Sunday, September 9, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Celebrating Birthdays since 2005
Seven years ago, senior year just started at Cortland High. Summer lingered, but cool nights in early September promised the frosts of fall would settle soon.
Nick and I weren't officially dating yet, but his birthday is September 7th, and he was more than my friend. And I wanted to surprise him with what then turned into the first of many birthdays together.
I remember sneaking a moment in whispers with his mom to brainstorm. I didn't want to give him anything that his family already had planned. I did have one idea, though.
At night when Nick and I returned to his house, sometimes it was pouring. Sometimes it was snowing. And most of the time, we were just exhausted or it was just cold, and Nick would stand at the corner of his garage and punch the key pad to open the door. That damn garage door almost never opened on the first try. So he tried the second code, which only worked sometimes. The process took longer than necessary. For his birthday, then, I wanted to give him a garage door transmitter like his parents had.
Labor day weekend, I drove to Sears with the garage door make and model etched on a sticky note from Nick's mom. I purchased a key-chain door transmitter, and I think Nick even called on my way out of the store, quizzing me on what errand I was running in Ithaca for his birthday.
The very first birthday I celebrated with Nick was on a Wednesday night. His Mimi and Papa were in town to see Nick's football game that Friday night. I arrived after dinner for cake and ice cream and to give Nick his birthday present.
Wrapped in a cardboard tshirt box, I place the garage door opener and a framed photograph of the two of us at our friend Krista's pond party -- And, to step out of the memory, about two months ago, I was sorting through boxes and found the exact photograph I gifted him at the very beginning of us.
Nick and I weren't officially dating yet, but his birthday is September 7th, and he was more than my friend. And I wanted to surprise him with what then turned into the first of many birthdays together.
I remember sneaking a moment in whispers with his mom to brainstorm. I didn't want to give him anything that his family already had planned. I did have one idea, though.
At night when Nick and I returned to his house, sometimes it was pouring. Sometimes it was snowing. And most of the time, we were just exhausted or it was just cold, and Nick would stand at the corner of his garage and punch the key pad to open the door. That damn garage door almost never opened on the first try. So he tried the second code, which only worked sometimes. The process took longer than necessary. For his birthday, then, I wanted to give him a garage door transmitter like his parents had.
Labor day weekend, I drove to Sears with the garage door make and model etched on a sticky note from Nick's mom. I purchased a key-chain door transmitter, and I think Nick even called on my way out of the store, quizzing me on what errand I was running in Ithaca for his birthday.
The very first birthday I celebrated with Nick was on a Wednesday night. His Mimi and Papa were in town to see Nick's football game that Friday night. I arrived after dinner for cake and ice cream and to give Nick his birthday present.
Wrapped in a cardboard tshirt box, I place the garage door opener and a framed photograph of the two of us at our friend Krista's pond party -- And, to step out of the memory, about two months ago, I was sorting through boxes and found the exact photograph I gifted him at the very beginning of us.
Since then, we've celebrated in Cortland, in Buffalo, in Boston, in Poughkeepsie and in Skaneateles. We've celebrated apart where 'wrapped' meant in a UPS box with packing noodles. And this year, we're celebrating together in Hawaii. The morning began with orange rolls and it will end somewhere in Honolulu this evening.
Happy birthday to you, my Nicholas! Cheers to the last seven years and to the next seventy to come :)
2006 - Cortland
2007 - Buffalo
2008 - Poughkeepsie
2009 - Boston
2010 - Skaneateles
2011 - We celebrated in October before the wedding :)
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Photojournalism
“What i like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.”
-Karl Lagerfeld
Ko Olina Sunset Catamaran
31 August 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
When I Grow Up: Life Goal
It's taken me a few days to collect my thoughts for this post. That, and the first two weeks of school is chaotic for any teacher!
Recently, I have been thinking, and Nick and I have been talking, about life goals and future plans. It's funny, really, since the Army likes to project their acceptance of a family's future 'plans'. Really, in the army, it's just faux planning since the Army already has a plan for the active duty member, which takes precedence over the family 'plan'. This bothers me, a lot, but this particular post does not exist for me to air my hesitations and concerns with the military.
As any type-A human being, I am a planner, an organizer, and someone who likes to have complete control of any and every situation, really (hey- it's honesty!). My personality, then, as you can infer, clashes with my lifestyle, as very little is planned or controlled by me. Which leaves me, as of late, pondering what I do have control over. There's so much I am uncertain of with regards to my future career and my future ultimate education and career goals. But I have made a decision, recently, a new life goal. This is something I can control and moreover, work toward.
My new life goal is simple: I want to be somebody's Barb Milligan.
