived in the mail and I am quite possibly the happiest person in the world. I've spent the evening reorganizing my bookmarks and setting up my files, downloading Dropbox and other useful programs and plugins that will make my life more efficient and complete. The only snag is that the ol' Microsoft Office from my former Mac doesn't seem to want to re-download itself. (tiny grumble.) Looks like my thesis is destined for Google Docs, as I am NOT spending another $150 for that betch.

This past weekend was a monumental one in Roanoke: Nick Cave (not the musician, the artist/dancer/fashion designer) brought his Soundsuits show to the Taubman. We were all a-twitter. His pieces are incredible-- these massive costumes made from everything, modular and wearable, bustling about the museum like enormous animated Koosh balls. Here's a good overview (with delicious photos!) of the project: http://smileinyourface.com/2011/09/10/nick-cave-ever-after/

What amazes me is the sheer quantity and diversity of these crazy things. Also, with my employee privileges I was able to go backstage and hold some of these guys and damn if they aren't secretly made of medieval armor. It's a wonder performers can dance in them at all.

If you live near a flagship Benetton, look for his video collaborations featuring the sound suit performances-- I saw the clips from the installation in Germany and it's pretty unbelievable.

I took some videos, only I was using my phone and tottering on 5 inch platform stilettos over a very old man to get them, so they aren't of the highest quality. Also, I sort of got the impression that the local dancers were maybe not the best ones around-- the NYC dance footage I've seen really delivers that punch in the gut, celestial explosion relieving it from any possible muppet references.

The guy is pretty interesting-- he's very honest, no bullshit (he says he doesn't even draw!) and the glee with which he described some of his material hunting trips to flea markets appeared genuine. He was wearing the tiniest t-shirt I've ever seen, with these little pointed boots. He was tired (this has been a nonstop, whirlwind three year tour!) and a little bit of a princess (there was at least an arm's length of empty space around him at all times) but he seemed endearingly vain, if such a thing is possible (I'm pulling from Plum Skyes, who seems to think Tom Ford is just that-- and with a man who wears makeup, would you expect anything less?). Also, the videos don't show him, but a local percussionist provided the sound for the performance, which might have been one of the more moving aspects for me.

Anyway, it was the coolest thing I've ever seen in Roanoke, if not the most exciting art show I've seen all year. I felt the whole thing in my toes.

Art is so, so good.

Excuses, Excuses.

School has begun and I've, quite characteristically, swamped myself with too-many classes and projects and committments. I've undertaken a rather ridiculous thesis project to make a book-length poem which will undoubtededly win the Hot Mess Award. Some time in between that monster, my regular classes, and a part-time job at the museum I have to write my January term class and blog. All these things are incredibly difficult to accomplish without a computer.

Happily, today is Computer Purchasing Day, and in a week my life should be somewhat more organized. In the meantime, this is how I get by:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhnVQizc69c&feature=player_embedded

Happy Friday!

This is not a review.

Aside from limited internet access and too-much baking (homemade Oreos are next on my list!) my time lately has been filled with an old hobby that had, until this week, somehow become a dull and tedious requirement lacking all luster and appeal: reading! Reading books! Reading books for fun! Magical, to say in the least. And, without the constant pull of the internet's wicked glow I read four books this past week, one of which I began Saturday at noon and completed before dinner. I forgot what deep and complete pleasure it is to do that.

A brief recap:


A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole

There were so many delights in this book I don't even know where to begin. Ignatius (there's one-- the main character's name is Ignatius Jacques Reilly!) is a morbidly obese, over-educated and understimulated slob, whose self-righteous rants and selfish, myopic worldview is at once the perfect pitch of obnoxious and hilarious. I'm learning that this was a dude book, the kind of conversation that will generally garner blank stares from most women I've spoken with but produce the kind of giggly, wide-eyed affection from men that is usually reserved for The Big Lebowski (interestingly enough, I do see some glimmering thread connecting Ignatius and the John Goodeman character in that almost every time they speak they are confrontational and, more often than not, in the wrong). I was recommended this book by a dude with supreme reading tastes (and a booklust that I find both intimidating and impressive) and though it took me a few bumpy tries to get the ignition to turn I couldn't put the thing down by page 25. It's large but reads incredibly quickly, with a wit that lurks behind every exchange of its dense population of characters whose intricate webbing throughout the story is both surprising and satisfying. Also, I've heard that the perfectly written Creole dialect could also phonetically produce a Boston accent, though I'm not familiar enough with it to do the math. Much of the notoriety for this work undoubtedly comes from the sad story about the author's suicide and his mother's posthumously shopping around the manuscript, though I promise that even without the juicy circumstances contributing to its existence, the book is a good one, all on its own.

