Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Facebook Ate My Blog
I finally have to admit it. Did I mention that I received a trophy in the mail from the sprint triathlon back in October? Probably not. I got third in overall Athenas! I was pleasantly surprised.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Pilgrimage
They have come from hundreds, even thousands of miles away, on fragile wings, sometimes fringed with wind-wear. To see them, it’s astounding that they travel at all. Fewer and fewer of them each year, dwindling to naught or simply dipping, we don’t know.
When I lived in Santa Cruz, on the west side, the park was an easy bike ride from my shabby student rental in “the circles”. I don’t know how many visits I made on my new bike, helmetless in those days, hair blowing dangerously in the wind, before they arrived that first time. Down West Cliff Drive, hook a right at the park on a quiet weekday morning, follow the road and then head down the dirt path to the right.
Riding that bike, the first bike I’d ever purchased with my own money—probably the first big thing I’d ever purchased, if I think about it—was one of my favorite things to do. Sometimes I felt like I was ten years old again, riding wherever I wanted to go as fast as I could, with no particular destination.
The first time, I don’t know that I knew they were there before I went, or if I had heard they would come. Dripping from branches, in flickering clusters, they warmed themselves in shafts of light that seeped through the canopy of eucalyptus into the quiet grove. What I remember is how magical and serene it was to ride through the mist and stay there in the quiet of that half-lit grove among them.
Now, twenty-five years later, young, clean-shaven park rangers patiently answer questions from a road-addled tourist at the gate. Yes, the butterflies are here. Yes, you can take your dog into the park, but not to see the butterflies (duh) and please make sure your car is parked in the shade with the windows down and obvious water for the dog and don’t stay too long because other people get really upset if they see a dog in a car for a long time. Ten dollars for day use, please.
The quiet dirt path has been replaced (very necessarily) by a new boardwalk, which is attractive and sturdy, designed to take the abuse of eager nature-lovers. At the base of the walkway in the grove itself is a low multi-level deck.
At first, it is lovely just to see the Monarchs flitting silently between the trees. You'll notice that there are no close-up photos. The butterflies are very, very high up, though when it's quiet, and bored children have dragged their parents back to the beach, they'll swoop teasingly close to the deck.
A mother and her young daughter were lying on the edge of one of the deck’s steps, looking up at the treetops. They were talking sweetly, sharing an enviable mother-daughter moment. A small family group was listening to a female ranger talk in whispers about the butterflies and their journey. I caught just the end, just enough to hear her say, “…people who saw them twenty years ago, in the 80s, say that there were hundreds and thousands of them…what you can do is plant milkweed to grow during the seasons that they are traveling…”
I don’t want the butterflies to be just another thing that is dwindling, dying, disappearing. Once there were hundreds, herds by the millions across the plain, great black clouds of wings in the sky, etc., etc. My generation really is Generation D, for disappointment. Everything “used to be” bigger, more. Everything is just outside of our grasp, lost to us by just a little bit.
But then I think, how lucky that I was one of the people who saw them then, who got to stand in that grove alone, on a quiet weekday, not surrounded by well-meaning eco-tourist families whispering questions below the fluttering clusters of insects. I could come down any morning I wanted, and see them hanging on drooping eucalyptus branches, wings still too wet with dew to fly.
As soon as the woman and her daughter left, I found my own spot on the deck and leaned back, resting my head against the wood. The family group moved on, and the couples that trickled down into the grove were respectfully silent.
Directly above my head was a branch whose clustered leaves fluttered—every bare twig shimmered with the dun undersides of their orange and black wings. The sky was blue, and the smell of eucalyptus was caught up in the occasional breeze. There was a serenity in the scene that made me wish to stay. But I had promised the rangers that I wouldn’t leave my dog for long, even though she was safely parked in deep shade, and so I had to be on my way.
***
First stop: The Bagelry, downtown Santa Cruz for a "Dark Star": An "everything" bagel with thickly-layered with cream cheese, chopped olives and chopped walnuts. (PS- they call it the "Ultimate" now.) Mike’s favorite from his MBA days. Mike does not have a Master’s in Business Administration, but he was once the assistant dean at the Monterey Bay Academy. After a walk around the block with the dog, fill the water jug, use the clean bathroom for customers only and park in the free parking for customers only.
First stop: The Bagelry, downtown Santa Cruz for a "Dark Star": An "everything" bagel with thickly-layered with cream cheese, chopped olives and chopped walnuts. (PS- they call it the "Ultimate" now.) Mike’s favorite from his MBA days. Mike does not have a Master’s in Business Administration, but he was once the assistant dean at the Monterey Bay Academy. After a walk around the block with the dog, fill the water jug, use the clean bathroom for customers only and park in the free parking for customers only.
Second stop: Butterfly grove
Third stop: Lighthouse point
Fourth stop: Caffe Pergolesi for a chai (the chai by which all others must be judged-- perfect.)
Fifth stop: Pizza My Heart for a pesto pizza to bring home to Mike. Another favorite.