Most of you (if there is a collective 'you') who read my blog have probably never heard of Barb -- unless, of course, you are from my hometown. This is the part of this blog with which I've struggled: How can I describe Barb to someone who doesn't know her? Whenever I skype with my B, and then tell someone I've done so, I fumble my words.
"She's like my second mom, or-- well... she's my neighbor--no but that's vague. I don't know; she's Barb."
I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Let's back track, first, though.
I knew Barb before I could talk. She went to school with my father. Her youngest daughter (another dear, dear friend of mine) and I played at the park together. My younger brother and I patiently waited on the list of future Spaghetti Heads--- the name of the collective kids Barb takes care of during the day. In elementary school, Luka and I walked, hands held with 'the big kids', down the road, across the street and around the corner into Barb's gate. We would all unlace our shoes, hang our sweatshirts and gather around her kitchen table. Barb scooped us bowls of mac and cheese (or whatever snack was on any particular day) and took drink orders-- always in coffee mugs; then, we took turns talking about our days at school.
B would ask our questions about our stories, ask us what we had for lunch, and she really asked, like our moms would, except they were still at work. If we had a bad day, it went through Barb first. If we had a great stories, our excitement busted and spewed all over Barb's table first. Then, she'd point out all the activities she had set up around the house and in the backyard. Any kid could choose from a plethora of activities to decompress from the day, and yet, each option was still cognitively stimulating. Always make believe or reading or building, perpetual dreaming and growing.
But, like I said, I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Everyone was done, including me. I was stuck in the 4th grade with a hateful bunch of classmates. This was before 'bullying' was a buzzword at faculty and PTA meetings. My parents were at a loss. The school was placating everyone, but it was hollow and shallow. I wasn't a victim. I was never a victim. But the meanness that oozed from the two fourth grade classrooms swelled, sticky and bitter.
I remember throwing on a sweatshirt and my sneakers and marching over to Barb's with my mom in the brisk darkness after dinner. I already knew Barb and loved Barb, but I had never been to her house after dark on a school night. Going was Mom's idea.
Before we knocked on the side door, it swung open. Barb stood at the top of the half-stairs in a tshirt that said: "Fuck you, I have enough friends!"
I was ten. And while I'd definitely heard "fuck" before, I'd never read it on a tshirt that a grown up was wearing. Before I think I even had time to process, Barb assured me that the tshirt was a poignant contribution to the conversation we were about to have.
Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. Barb poured me a chilled mug of juice (and I'm sure she poured my mother a glass of wine...or five), and there, I had the most honest, real conversation I had ever had with two adults about school and bullying. What was going on was not ok. I learned that that night, and it was that pivotal moment wherein I can trace my strong intolerance for bullying and my emotional love for those who stand up against it. And. My friendship with Barb.
I don't even know how to sum up the subsequent years of my life at Barb's kitchen table.
Many times, I sat there with Barb's daughter, sharing stories and secrets and Mary Kate and Ashley gossip. Barb listened and Barb mentored. I loved and respected Barb as much as I loved and respected my own parents. She was honest. She was loving. And she was real. I have two absolutely wonderful parents; but Barb wasn't my parent. She reinforced everything my parents said, but coming from another adult, who I also considered my friend, her messages held more weight during my teenage years.
Here's an example of her mentorship:
During senior year, I faced off with an activities advisor after I published an op-ed in our local newspaper about the administration at our school. The advisor gave me two choices: I could be a leader at my high school or I could have an opinion. Furious, enraged, all of the other adjectives to describe the burning in my chest that day, I left school grounds without permission. Adrenaline blinded any rational thought. Mom was across town and not on her lunch break yet. Dad's classes always took place at the college, nearly 20 minutes from the high school. But I cognitively assessed this in a millisecond. Rather, I climbed in my car and sped off down the hill toward Barb's kitchen table.
I sipped juice from a chilled mug and refused to relinquish my rage as I relived the story to Barb. And just like any other mentoring moment that happened in that kitchen, Barb had a plan.
She sat down in her chair beside the stove. She spread her cloth napkin out, as if the napkin could be a playing field, and she was going to propose ideas for plays. We talked about possible consequences of my actions (both writing the article and leaving school without permission). She used the socratic method to walk me through contemplating the value of having a strong opinion and (as if it's mutually exclusive) being a leader at the high school. As she talked, she moved the sugar bowl around the cloth napkin. It didn't help her illustrate anything, but it's what she does when she's in mentor mode. And I love it.
Barb had read the article, and I felt strongly supported sitting there in her kitchen. But we talked about the consequences of speaking out against something like a school administration. And before I left her kitchen table, we also talked about the value of having a strong voice and having the courage to share that voice as a thinking, caring, committed member of one's community.
I was still in trouble at school; I anticipated consequences when I returned, both for the op-ed and for ditching grounds, but I was at peace with my decision and my consequences. And I established peace at Barb's.