Tinkers, by Paul Harding

Anything that I say about this book will sound bumbling and silly and horrible, like the slobbering cries of a boy band devotee with a free back stage pass. It's a perfectly formed snowflake, an ice-dream of such a sad unfolding of the quiet, rich lives of a father and son. The language is stunning. Like Confederacy of Dunces, it is also a small press Pulitzer Prize Winner. Unlike Confederacy, it's small and will take much longer to read if you're anything like me, when a moment on a lake will become the quietest explosion you've ever experienced in a single written line. The way Harding drifts from narrative to a character's interior life and then to his out-of-body consciousness is astounding. I read it twice and felt almost as though I'll need to read it ten more times before I'll be able to appreciate every jewel. Read this, read this, read this.


Open House, by Elizabeth Berg

Okay, I couldn't love everything I read, right? If ever there was a reductive, trite attempt to explore the unfolding of a women stunned by divorce, this is it. Every craft decision was transparent and predictable, and the main character is anything but sympathetic-- an unapologetic housewife with a sometimes-racist outlook whose flimsy connection to some hardcore past is not only unbelievable but totally uninteresting. When she becomes suddenly confused by the freedom from serving her husband I found myself just wanting to shake the shit out of her. Her post-divorce relationships are meagerly developed and cliche at best. The only thing I liked about this book was that I could read it in a single sitting.


The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera

One of the many pleasures I got out of this book was the digressions, which held all the magic and wonder that I feel the love story probably sought to possess. I just wasn't compelled by the lovers at all-- not a single one, or any combination of their relationships-- but I found myself reeling when Kundera wandered off to talk about kitsch or subtly jab the over-enthusiastic, demonstration-for-demonstration's-sake tendencies of liberal parties. The characters were only mere vehicles for these delightful moments, and the lush texture of their individual intimacies held more weight for me than any amount of grief over Tomas' infidelities and Teresa's resulting sadness. What I loved: the repeated Es muss sein! which had the richness of an idea undergoing several translations and interpretations. Of course, the philosophy behind the title-- the question of cyclical, repeated time, whether our actions are singular and therefore unimportant, or endlessly repeated and thus of the heaviest of burdens-- is a pleasurable thing to ponder. Also, Sabina's bowler hat, Teresa's symbolic dreams, Tomas' matter-of-fact correspondence with his abandoned son, a man he'd given life but felt no love for, only fear and discomfort of the man's having and using his own mouth right before his eyes.

And I actually cried when Karenin was put down, though thanks to Kundera's timely relaying of the famous Nietzsche story (where the philosopher ran crying into the neck of a horse as his bewildered owner looked on) I didn't feel as embarrassed about it.

I am not a critic, but I am a reader. If you're a reader too I'd love to hear what you're reading, and am always looking for recommendations. I've just been to the library to pick up my next stack: Robert Lowell's Life Studies and Notebook (for the class I'm teaching in January); Annie Dillard's Pilgrim on Tinker Creek (because I've only ever been able to read it in parts before); and Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad, last year's Pulitzer prize winner and of which one of the girls in my program has been singing the praises all summer.

Happy Reading!

Baby Pie Love

(I have a new favorite thing... handpies!)

Well, I'm still computerless and rather gloomy about all the things that I've forever lost, but I'm finding a silver lining in my fairly internet-free existence: I haven't been on Facebook in five days, and I feel fantastic. I never realized what a blackhole that site really is for me-- the compulsive way I'd flip from gmail to Facebook, looking at nothing really, for hours on end. I've always been an advocate for the thing as a virtual address book, and I don't think I'll ever get rid of it, but all the "J" parts of my ENFJ personality really swelled to monstrous proportions as I became almost addicted to monitoring my Newsfeed. I'm better off breaking it as a habit, demoting it to occasional novelty.