Sixth stop: Cemetery
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
For the Lovely Ladies from Ohio
Here is the link to all of my Thanksgiving recipes, including the one for the delicious (if I do say so myself) Granny Smith Apple and Herb Bread Stuffing. How wonderful to spend a Napa Valley week with best friends- I'm envious. It was a pleasure spending time with you!
(Didn't realize until re-reading this post just now that it is rather autobiographical, so pardon the personal details. Scroll down to the food if you get bored. Or hungry.)
(Didn't realize until re-reading this post just now that it is rather autobiographical, so pardon the personal details. Scroll down to the food if you get bored. Or hungry.)
Any Fruit Coffee Cake
If you're up early because you couldn't sleep, because something was troubling you the night before, you'll have the time to make this coffee cake. It's a little complex, just because there are three parts to it (cake, fruit and crispy top) but in the end, it's comforting to awaken to the smell of apples and cinnamon baking in a classic coffee cake like this. Just as good the next day with afternoon tea. If you don't have time, just pour yourself a cup of coffee and make a Dutch Baby.
From one of Grandma's old cookbooks, it's called the "Any Fruit Coffee Cake".Best if left to rest a bit, but too tempting warm!
Note: the ingredients are grouped together to save space, but the sugar, butter and flour will be divided and used in separate sections of the recipe. In case you're one of those folks who jumps ahead without thoroughly reading the recipe like I am.
1 1/2 cups chopped, peeled apples, apricots, peaches or pineapple or 1 1/2 cups blueberries, raspberries, or any other berry. I used apples.
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
6 T butter
1 beaten egg
1/2 cup buttermilk or sour milk (since I almost never have buttermilk in the house, but I almost always have yogurt, I substituted almost 1/2 cup plain yogurt thinned with enough milk to make it 1/2 cup)
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon* my own addition. Optional if using fruit other than apples or pears.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees
Step 1: Fruit
(If using raspberries, do not simmer.)
In a saucepan combine fruit with 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat. Cover and simmer 5 minutes (or less if you like a bit more toothsome fruit) or until tender. Combine 1/4 cup of the sugar and cornstarch. Stir into fruit mixture. Cook and stir until thickened and bubbly. Cook and stir 2 minutes more. Set aside. (This will produce that shiny, pretty stick-together fruit filling you always wondered about.)
Step 2: Cake
In a mixing bowl, stir together 1/2 cup of the sugar, the 1 1/2 cups flour, the baking powder and baking soda. Cut in 4 tablespoons of the butter until mixture resembles fine crumbs. Combine the egg, buttermilk (or substitute), and vanilla. Add to flour mixture. Stir until moistened. Lightly grease an 8x8x2 baking pan or equivalent round. Spread half of the batter in the pan (it will be thick, and may only make a thin layer). Spread fruit mixture over batter. Drop remaining batter in small mounds atop filling.
Step 3: Topping
Combine the remaining 1/4 cup sugar, 1/4 cup flour and cinnamon. Cut in remaining 2 tablespoons of butter with a fork until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Sprinkle over batter. Bake in 350 degree oven 40-45 minutes or until golden and a tester comes out clean (except for fruit).
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Stuff
Let's talk about stuff. The stuff that we crave, covet, pursue, stash and hoard.
The thing about things is that they outlive us. Look around the room you are in. Barring natural disaster, everything in it will last longer than you do, or at least it can. There are things that come and go, of course. Rubber bands, pens, bobby pins and paper clips seem to originate at the point of purchase and then slowly dissolve back into the air to be purchased all over again. And paper, in the form of mail, notes, and to-do lists, seems to do just the opposite, multiplying, spreading and clogging up the room like flat, white tribbles.
But the objects, for example, a computer, a metal desk lamp, a framed Polaroid, a picture of Karen and Abbie, a picture of my grandfather, a photo card reader and a painted rock my mother made for me on my fourth birthday. Many of these things will remain with me my entire life. If the lamp breaks, I will reluctantly throw it away, likewise the computer, though most likely both will linger in the garage for years before making it to the disposal site, if past lamps and computers are any indication. You never know which things will go the distance, but they are there somewhere around you already.
When I look at magazines about homes, I'm always drawn to the lean, simply decorated ones, or the ones that look as though every piece was hand-selected by former Pottery Barn stylists. Although I know I loved everything I have once, when I brought it home, I don't love everything now.
In fact, right now we live in a home that was furnished when we arrived. We've become accustomed to the excessive curves of the sofa and the giant bed we had to buy new sheets for on the first night we slept here, and the rattle of the handles on the dresser that signals whoever is still sleeping that the morning routine has begun. But when we leave someday, this stuff will stay, ready for another round of property managers.
So here I am, in my early 40s, with a lot of little stuff and no big stuff of my own. The vintage red chenille sofa is long gone, the platform bed dissembled. I do have a plain dresser with vintage glass knobs that belonged to my grandmother and was used by my father. And this desk, which is oak and not my style, but which I got for a very good price. It serves its purpose.
"Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." (William Morris) Easier said than done. How useful are eight sets of headphones? How useful are a thousand books, some I'll never read again, some I've never read at all? A stack of magazines two feet high, four single-hole-punches, all the same? The things that are hardest are the things that are beautiful, or were beautiful to someone else, and now sit in a box or a drawer. Likewise the things that are useful, but not right this second. These are the things that someday someone will find in that same box or drawer or another one and say, "What was Tamara thinking? What does this mean?"
And yet they remain and we are helpless against them. It is so hard to let things go, once they are infused with meaning, even if their only significance is that they have become ours. It's more than hard-- it's painful. To think that they might not be cherished as much as we once cherished them, even when we no longer do. To think that there will be a space where they once were that has nothing in it, and that the thing, the framed card from someone we don't remember, or the wind-up godzilla, or the oak desk, will go on and perhaps end up in a thrift store with a ten-cent price tag or worse, (much, much worse), go to WASTE in a landfill, this is just too much to bear.
So we keep. And we squirrel away. And we file and stack and shelve and cram, and then one day we are weighted down by all that we have and all that we have saved and we feel like we can't breathe anymore and it all has to go, but how and where, and oh, not this little one right here, because that is very special... all the memories clinging like glistening webs to every single piece keep us mired in and tethered to things.
The thing is, things can be let go, to continue on their paths, coming from wherever they came from and going wherever they are going to go. If we can sort out what's precious from what's just passing through, maybe we can lighten our load just a little bit.
********
(George Carlin once said, "your stuff is stuff, other people's stuff is sh*t". Funny routine NSFW. Damn he was funny. RIP.)
Here's an interesting reflection on stuff from the movie The Labyrinth: YouTube link. I find myself remembering this when I set out on a mission to sort and discard and wind up sprawled on the floor with an old book amid papers and tchotchkes an hour later. Hoarders with legs. Note: despite the fact that the giggle-inducing phrase "manipulating her junk" is used, this is also a neat insight into the puppetry involved in the film, which has become a cult classic.
The thing about things is that they outlive us. Look around the room you are in. Barring natural disaster, everything in it will last longer than you do, or at least it can. There are things that come and go, of course. Rubber bands, pens, bobby pins and paper clips seem to originate at the point of purchase and then slowly dissolve back into the air to be purchased all over again. And paper, in the form of mail, notes, and to-do lists, seems to do just the opposite, multiplying, spreading and clogging up the room like flat, white tribbles.
But the objects, for example, a computer, a metal desk lamp, a framed Polaroid, a picture of Karen and Abbie, a picture of my grandfather, a photo card reader and a painted rock my mother made for me on my fourth birthday. Many of these things will remain with me my entire life. If the lamp breaks, I will reluctantly throw it away, likewise the computer, though most likely both will linger in the garage for years before making it to the disposal site, if past lamps and computers are any indication. You never know which things will go the distance, but they are there somewhere around you already.
When I look at magazines about homes, I'm always drawn to the lean, simply decorated ones, or the ones that look as though every piece was hand-selected by former Pottery Barn stylists. Although I know I loved everything I have once, when I brought it home, I don't love everything now.
In fact, right now we live in a home that was furnished when we arrived. We've become accustomed to the excessive curves of the sofa and the giant bed we had to buy new sheets for on the first night we slept here, and the rattle of the handles on the dresser that signals whoever is still sleeping that the morning routine has begun. But when we leave someday, this stuff will stay, ready for another round of property managers.
So here I am, in my early 40s, with a lot of little stuff and no big stuff of my own. The vintage red chenille sofa is long gone, the platform bed dissembled. I do have a plain dresser with vintage glass knobs that belonged to my grandmother and was used by my father. And this desk, which is oak and not my style, but which I got for a very good price. It serves its purpose.
"Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." (William Morris) Easier said than done. How useful are eight sets of headphones? How useful are a thousand books, some I'll never read again, some I've never read at all? A stack of magazines two feet high, four single-hole-punches, all the same? The things that are hardest are the things that are beautiful, or were beautiful to someone else, and now sit in a box or a drawer. Likewise the things that are useful, but not right this second. These are the things that someday someone will find in that same box or drawer or another one and say, "What was Tamara thinking? What does this mean?"
And yet they remain and we are helpless against them. It is so hard to let things go, once they are infused with meaning, even if their only significance is that they have become ours. It's more than hard-- it's painful. To think that they might not be cherished as much as we once cherished them, even when we no longer do. To think that there will be a space where they once were that has nothing in it, and that the thing, the framed card from someone we don't remember, or the wind-up godzilla, or the oak desk, will go on and perhaps end up in a thrift store with a ten-cent price tag or worse, (much, much worse), go to WASTE in a landfill, this is just too much to bear.
So we keep. And we squirrel away. And we file and stack and shelve and cram, and then one day we are weighted down by all that we have and all that we have saved and we feel like we can't breathe anymore and it all has to go, but how and where, and oh, not this little one right here, because that is very special... all the memories clinging like glistening webs to every single piece keep us mired in and tethered to things.