It's been like this for my whole life. And don't kid yourself; my mother and I have a great relationship. She knows everything. But there is something about sitting at that kitchen table with a mug (or now, a glass of wine or sometimes even a shot of Ouzo) that provides yet another perspective to any situation. I text Barb. I skype with Barb. When I'm homesick, I miss everything about my parents and my house AND I miss running around the corner, into the back gate, hanging my jacket on the hook and sitting down at B's kitchen table.
Nick even said the other day that someday (not any any time soon, so don't speculate here), we'll have to pay our Barb and Mike to travel the world with us because we whole-heartedly want our children to be raised Milligan -- like so many children of Cortland are.
Barb is 1 part mother, 2 parts friend and 100% mentor and ab-fab human being.
So this is my goal. It's huge. It's nearly impossible, as I don't think a single soul on this Earth has the potential to be Barb. But I'm going to try. I am who I am in part because of this woman. I am inspired by her zeal and her fervor. My goal, then, is be that inspiration for someone else.
Recently, I have been thinking, and Nick and I have been talking, about life goals and future plans. It's funny, really, since the Army likes to project their acceptance of a family's future 'plans'. Really, in the army, it's just faux planning since the Army already has a plan for the active duty member, which takes precedence over the family 'plan'. This bothers me, a lot, but this particular post does not exist for me to air my hesitations and concerns with the military.
As any type-A human being, I am a planner, an organizer, and someone who likes to have complete control of any and every situation, really (hey- it's honesty!). My personality, then, as you can infer, clashes with my lifestyle, as very little is planned or controlled by me. Which leaves me, as of late, pondering what I do have control over. There's so much I am uncertain of with regards to my future career and my future ultimate education and career goals. But I have made a decision, recently, a new life goal. This is something I can control and moreover, work toward.
My new life goal is simple: I want to be somebody's Barb Milligan.
Most of you (if there is a collective 'you') who read my blog have probably never heard of Barb -- unless, of course, you are from my hometown. This is the part of this blog with which I've struggled: How can I describe Barb to someone who doesn't know her? Whenever I skype with my B, and then tell someone I've done so, I fumble my words.
"She's like my second mom, or-- well... she's my neighbor--no but that's vague. I don't know; she's Barb."
I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Let's back track, first, though.
I knew Barb before I could talk. She went to school with my father. Her youngest daughter (another dear, dear friend of mine) and I played at the park together. My younger brother and I patiently waited on the list of future Spaghetti Heads--- the name of the collective kids Barb takes care of during the day. In elementary school, Luka and I walked, hands held with 'the big kids', down the road, across the street and around the corner into Barb's gate. We would all unlace our shoes, hang our sweatshirts and gather around her kitchen table. Barb scooped us bowls of mac and cheese (or whatever snack was on any particular day) and took drink orders-- always in coffee mugs; then, we took turns talking about our days at school.
B would ask our questions about our stories, ask us what we had for lunch, and she really asked, like our moms would, except they were still at work. If we had a bad day, it went through Barb first. If we had a great stories, our excitement busted and spewed all over Barb's table first. Then, she'd point out all the activities she had set up around the house and in the backyard. Any kid could choose from a plethora of activities to decompress from the day, and yet, each option was still cognitively stimulating. Always make believe or reading or building, perpetual dreaming and growing.
But, like I said, I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Everyone was done, including me. I was stuck in the 4th grade with a hateful bunch of classmates. This was before 'bullying' was a buzzword at faculty and PTA meetings. My parents were at a loss. The school was placating everyone, but it was hollow and shallow. I wasn't a victim. I was never a victim. But the meanness that oozed from the two fourth grade classrooms swelled, sticky and bitter.
I remember throwing on a sweatshirt and my sneakers and marching over to Barb's with my mom in the brisk darkness after dinner. I already knew Barb and loved Barb, but I had never been to her house after dark on a school night. Going was Mom's idea.
Before we knocked on the side door, it swung open. Barb stood at the top of the half-stairs in a tshirt that said: "Fuck you, I have enough friends!"
I was ten. And while I'd definitely heard "fuck" before, I'd never read it on a tshirt that a grown up was wearing. Before I think I even had time to process, Barb assured me that the tshirt was a poignant contribution to the conversation we were about to have.
Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. Barb poured me a chilled mug of juice (and I'm sure she poured my mother a glass of wine...or five), and there, I had the most honest, real conversation I had ever had with two adults about school and bullying. What was going on was not ok. I learned that that night, and it was that pivotal moment wherein I can trace my strong intolerance for bullying and my emotional love for those who stand up against it. And. My friendship with Barb.
I don't even know how to sum up the subsequent years of my life at Barb's kitchen table.