Instead of mindless internetting, I have been baking. I've decided to try to become a pastry genius, and begun the journey with precious mini treats called "handpies."

I've never cooked with rhubarb before but have always been drawn to its beautiful red stalk and electric green meat. After coming across some particularly vibrant bundles at the market last week, I decided that the time had come to test out the pastry and rhubarb all at once.

Handpies are basically fancy poptarts that you can shape to look like tiny pies. After gathering several cartons of strawberries, top-quality butter and flour (my Vermonter friend MC swears by King Arthur and after this experience I'm definitely a convert), I began the Great Experiment.

I made two batches to start: one whole wheat, and one all-purpose. The flakiest, most delicious kind of pastry is kept very cold at all points, so the best thing to do is measure everything out and then put it all in the fridge for about an hour. Here's the pastry recipe:

1/2 C unsalted butter (1 stick)

1 1/4 C flour (I found the best was a mix of wheat and all-purpose)

dash salt (if you're like me and want a more savory-tasting pastry. Otherwise, omit.)

(Please forgive the terrible photos-- all I've got is my Blackberry!)

Dice up the butter and measure out the flour-- put it all in the refrigerator for one hour. If you have a pastry blender you're much more sophisticated than I am, and once the hour is up you can cut the butter into the flour with impressive swiftness, stopping only once the stuff resembles coarse breadcrumbs. If you're a peasant like me, rinse your hands in cold, cold water and crumble it all up with your fingertips. Be careful-- the best pastry is the pastry that is the least handled and stays very cold. That's what makes it flaky.

Once you've got your coarse breadcrumbs, add water by tablespoon until you can JUST combine the flour and butterballs into a single, large ball. Don't over-water. The water should also be ice, ice cold.

Wrap the ball of dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate. (I don't have a photo here, mostly because it's not pretty and I think you can imagine what plastic-wrapped dough looks like without much visual cues on my part.)

Next, chop up your fruit filling. I used rhubarb and strawberries, and I never measure these things out so I usually have tons left over that I put on yogurt or in oatmeal for breakfast... or, you know, just spoon out of the pan. Here's a kind-of recipe list for the filling:

Fresh fruit of your choice.

Spoonful of brown sugar

Water or orange juice-- enough to boil the fruit in a thin layer in a sauce pan

1 tiny bit of cornstarch if you want the filling thick.

Chop up all the fruits into tiny bits, and put in boiling liquid on stove. Add sugar and cornstarch. Stir and keep stewing over low to medium heat. Set aside once it looks like a filling to you.

(The chopped up fruit. When I made this the second time, I diced it much, much smaller.)

(Once it began to thicken.)

Pre-heat oven to 375.

Next, roll the dough out using a healthy bit of flour. Cut into disks being inventive and using a butter knife and a round-shaped item from around the kitchen.... or a cookie cutter if you're fancy. I used a ramekin and a wine glass.

Place the things on greased cookie sheet. Fill with fruit stuff, making sure to leave room for the crust. Place another disk over the top, pinching the sides or pressing with a fork for that traditional "pie edge" effect.

I don't have a photo of it, but don't forget to cut vents into the top part! You can also do a quick egg wash or sprinkle the tops with raw sugar.

Bake for 20-25 minutes, until golden, or until you're too impatient and hungry to wait any longer. This was sort of my slapdash way of making them. I used the leftover pastry and filling to make that mini lattice-top shown earlier; I'm going to eat it tonight!

Fruity treats are the best way for me to use overripe fruit. I've got a box of blueberries I accidentally crushed walking home from the store the other day that will soon be reincarnated into a blueberry-peach-cobbler-thingy.

I'm going to see how long this no Facebook thing lasts-- probably until I get my new computer. In the meantime, I see more baking in my future: I'm on a mission to produce the perfect baguette crust, and my oven is not very agreeable to the steam bath.

Happy baking!

A loss.