The thing is, things can be let go, to continue on their paths, coming from wherever they came from and going wherever they are going to go. If we can sort out what's precious from what's just passing through, maybe we can lighten our load just a little bit.
********
(George Carlin once said, "your stuff is stuff, other people's stuff is sh*t". Funny routine NSFW. Damn he was funny. RIP.)
Here's an interesting reflection on stuff from the movie The Labyrinth: YouTube link. I find myself remembering this when I set out on a mission to sort and discard and wind up sprawled on the floor with an old book amid papers and tchotchkes an hour later. Hoarders with legs. Note: despite the fact that the giggle-inducing phrase "manipulating her junk" is used, this is also a neat insight into the puppetry involved in the film, which has become a cult classic.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Voila le Gateau des Blueberries
Barely caught these last two pieces before we polished off another one. I made one substitution: I used King Arthur Unbleached White Whole Wheat instead of AP. Didn't harm the texture one bit-- if anything, it enhanced it. Happy munching!
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Blueberry Cake
Getting started. Generously greased pan.
This butter was not soft enough-- had to mix it in with my fingers. 
Batter before blueberries is like a very wet cookie dough- thick but still spreadable.
After adding frozen blueberries, a very stiff dough, looks and feels just like cold chocolate chip cookie dough. Make sure you've mixed it thoroughly before adding the frozen berries, and then press it into the pan as much as you can. It will continue to fill in the holes as it bakes.
An Easy Summer Tea Cake
Another nice little breakfast cake that's fairly foolproof. It is not too sweet, and comes out somewhere between a scone and a cake. If you'd like it a little sweeter, a glaze similar to the one on these scones would be lovely. I liked that the recipe was simple and could be made with a bowl and a fork (as long as your butter is already soft), and uses ingredients that I typically have on hand.
Didn't get any pictures of the first one because we gobbled it up so fast, so I'm going to go make another one right now-- pictures up shortly.
*******
While you're waiting, check this out: I discovered this pink caterpillar on my magenta geraniums yesterday morning. Cool, huh? I don't think I've ever seen a pink caterpillar before.
By this morning, the pretty pink bud on the right was completely devoured. I wonder if the caterpillar started out pink, or became pink from eating all of those flowers?
Shenandoah Valley Blueberry CakeMy grandfather would love this warm with a nice fat slab of butter melting into it. (Hi Grandpa! Maybe you can get the Viking Queen to make you one!)
Ingredients
1 1/2 cups AP flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/3 cup softened butter
3/4 cup plus 2 T sugar
1 egg
1/3 cup milk
1 cup fresh or frozen blueberries (do not thaw frozen blueberries)
Directions
Preheat oven to 375 and generously grease a 9 inch round or square cake pan.
Combine flour, bp and salt in a bowl, stir with a fork to combine.
In another bowl, combine butter and sugar and beat (with a mixer or fork) at high speed until well combined. Add the egg and beat well for 1 to 2 minutes, scraping down the bowl, until the mixture is smooth and light.
Stir in half the flour mixture, then half the milk, mixing just enough to keep the batter fairly smooth. Add the remaining flour, then the rest of the milk, mixing gently. Stir in the blueberries. (Note: if the blueberries are frozen, you are going to want to mix them in quickly and get the batter into the pan right away, as it will chill the batter to an almost solid.)
Scrape the batter into the pan and bake at 375 for 30-40 minutes or until the top is golden, springs back when touched gently in the center and is pulling away from the sides of the pan. (Note: my cake took 40-45, using frozen blueberries. I thought that my oven was running slow, but I checked it with a thermometer and it was 3 degrees warmer than it read, so FYI.)
Serve a square cake right from the pan, warm or at room temperature, cut into small squares. IF it's round, let cool in the pan on a wire rack, then turn it out to finish cooling, top side up. (From Nancie McDermott's Southern Cakes)
Didn't get any pictures of the first one because we gobbled it up so fast, so I'm going to go make another one right now-- pictures up shortly.
*******
While you're waiting, check this out: I discovered this pink caterpillar on my magenta geraniums yesterday morning. Cool, huh? I don't think I've ever seen a pink caterpillar before.
By this morning, the pretty pink bud on the right was completely devoured. I wonder if the caterpillar started out pink, or became pink from eating all of those flowers?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Stay Gold II
Here's my gang. That's me in the middle. There are a couple of people missing from the original "Table" group. You can see the neckline of the dress, but that's about it. Trust me, it worked. (I think that's my disembodied arm growing out of my friend Karen's shoulder...)
Thursday, August 13, 2009
I Second That Emotion
So...HOW WAS THE REUNION...I MEAN, THE DRESS?
(I know you've been waiting for this. You'll read shortly why it's taken me so long to get a picture up of the darn thing.)
The dress turned out great. I don't have a good picture of it quite yet, because smarty pants here had to replace her dead cell phone on Wednesday of last week, and got a fancy phone. The fancy phone takes videos as well as pictures, and the little button for video is well, little, and also a little too close to the one for the camera, so I got several very short films featuring me and my friend Karen standing very still and smiling while her father told us to look like we were having a good time, as well as a couple of three-second masterpieces starring two unrecognizable people dancing to Devo.