Many times, I sat there with Barb's daughter, sharing stories and secrets and Mary Kate and Ashley gossip. Barb listened and Barb mentored. I loved and respected Barb as much as I loved and respected my own parents. She was honest. She was loving. And she was real. I have two absolutely wonderful parents; but Barb wasn't my parent. She reinforced everything my parents said, but coming from another adult, who I also considered my friend, her messages held more weight during my teenage years.
Here's an example of her mentorship:
During senior year, I faced off with an activities advisor after I published an op-ed in our local newspaper about the administration at our school. The advisor gave me two choices: I could be a leader at my high school or I could have an opinion. Furious, enraged, all of the other adjectives to describe the burning in my chest that day, I left school grounds without permission. Adrenaline blinded any rational thought. Mom was across town and not on her lunch break yet. Dad's classes always took place at the college, nearly 20 minutes from the high school. But I cognitively assessed this in a millisecond. Rather, I climbed in my car and sped off down the hill toward Barb's kitchen table.
I sipped juice from a chilled mug and refused to relinquish my rage as I relived the story to Barb. And just like any other mentoring moment that happened in that kitchen, Barb had a plan.
She sat down in her chair beside the stove. She spread her cloth napkin out, as if the napkin could be a playing field, and she was going to propose ideas for plays. We talked about possible consequences of my actions (both writing the article and leaving school without permission). She used the socratic method to walk me through contemplating the value of having a strong opinion and (as if it's mutually exclusive) being a leader at the high school. As she talked, she moved the sugar bowl around the cloth napkin. It didn't help her illustrate anything, but it's what she does when she's in mentor mode. And I love it.
Barb had read the article, and I felt strongly supported sitting there in her kitchen. But we talked about the consequences of speaking out against something like a school administration. And before I left her kitchen table, we also talked about the value of having a strong voice and having the courage to share that voice as a thinking, caring, committed member of one's community.
I was still in trouble at school; I anticipated consequences when I returned, both for the op-ed and for ditching grounds, but I was at peace with my decision and my consequences. And I established peace at Barb's.
It's been like this for my whole life. And don't kid yourself; my mother and I have a great relationship. She knows everything. But there is something about sitting at that kitchen table with a mug (or now, a glass of wine or sometimes even a shot of Ouzo) that provides yet another perspective to any situation. I text Barb. I skype with Barb. When I'm homesick, I miss everything about my parents and my house AND I miss running around the corner, into the back gate, hanging my jacket on the hook and sitting down at B's kitchen table.
Nick even said the other day that someday (not any any time soon, so don't speculate here), we'll have to pay our Barb and Mike to travel the world with us because we whole-heartedly want our children to be raised Milligan -- like so many children of Cortland are.
Barb is 1 part mother, 2 parts friend and 100% mentor and ab-fab human being.
So this is my goal. It's huge. It's nearly impossible, as I don't think a single soul on this Earth has the potential to be Barb. But I'm going to try. I am who I am in part because of this woman. I am inspired by her zeal and her fervor. My goal, then, is be that inspiration for someone else.
Monday, August 27, 2012
I Can't Help But Share
A day in the life of the newly wedders (we're still 'new' aren't we?) and Hobbes; this post is for the Moms :)
Sunday, 26 August 2012:
Our Sunday tradition of venturing to Honolulu to our breakfast nook dwindled exponentially over the last few weeks. We'll we've gone, we haven't done so a consistently as we'd like. Today perpetuated that trend. Neither Nick nor I could pull ourselves from our comfy covy bed. It was a snuggle up and drift in and out of sleep morning.
So once we did manage to pry ourselves out from under our blankets (partially because the sun was warning the house and we were sweaty, and partially because Nick jump up with determination to not lose our Sunday), we made blueberry scones and fresh fruit for breakfast. A little feast at our very own dining room table.
We met a few of our friends down at the Lagoons around mid-morning and played with little miss Halle. She's a little ham and we love it!
Nick and I wandered back to our neighborhood around noon, already three hours of sun-kissed bliss before lunch.
As we cooled off at our house, we found some pre-season football and I made a big pot of chili. Sure it's 86 degrees out but it's Sunday and there was football on, damnit.
To avoid the whole sweating-while-eating (and subsequently feeling fat) feeling, Nick and I indulged in our central air system (that we never turn on).
A little post chili nap, a long run around Ko Olina town, and a gym adventure later, Nick and I ended our Sunday poolside in our neighborhood with a cooler full of cheese, pepperoni, salad, and fruit with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries. We read one of our favorite blogs, snacked on our lite dinner and then completed our dinner date in the hot tub and then the pool. We ... we were actually chilly on our walk home!
I will quote my Nicholas when I say: "It's days like today when we should say, 'thanks, Army'... but not too loudly. We don't want the army to hear us."