Over the weekend, some teenagers found their way into my landlords' backyard and threw a party that spanned the pool house to my little hayloft. Neither my landlords nor myself were there that night, and when I came home in the morning I found one hungover boy amidst a smattering of late-night-munchies debris and another boy still drunk, passed out, in nothing but lobster-print boxers, sprawled across my bed.

After a series of stupid(er) events, the boys very bashfully and apologetically left. Ten minutes or so of shock passed, and I went to email my landlords in Costa Rica about the situation. And that's when I noticed the missing laptop.

It's almost embarrassing to admit this, but I'm devastated. That computer had three years of my life on it, documents that I didn't back up because they seemed less important, but in loss seem paramount. My poem-a-day project is gone. The letters I wrote to departed friends and father are gone. All of my photos, including my trip to South America. The list is ever-expanding.

Nigel and I are currently living with a wonderfully generous friend. It may seem overly-cautious, but I feel unsafe as long as my landlords are still gone and the boys in question have been threatened and are knowingly pursued by the police. While I know it's silly to feel almost apologetic about my fear, I think I should explain anyway:

Two years ago last month my childhood best friend was murdered in Austin. The circumstances surrounding her death bear similar marks to my current situation: a scared boy who finds no way out can attempt to take the situation into his own hands. I keep saying, "while it's unlikely that they would try anything.." the word holds no weight against my fear. No amount of profiling makes this situation any less or more likely than the events and people involved in Stacy's death, or any other number of crimes committed every day. When in doubt, heed your instinct-- and my instinct says to stay away.

There's a slim chance I can still get the computer back, but that chance is grim. While trying to fund the purchase of a new laptop is incredibly stressful, it's what's been lost that really wells in my chest as I think about it all throughout the day.

A cheerful post to come soon.

Sartorial Love.

One of the things I love about working in a creative environment is that the dress code is a little lax: purple heels and off-the-shoulder top? ¡por supuesto que sí!

Jeffrey Campbell platform purple heels

Zara cigarette navy trousers

J. Crew striped tunic

Ann Taylor loft navy skinny belt (swiped from the dress it came with)

Jemma Kidd for Target lipstick in Siren

I am obsessed with this top. I bought it on super sale and it's actually two sizes too big, so I love belting it or tapering it with a fitted blazer. It buttons down the back! This is how it's supposed to be worn, in a size that fits you:

I could live in an oversized, slightly shapeless striped tunic top for the rest of the summer. Maybe not the sexiest look, but oh so comfy.

Happy Thursday!

A little appropriate soap boxing, please.

It always amazes me how the tiniest variable shift of a singular, common social situation can turn seemingly rational people into raving, thoughtless looney tunes: how, for example, the same people next to whom you make your daily morning commute might suddenly lose all their driving faculties in a light rain, or the way a "Caution: Wet Floors" sign can produce absolute mayhem on a Saturday afternoon in a mildly crowded Target. Or how the President's speech/movement/breakfast might ignite a self-righteous eruption of totally inane, babbling status updates on Facebook.

The truth is that I do not get onto Facebook to read about whether or not you "believe" what a politician is telling you. I get onto Facebook to see if you had an ugly baby or a better job/boyfriend/bikini bod than I do. Maybe that's not too noble, but neither is your apostrophe to the president.

To those of you who must take to the Interwebs for your ranting: Get a blog. It's what they're for.

A discovery.

On year three with this skirt, I discover it has pockets. Pockets!

Few things are better than pockets.

The Doldrums.

The Doldrums for me consist of things like making appointments and budget-related inquiries on long shifts in my cubicle, talking to dull, disembodied voices while trying to sort out such unpleasantries as a bill payment or a project funding proposal. Enter today, Wednesday, The Meeting Day, where I also have to find the time to hunt for a dentist and make an appointment to remedy this popped filling in my back molar.

I am a dentist-phobe. I need to be drugged even for the cleaning, possibly before I see the waiting room (or, while making the appointment). I have yet to have a visit to the tooth doctor without a pitting of anxiety and embarrassing well of tears.

Here's what makes me semi-happy on a Doldrummy Wednesday:

2 o'clock tea: PG tips with Vanilla soy creamer.

NARS lipstick in funny face.

Moleskine ruled Cahier Journal Kraft pocket.

Uni-ball vision elite.