But that is beside the point. I think there could be a little bit of tailoring applied to the, ahem, forward-most portion of the dress, or I might just need a little more...comprehensive tan, if you get my drift. Maybe I'm just not used to that deep a neckline. But overall it fit very well, and I felt good. I will extract a still from the videos and post asap. Or you could just use your imagination or look on facebook at the shots other people have posted. I'm the one in the black dress. No, the other one.
The reunion weekend was delightful. It was such a joy to reconnect with some of my oldest friends. After all these years, love sees right through all the changes that have happened to each of us over the years. I wish I'd had more time to talk to each person one on one.
Friday night, I was composed, adult me. I could stand back, observe and appreciate my friends for the great people they have become. My high school friends are some of the neatest people, and parents, you could hope to know. Many of them are teachers, and collectively, they have a bunch of kids. These are the people you want raising and educating the next generation. Kind, present, bright people, raising good kids.
There's something that's been bothering me, though. I'm trying not to kick myself for this, but over a 24 hour period, I feel like I completely regressed. By midway through the reunion on Saturday night, I was high school me, just as sure as Michael J. Fox used to get hairy ears when the moon was full.
I forgot completely about my vow to have meaningful conversations with few people, rather than trying to chat with many. I forgot that people who ask "How?" have more fun. I treated myself to a shot of tequila. I squealed when a song came on that I knew. (You can hear it in one of my micro-movies!)
I don't regret grabbing my friend Rusty for Donna Summer's "Last Dance," nor do I regret going back for a round of hugs for the people I'd really enjoyed seeing.
I do regret trying to make guilty (impulsive, slightly drunken) conversation with people I didn't remember that well, or remembered but never really knew that well. When I should have just smiled and said, "Hi, how are you?" I said other things that were equally embarrassing to both parties. Something along the lines of (shouted over too loud, too old New Wave music) "I know you, you're _________, you look GREAT! WHAT?? HOT! You look HOT! I KNOW, THE MUSIC IS TOO LOUD!" as they tried to decipher my bouncing name tag. Ok, not quite that bad, but close.
Or when I told a former female classmate, who may or may not have been a bully in high school, en route to the restroom, that I'd seen her picture on facebook because we had so many mutual friends and she just looked at me and said, "Yeah?" I wanted to run. She looked really beautiful, actually. Her dress was a similar style to mine, but shimmery gold with a leopard-ish print. I should have said something about that instead.
Really, what I should have done was allow silences, moments of quiet for things to happen, for people to
***
and that's where I stopped when I realized that I was going on and on about what could or should have been rather than what was. So I put the post away, about a week ago, and didn't wrap it up. So now I am. Now I have to go pull those stills out of the "movies" so you can see a picture of the dress.
I don't know if you realize this, but I have crossed a barrier this year. In the three years that I've been blogging, I had never posted a picture of myself on the blog. Until the triathlon. Now that many of my friends have seen me on facebook, I got over the fact that I'm not 21 anymore. I look the way I look.
Here's the room where I spent the reunion weekend nights:
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Oh you tease...
I just realized that I never described the dress itself! (That's a link so you can check it out.) The dress itself is black. It has 3/4 length sleeves (perfect since the mosquitoes chewed up my left upper arm, so I now I won't have to explain the huge red welts to anyone. The front is "surplice" style, and there are horizontal "shutter" pleats the entire length of the dress. It is lined, and as I mentioned, heavy on the hanger. It doesn't feel heavy on, but then, I've only worn it for a few minutes at a time so far. If you are going to the reunion, act surprised.
If you look at the picture, you'll see how it looks on the professional fashion model. You might not have guessed this, but at 5'5" I am not a professional fashion model. I was once told by a theater costumer that I had a "short waist," meaning there is not much distance between my bottom rib and my hip bone. About 2 inches, I think. I've been trying to have a waist ever since. Anything belted is out of the question. In this dress, I have a waist. That is worth two times the price of admission.
The other reason I didn't want you to see the link is that you'll know what I paid for it (less $10 on sale and $20 for opening a new account, don't forget). Sometimes you want to tell the world about a bargain-- other times you want people to think you spent a fortune. I don't care if you know, but I wanted to maintain the illusion that a dress so fabulous must have cost a mint to others. I did forego renting the adorable Kate Spade bag below from bag, borrow or steal, getting some serious bling out of the safety deposit box, or even getting a professional manicure or pedicure (ok, I broke down and got the pedicure). I'm keeping it real, folks. I may look fancy this weekend, but remember, I'm still the girl who personally put Bartles and James through college.
Damn, that's a cute bag.
Ok, I'm off to pack.
Here's what I was doing this month last year. And the year before. Some cool shots of my grandma (finally) showing me how to make banana cake. Thanks, Grandma.