Sunday, 26 August 2012:
Our Sunday tradition of venturing to Honolulu to our breakfast nook dwindled exponentially over the last few weeks. We'll we've gone, we haven't done so a consistently as we'd like. Today perpetuated that trend. Neither Nick nor I could pull ourselves from our comfy covy bed. It was a snuggle up and drift in and out of sleep morning.
So once we did manage to pry ourselves out from under our blankets (partially because the sun was warning the house and we were sweaty, and partially because Nick jump up with determination to not lose our Sunday), we made blueberry scones and fresh fruit for breakfast. A little feast at our very own dining room table.
We met a few of our friends down at the Lagoons around mid-morning and played with little miss Halle. She's a little ham and we love it!
Nick and I wandered back to our neighborhood around noon, already three hours of sun-kissed bliss before lunch.
As we cooled off at our house, we found some pre-season football and I made a big pot of chili. Sure it's 86 degrees out but it's Sunday and there was football on, damnit.
To avoid the whole sweating-while-eating (and subsequently feeling fat) feeling, Nick and I indulged in our central air system (that we never turn on).
A little post chili nap, a long run around Ko Olina town, and a gym adventure later, Nick and I ended our Sunday poolside in our neighborhood with a cooler full of cheese, pepperoni, salad, and fruit with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries. We read one of our favorite blogs, snacked on our lite dinner and then completed our dinner date in the hot tub and then the pool. We ... we were actually chilly on our walk home!
I will quote my Nicholas when I say: "It's days like today when we should say, 'thanks, Army'... but not too loudly. We don't want the army to hear us."
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Bruschetta Chicken
Remember that all-too-fabulous meal my lovely husband made for me a few days ago? The one with the freshly chopped tomatoes, the basil, the fresh minced garlic, the olive oil? Nick poured it all over spaghetti and topped it with a sauteed lemon shrimp and served it up like a chef on a cobblestone street in Venice.
Well, we devoured our spaghetti and shrimp with massive amounts of the tomato basil mix left over. I felt badly throwing away the foundation of one of the best meals I'd had in months. But pausing momentarily, I realized Nick had made bruschetta! So I stored the remaining bruschetta in the fridge, and last night I created an ab-fab (as Barb would say) meal that surely couldn't go unshared.
3 Chicken Breasts - sliced into 1/2inch thick chunks
Olive Oil
Balsamic Vinegar
5-6 slices of white onion
Italian seasoning
Basil
Romaine Lettuce
Ciabatta Bread
In a pan, douse the bottom with EVOO and start to cook the chicken. When the chicken is half cooked, add two turns of balsamic vinegar to the mix. Throw in large onion slices. Top chicken with italian seasoning and basil. Let cook through.
Place chicken in refrigerator to cool off.
Now, here's where you have two options. You can either:
1. Put the chicken over lettuce, top with the bruschetta, and serve cold with toasted garlic ciabatta bread
(which is what we did last night)
OR
2. Using a panini maker (or a warmed skillet), top ciabatta bread with chicken, bruschetta, lettuce and serve as a panini sandwich.
Well, we devoured our spaghetti and shrimp with massive amounts of the tomato basil mix left over. I felt badly throwing away the foundation of one of the best meals I'd had in months. But pausing momentarily, I realized Nick had made bruschetta! So I stored the remaining bruschetta in the fridge, and last night I created an ab-fab (as Barb would say) meal that surely couldn't go unshared.
Bruschetta Chicken
3 Chicken Breasts - sliced into 1/2inch thick chunks
Olive Oil
Balsamic Vinegar
5-6 slices of white onion
Italian seasoning
Basil
Romaine Lettuce
Ciabatta Bread
In a pan, douse the bottom with EVOO and start to cook the chicken. When the chicken is half cooked, add two turns of balsamic vinegar to the mix. Throw in large onion slices. Top chicken with italian seasoning and basil. Let cook through.
Place chicken in refrigerator to cool off.
Now, here's where you have two options. You can either:
1. Put the chicken over lettuce, top with the bruschetta, and serve cold with toasted garlic ciabatta bread
(which is what we did last night)
OR
2. Using a panini maker (or a warmed skillet), top ciabatta bread with chicken, bruschetta, lettuce and serve as a panini sandwich.
Read Your Keys
Preface
[Can blog entries have prefaces?]
My fingers itch to write. It tingles beneath the surface of my tips and reaches to the lining of my stomach. To scratch it, I simply need to hunker into the couch, open a new blog entry, and write (and scratch) and write (and scratch) and write (and scratch) until the relief consumes me and I've composed another entry... I have, after all, been neglecting my blog this summer.
I sat down three times today to compose an entry, but my cauldron of inspiration is dry. I have a few ideas, but they're premature and essentially reiterating what I've already blogged about repeatedly: my love for autumn and my ache for jeans and scarves and peppermint hot chocolate and a dunkin donuts bagel on a frosty morning.
So, I perused an old textbook from college that lists multiple writing exercises, and while surely I could force a story with each, nothing ignited excitement worth pursuing. But I did encounter an interesting exercise:
Articulate your earliest childhood memory. Describe it in sensory detail to your audience.
I've seen this exercise before. I've heard the phrase "earliest memory" plenty of times in conversation, media, books and writing. I am certainly baffled by this prompt, and moreover thankful that none of my former teachers ever required this as an assignment. Perhaps it is particular to me (though surely, I am not so special), but I have no chronological lineage to my early memories. If I were to create a visual depiction of my memory, it would look like a collage, not a timeline. For a girl so organize, my inability to meticulously categorize my memories is frustrating. However, I, too, have verbalized this phrase, though I will admit in this very moment, its orientation to the story is useless, since I cannot prove it true.
This isn't to say that I don't have a concept of timing. In organizational survival fashion, I have paired my knowledge of my past with authentic memories to construct a hybrid that allows for some idea of setting. And in all honesty, I fake the rest.
But tonight, I will jump from this platform of the early memory. While I cannot sincerely and honestly convey to you my earliest memory, I feel I can delve into an old favorite.
Entry
[What? It's not like blog entries have a first chapter.]
I remember the weight of that old maroon sweatshirt. It cradled me around my shoulders. It hugged me on mild afternoons when the sun warmed and the breeze cooled.
That was my football sweatshirt.
I don't know how old I was, maybe five or six, but it was already a father and daughter Saturday tradition to walk to the college for the game. My memory starts in the same place each time: Mom wrestled on my sweatshirt and laced up my sneakers. Dad slapped on his long brim hat and reached for my hand. Through my dark Buster Brown bangs, I tracked our trek, and we always walked the same route: down Delaware, across Broadway, and through the neighborhood by the college stadium. It was always chilly, but never cold. We passed Mary decorating her front porch with pumpkins and corn stalks. We waved at Mike on his ladder. We leapt over the train tracks, checking, always, for squashed pennies on the rails. Sometimes Dad told stories. Sometimes I did. We talked about school and football.
"We're playing Brockport today. They're going to be tough." - he'd say.
When we arrived at the field, the ticket teller stamped our hands. Waves of red, white, black and gray flooded the stands. College kids chanted taunts at the opponents, their faces painted and words slurred. But we never went directly to the bleachers. Our routine was as old as our tradition. We, first, walked to the concession stand. Standing in line, Dad hollered at the offense. Other fans around us did the same. I could never see the field when we stood in line, so I watched the cheerleaders flip and shimmy their pompoms.
Dad ordered a coffee, a water and two hotdogs, always. We smothered our dogs with ketchup (mustard on Dad's), and walk to the end zone near the smokers and uninterested children rolling in the grass.
There. Dad taught me football. I pinched my face between the triangles of the fence as Dad pointed out the holes in the lines. He named positions. He challenged me to watch one guy for each play.
"Goddamnit! Read Your Keys!" - he'd shout between lessons.
Every Saturday, we spent the first quarter in the end zone.
For the second quarter, Dad and I moved to the bleachers to continue my lesson. I loved the bleachers because I didn't have to squish my face or miss the ball. I could see everything. Dad pointed out plays and instructed me to watch the defense anticipating the offense and the offense outsmarting the defense. The commentator crackled in the dated sound system. The crowd erupted in a collective roar when the offense carried the ball into the end zone. Dad stomped his boots into the bleachers and grabbed my hand in celebration. Fans around us did the same, and an irreversible love for the game and the camaraderie of the fans swelled with every weekend.
Needless to say, this tradition is a standing 24 year tradition, to include half of the regular season in 2011.
Preseason football starts in these next few weeks and I am longing for a heavy sweatshirt, a hot dog and a walk to the stadium with Dad. While Hawaii has it's own idea of football weekends, it's certainly not the same. So, I am counting down to football season 2014 when Nick and I will be back on the mainland and Dad and I will be back in the Cortland stands - at least for a game or two. :)
Monday, August 6, 2012
Defer 'til Ya Die
One of my very dear friends, John Sinsabaugh, is a creative genius. His artistic eye catapulted him into his own business called Mindful Designs Studio where he's works his own freelance design contract with some pretty impressive cliental - like the Rochester Red Wings.
But he never forgets about his friends back home. And since most of us are submerged in the college loan crisis, John designed a shirt for us, to which he will probably market, sell rapid and subsequently pay back his own massive debt. And somewhere, along his way, a nosey reporter will ask how he freed himself from the shackles of sallie mae, to which he will tell the story of this profound shirt he created for his friends in 2012 in an effort to occupy the deferment department of our loan companies. The irony of it all.