If you look at the picture, you'll see how it looks on the professional fashion model. You might not have guessed this, but at 5'5" I am not a professional fashion model. I was once told by a theater costumer that I had a "short waist," meaning there is not much distance between my bottom rib and my hip bone. About 2 inches, I think. I've been trying to have a waist ever since. Anything belted is out of the question. In this dress, I have a waist. That is worth two times the price of admission.
The other reason I didn't want you to see the link is that you'll know what I paid for it (less $10 on sale and $20 for opening a new account, don't forget). Sometimes you want to tell the world about a bargain-- other times you want people to think you spent a fortune. I don't care if you know, but I wanted to maintain the illusion that a dress so fabulous must have cost a mint to others. I did forego renting the adorable Kate Spade bag below from bag, borrow or steal, getting some serious bling out of the safety deposit box, or even getting a professional manicure or pedicure (ok, I broke down and got the pedicure). I'm keeping it real, folks. I may look fancy this weekend, but remember, I'm still the girl who personally put Bartles and James through college.
Damn, that's a cute bag.Ok, I'm off to pack.
Here's what I was doing this month last year. And the year before. Some cool shots of my grandma (finally) showing me how to make banana cake. Thanks, Grandma.
Yes!
Saturday morning, determined to forge ahead, I called to make an appointment with a personal shopper at the Nordstrom in Corte Madera. I explained my predicament, and was told I'd get a call back over the weekend. By Monday evening, I hadn't heard from anyone.
On Tuesday, I arose in an optimistic state of mind. I walked the dogs, had a little smoothie, did a little work on the computer and prepared to shop alone. Off to Marin.
The first stop was Macy's, to return the brown dress (see previous post). I thought about cruising the dress department there, but I was on a mission to Nordstrom.
Next stop, Nordstrom's customer service counter, returned the silver dress. Easy-peasy. The customer service gal asked (as they often do) if I'd like to open a Nordstrom's account. I asked if there were any discounts on a first purchase if I did, knowing that there was a possibility I would be plunking down some serious dineiro. There was, so I signed up for a card. (Danger! Danger! In my twenties, this would indeed have been a dangerous thing to do, but I have since learned that plastic money needs to be backed up by REAL money.)
I walked about ten paces away from the desk, then thought what the heck, and went back to ask about the personal shopping services. A call was made, a personal shopper was available, and in moments, the angel appeared.
Norah has been working at the Corte Madera Nordstrom since it opened in 1985. "When I opened the store, darling, we didn't have a dress under $300." She was dressed in a navy and white dress with a pebbly texture and gold details, a thick hammered-gold choker and moderate heels. Her sandy-colored hair was cut in a classic bob, framing her large, roundish glasses.
Originally from England, Norah's british accent was all but gone, leaving behind a diction that more closely resembles a kinder version of Mrs. Howell from Gilligan's island. She may have actually sprinkled her sentences with "dear" and "darling" or I may have imagined it.
We introduced ourselves and got right to work. "What is the occasion, dear? Ah...what time? Evening? Ah, there will be lots of black, black is always elegant. Let's go to the dress department, then. What's your size?"
At first, she just cruised the racks with me, quizzing me and pulling everything close to my size. "What about this? Do you like purple? You're young, so you can show the arms, darling, not like when you get old and they go all crepey. This has a lovely neckline, you wouldn't need jewelry, and this...how about a little color? Do you mind a print? Let's just try it." And so it went until we had an armload of dresses in my size. She ushered me to a dressing room, "Let's find you a nice room, darling," and there I was. "Take your time. I'll check on you from time to time. Be sure to come out into the corridor if there's something you really love."
Just under a dozen frock contenders lined the walls of the dressing room. The fourth one from the left had many alluring qualities on the hanger, but as I've learned the hard way, you have to try it on to know. I remembered what my friend Karen said about her terrific dress: "of the meager selection they had, it was the one that fit me best" and I set myself to finding the one that simply fit me best.
I started working my around from the left. The first dress was not quite right. I can't even picture it now. The second, the same, not quite it. Norah peeked in a time or two. The third, a red and white wrap number (...a copy of a Von Furstenburg, darling) wasn't even tempting. As I used to do with my stack of books when I brought them home from the library as a kid, I very quickly abandoned my pre-decided order and jumped to the one I really wanted.
The black one. The fourth from the left. On the hanger, it was heavy. I slipped it on and had a heck of a time reaching the zipper to get it all the way up. I thought of calling for Norah, but I figured if I can't zip it, maybe I shouldn't wear it. Then I turned around.
(Is that the opening baseline of "Brick House" I hear in the background?)
I brought my black slingbacks with me from home, so I popped them on and trotted down the corridor to look for Norah. As soon as she turned from the rack she was working on, she said, "Look no further, darling. You've found it. Don't try on another dress."
I think I got goosebumps.
I did go ahead and try on the rest of the dresses, and some of them weren't bad. But she was right, none of them worked quite as well. I left the store (after less than an hour, mind you) reeling with the high of a successful hunt.