To all fellow bloggers out there - when he sells these shirts, I will link you to the site. You should buy four and help a fellow debter with his monthly payments.
Love you Johnny! :) xo
But he never forgets about his friends back home. And since most of us are submerged in the college loan crisis, John designed a shirt for us, to which he will probably market, sell rapid and subsequently pay back his own massive debt. And somewhere, along his way, a nosey reporter will ask how he freed himself from the shackles of sallie mae, to which he will tell the story of this profound shirt he created for his friends in 2012 in an effort to occupy the deferment department of our loan companies. The irony of it all.
To all fellow bloggers out there - when he sells these shirts, I will link you to the site. You should buy four and help a fellow debter with his monthly payments.
Love you Johnny! :) xo
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Team Starmweber
As if my marriage really needed any reinforcement, today I was reminded why I picked Nick as my ultimate teammate.
It was a hard day.
No.
Today was a day that would have sparred any girl to burst into tears multiple times.
In summary: We woke up to our washer/dryer unit in an inch of water, with lint spattered on the walls like a bomb exploded out of the back of the dryer. A typical Sunday for my me and my hubby consists of an early morning venture into town for coffee at our favorite breakfast cafe. Well, today we broke our tradition and instead spent the morning sopping up linty water from the washer pan in our laundry closet. Through sweat and grunting, we (mostly Nick) managed to hoist the dryer off of the washer and into the hallway so we could proceed to clean up the quandary of laundry waste.
Oh it gets better.
After we contacted our property manager for advisement on the unit (which was after the clean up and after Nick tinkered with possibly exploring the problem himself), we decided to tackle the next issue that had come to fruition a few days earlier: my cell phone. The phone has broken twice in the last four months, which angers me blind. We spent the remainder of the rest of the day making two trips into Kapolei to visit the Verizon store, gathering mis-information from incompetent verizon retailers, and calling att to see if we should nix our contract all together. Needless to say, it was already 4:30 before Nick and I finished our second battle of the day.
We spent the remaining hours of daylight crunching numbers and budgeting to include my student loan payments (help me, I'm poor!), while trying to pad our savings account, and as the sun pulled the light from the sky, it sucked my emotional energy with it.
But never once was I alone as I toed the battle lines.
MOREOVER–- as I finished applying for automatic debit for my student loans, sent off a wedding gift and attempted to register our vehicles the state of Hawaii, Nicholas jumped in the kitchen and began preparing the most exquisite Sunday dinner that I have had in a while. As I finished on the computer, Nicholas placed a summer shrimp pasta in front of me. Fresh diced tomatoes, basil, fresh minced garlic and olive oil over spaghetti and accented with sauteed shrimp. Ciabatta garlic bread on the side with a colorful garden salad (and pepperoncinis on mine!), and all paired with a chill moscato. Yum!
I'm not sure I can articulate how wonderful it is to combat days like today with Nick. He is the perfect balance and sanity to the challenges we face as new 'grown-ups'. And to end the day with a delectable dinner and a walk with our Hobbes makes a challenging day like today among my top favorite Sundays of this whole first year of marriage.
A homage to Nick: my husband, my teammate and the one who can ground me in sanity while coloring my life with the magic of love :)
It was a hard day.
No.
Today was a day that would have sparred any girl to burst into tears multiple times.
In summary: We woke up to our washer/dryer unit in an inch of water, with lint spattered on the walls like a bomb exploded out of the back of the dryer. A typical Sunday for my me and my hubby consists of an early morning venture into town for coffee at our favorite breakfast cafe. Well, today we broke our tradition and instead spent the morning sopping up linty water from the washer pan in our laundry closet. Through sweat and grunting, we (mostly Nick) managed to hoist the dryer off of the washer and into the hallway so we could proceed to clean up the quandary of laundry waste.
Oh it gets better.
After we contacted our property manager for advisement on the unit (which was after the clean up and after Nick tinkered with possibly exploring the problem himself), we decided to tackle the next issue that had come to fruition a few days earlier: my cell phone. The phone has broken twice in the last four months, which angers me blind. We spent the remainder of the rest of the day making two trips into Kapolei to visit the Verizon store, gathering mis-information from incompetent verizon retailers, and calling att to see if we should nix our contract all together. Needless to say, it was already 4:30 before Nick and I finished our second battle of the day.
We spent the remaining hours of daylight crunching numbers and budgeting to include my student loan payments (help me, I'm poor!), while trying to pad our savings account, and as the sun pulled the light from the sky, it sucked my emotional energy with it.
But never once was I alone as I toed the battle lines.