Well, I almost left. The woman at the Kiehl's counter must have spotted my delirious demeanor. She slapped some pretty smelling lotion on me and massaged my hands and I just said yes to everything. She was a pro. Crinkled some paper to get my attention, asked if I'd tried their new lotion, told me it would make my skin look pretty (lotion? not unless it is laced with diamonds or hallucinogens, which this one might be) gave me samples and caught my eye wandering to the lip gloss, cha-ching. Another pretty smelling sucker with goopy lips. I had to get the heck out of there.
When I got home, Mike didn't rave the way I'd hoped he would, but he did say, "YEAH. That's it, that gives you this (two-handed gesture meaning bounty) and this, (another two-handed gesture meaning waist-definition). Good job, sweetie."
So the saga of the elusive dress comes to an end. For now.
Now for the reunion itself....
On Tuesday, I arose in an optimistic state of mind. I walked the dogs, had a little smoothie, did a little work on the computer and prepared to shop alone. Off to Marin.
The first stop was Macy's, to return the brown dress (see previous post). I thought about cruising the dress department there, but I was on a mission to Nordstrom.
Next stop, Nordstrom's customer service counter, returned the silver dress. Easy-peasy. The customer service gal asked (as they often do) if I'd like to open a Nordstrom's account. I asked if there were any discounts on a first purchase if I did, knowing that there was a possibility I would be plunking down some serious dineiro. There was, so I signed up for a card. (Danger! Danger! In my twenties, this would indeed have been a dangerous thing to do, but I have since learned that plastic money needs to be backed up by REAL money.)
I walked about ten paces away from the desk, then thought what the heck, and went back to ask about the personal shopping services. A call was made, a personal shopper was available, and in moments, the angel appeared.
Norah has been working at the Corte Madera Nordstrom since it opened in 1985. "When I opened the store, darling, we didn't have a dress under $300." She was dressed in a navy and white dress with a pebbly texture and gold details, a thick hammered-gold choker and moderate heels. Her sandy-colored hair was cut in a classic bob, framing her large, roundish glasses.
Originally from England, Norah's british accent was all but gone, leaving behind a diction that more closely resembles a kinder version of Mrs. Howell from Gilligan's island. She may have actually sprinkled her sentences with "dear" and "darling" or I may have imagined it.
We introduced ourselves and got right to work. "What is the occasion, dear? Ah...what time? Evening? Ah, there will be lots of black, black is always elegant. Let's go to the dress department, then. What's your size?"
At first, she just cruised the racks with me, quizzing me and pulling everything close to my size. "What about this? Do you like purple? You're young, so you can show the arms, darling, not like when you get old and they go all crepey. This has a lovely neckline, you wouldn't need jewelry, and this...how about a little color? Do you mind a print? Let's just try it." And so it went until we had an armload of dresses in my size. She ushered me to a dressing room, "Let's find you a nice room, darling," and there I was. "Take your time. I'll check on you from time to time. Be sure to come out into the corridor if there's something you really love."
Just under a dozen frock contenders lined the walls of the dressing room. The fourth one from the left had many alluring qualities on the hanger, but as I've learned the hard way, you have to try it on to know. I remembered what my friend Karen said about her terrific dress: "of the meager selection they had, it was the one that fit me best" and I set myself to finding the one that simply fit me best.
I started working my around from the left. The first dress was not quite right. I can't even picture it now. The second, the same, not quite it. Norah peeked in a time or two. The third, a red and white wrap number (...a copy of a Von Furstenburg, darling) wasn't even tempting. As I used to do with my stack of books when I brought them home from the library as a kid, I very quickly abandoned my pre-decided order and jumped to the one I really wanted.
The black one. The fourth from the left. On the hanger, it was heavy. I slipped it on and had a heck of a time reaching the zipper to get it all the way up. I thought of calling for Norah, but I figured if I can't zip it, maybe I shouldn't wear it. Then I turned around.
(Is that the opening baseline of "Brick House" I hear in the background?)
I brought my black slingbacks with me from home, so I popped them on and trotted down the corridor to look for Norah. As soon as she turned from the rack she was working on, she said, "Look no further, darling. You've found it. Don't try on another dress."
I think I got goosebumps.
I did go ahead and try on the rest of the dresses, and some of them weren't bad. But she was right, none of them worked quite as well. I left the store (after less than an hour, mind you) reeling with the high of a successful hunt.
Well, I almost left. The woman at the Kiehl's counter must have spotted my delirious demeanor. She slapped some pretty smelling lotion on me and massaged my hands and I just said yes to everything. She was a pro. Crinkled some paper to get my attention, asked if I'd tried their new lotion, told me it would make my skin look pretty (lotion? not unless it is laced with diamonds or hallucinogens, which this one might be) gave me samples and caught my eye wandering to the lip gloss, cha-ching. Another pretty smelling sucker with goopy lips. I had to get the heck out of there.
When I got home, Mike didn't rave the way I'd hoped he would, but he did say, "YEAH. That's it, that gives you this (two-handed gesture meaning bounty) and this, (another two-handed gesture meaning waist-definition). Good job, sweetie."
So the saga of the elusive dress comes to an end. For now.
Now for the reunion itself....
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Applesauce Cake
This is a pretty swell cake, which takes only 45 minutes to bake, isn't too sweet, and still works for breakfast. Which is good, because it takes exactly 45 minutes to walk the dogs if I don't do the full 3 mile run.
Applesauce Cake
1 cup raisins (I used less)
1 1/2 c flour
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp clove
1 tsp salt
1/2 c butter
1 c sugar (I used light brown with 1/8 c molasses)
1 tsp soda
1 cup applesauce
(I added 1/2 cup chopped walnuts)
Oven 350, 9 inch square pan greased and floured
Cream butter and sugar
Sift dry ingredients together except baking soda
Stir baking soda into applesauce
Add applesauce and dry ingredients to butter and sugar, alternating, beginning and ending with dry
Stir in nuts and raisins if desired
Bake at 350 for 45-50 minutes
Notice there are no eggs in this recipe? You won't miss them. I will make this moist cake again. It was a hit with the crew at today's winery party.
Hi Emily!
The Dress Drama Continues
Ok, for those of you following this, neither of the dresses worked out. The first, an adorable chiffon number in chocolate brown that was very Fred and Ginger, was a skosh too tight in the ribcage. Nothing that couldn't have been dealt with, but I'm going to be dancing, for lord's sake, and I need my AIR. (What do you think about this one?)
The second was just laughable. On the surface, it had everything going for it: gunmetal stretch satin, ruching at the bust, three-quarter sleeves. Great color, comfortable, form-fitting. But then, it lost it. The seemingly forgiving ruching at the waist turned out to look like a handy pocket for...something...right at belly level. Not sure what. Ammunition, maybe, or extra Kleenexes. I couldn't get it to lay casually "ruched", so I looked like a very well-dressed kangaroo.
And you know something's wrong when you turn around to show your husband the rear view and he says, "oh, no, honey, no, you can't wear that dress." Who on earth would put a seam down the center of a woman's butt, and then add more drapes of fabric emanating out from that seam? How, and on what planet, would it be more attractive to look like a parade grandstand from the back? My rear looked like the valance in a very fancy boudoir. A noir boudoir, even. So no go. Both dresses will have to go back, and I will have to proceed with Plan D. (Plan A being the first dress, Plan B being shopping, Plan C being ordering on line and hoping for the best.)
The funny thing is, since I began the quest for THE dress, I have worn some outfits that my friends (especially my gay friends, champions of swell dressing) have thought were pretty good. They practically swooned when I pulled out my knee-length lace skirt, slingbacks, charcoal hemp fitted t-shirt and chignon for martinis the other night. I considered wearing that, but I made the mistake of trying to go understated five years ago and felt underdressed. The horror.
Plan D is what I did yesterday: calling up Nordstrom's and asking them to have someone ready to pull as many cocktail dresses in my size and general style as they can and have them ready for me when I get there on Tuesday. This used to be a common service, but with the economy, I don't know if they can still pull it off. Otherwise, I'm on my own. It may work, or I may just have to slog through the confusing arrangement of boutiques until I find or don't find something. I'm taking the lace skirt and the slingbacks in case I have to fall back on Plan E, but let's hope I don't have to go there.
The second was just laughable. On the surface, it had everything going for it: gunmetal stretch satin, ruching at the bust, three-quarter sleeves. Great color, comfortable, form-fitting. But then, it lost it. The seemingly forgiving ruching at the waist turned out to look like a handy pocket for...something...right at belly level. Not sure what. Ammunition, maybe, or extra Kleenexes. I couldn't get it to lay casually "ruched", so I looked like a very well-dressed kangaroo.
And you know something's wrong when you turn around to show your husband the rear view and he says, "oh, no, honey, no, you can't wear that dress." Who on earth would put a seam down the center of a woman's butt, and then add more drapes of fabric emanating out from that seam? How, and on what planet, would it be more attractive to look like a parade grandstand from the back? My rear looked like the valance in a very fancy boudoir. A noir boudoir, even. So no go. Both dresses will have to go back, and I will have to proceed with Plan D. (Plan A being the first dress, Plan B being shopping, Plan C being ordering on line and hoping for the best.)
The funny thing is, since I began the quest for THE dress, I have worn some outfits that my friends (especially my gay friends, champions of swell dressing) have thought were pretty good. They practically swooned when I pulled out my knee-length lace skirt, slingbacks, charcoal hemp fitted t-shirt and chignon for martinis the other night. I considered wearing that, but I made the mistake of trying to go understated five years ago and felt underdressed. The horror.
Plan D is what I did yesterday: calling up Nordstrom's and asking them to have someone ready to pull as many cocktail dresses in my size and general style as they can and have them ready for me when I get there on Tuesday. This used to be a common service, but with the economy, I don't know if they can still pull it off. Otherwise, I'm on my own. It may work, or I may just have to slog through the confusing arrangement of boutiques until I find or don't find something. I'm taking the lace skirt and the slingbacks in case I have to fall back on Plan E, but let's hope I don't have to go there.
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