MOREOVER–- as I finished applying for automatic debit for my student loans, sent off a wedding gift and attempted to register our vehicles the state of Hawaii, Nicholas jumped in the kitchen and began preparing the most exquisite Sunday dinner that I have had in a while. As I finished on the computer, Nicholas placed a summer shrimp pasta in front of me. Fresh diced tomatoes, basil, fresh minced garlic and olive oil over spaghetti and accented with sauteed shrimp. Ciabatta garlic bread on the side with a colorful garden salad (and pepperoncinis on mine!), and all paired with a chill moscato. Yum!
I'm not sure I can articulate how wonderful it is to combat days like today with Nick. He is the perfect balance and sanity to the challenges we face as new 'grown-ups'. And to end the day with a delectable dinner and a walk with our Hobbes makes a challenging day like today among my top favorite Sundays of this whole first year of marriage.
A homage to Nick: my husband, my teammate and the one who can ground me in sanity while coloring my life with the magic of love :)
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Hobbit Hollow B&B
For my small handful of avid followers (hi mom), you know I've mentioned this place before, but yet again, I am acquiescing to the ache for nostalgic comforts.
Tangential back story:
Skaneateles is about 45 minutes from home. It's a quaint town. My mom and I have annual November dates in Skaneateles to peruse the shops, lattes in hand, as the first snow usually twinkles down softly around us. Whenever I walk its Main Street, I feel like I've apparated into one of those old New England porcelain snow villages my mom set up for Christmas. Some of the walkways are cobblestone. The old buildings smell musty and creek with the wind, accelerated by the lake. We usually eat at the same waterfront restaurant; we request the back room next to the wood-burning stove, both for the swelling heat to flush our cheeks, and also for the first smells of winter. Removing our scarves and jackets, Mom and I order a glass of wine and split an apple brie croustini drizzled in a warm raspberry sauce. We spend the afternoon milling in and out of old shops, laughing at hand-painted signs, purchasing the first gifts of the season and occasionally treating ourselves to trinkets from The White Sleigh or a cozy flannel from Roland's Men and Boys. Surely, living in Hawaii, our annual afternoon outting is only momentarily paused. I vow, as soon as we are back on the mainland, that I will travel home every November to reinstate this coveted tradition.
But that's besides the point.
Always, while driving or while sitting in traffic, my mind sifts through the past, and I delve into a favorite memory. Lately, my memories have a theme.
Autumn.
I miss autumn. I miss the wind nibbling at my cheeks, and the click-clack of my stack-heel leather boots, and scarves and jeans. Gosh I miss jeans. Perhaps this ache for the cold is instigated by the sweltering days in the sun, by the humidity that seeps into the walls of our Hawaiian home and bakes us all afternoon like a slow-cooking turkey. No. There is no 'perhaps'. These are most certainly the reasons for my ache for the cold. I seek refuge from the heat in the chill of my thoughts, especially when my skin is clammy-wet from the heat and the feeling of sweat tracing the curve of my spine is more familiar than.... the curve of jeans around my waist.
Anyway, I know none of you feel sorry for me. I live in Hawaii. So I'm not looking for pitty. I'm merely attempting to articulate my love for cooler climates. And, for those of you who know me well, you know that the arrival of mid-July typically provokes my yearning for the fall. I'm a fall girl. Our October wedding was not chosen based on convenience.
One of my top ten favorite fall memories is from Labor Day weekend 2010. I know (Nick) that Labor Day technically isn't fall. But it signifies the closing of summer time and, depending on the weather for that weekend, it certainly can inspire that familiar autumn chill.
In 2010, I surprised Nick with a weekend in Skaneateles to dually celebrate his birthday and our anniversary. He had been gone all summer working for an engineer company outside of Chicago, and I wanted us to retreat for us time in the quiet of a a bed and breakfast called Hobbit Hollow. I found Hobbit Hollow on a listing of New York b&bs. The photos of the property stole my breath, never mind that the location was Skaneateles.
Nick and I drove along the far side of the lake. Crimson and burnt orange leaves popped in preview along some of the tree tops. As we slowed to the driveway off 41A, I was enchanted by the colonial architecture of the old home.
Tangential back story:
Skaneateles is about 45 minutes from home. It's a quaint town. My mom and I have annual November dates in Skaneateles to peruse the shops, lattes in hand, as the first snow usually twinkles down softly around us. Whenever I walk its Main Street, I feel like I've apparated into one of those old New England porcelain snow villages my mom set up for Christmas. Some of the walkways are cobblestone. The old buildings smell musty and creek with the wind, accelerated by the lake. We usually eat at the same waterfront restaurant; we request the back room next to the wood-burning stove, both for the swelling heat to flush our cheeks, and also for the first smells of winter. Removing our scarves and jackets, Mom and I order a glass of wine and split an apple brie croustini drizzled in a warm raspberry sauce. We spend the afternoon milling in and out of old shops, laughing at hand-painted signs, purchasing the first gifts of the season and occasionally treating ourselves to trinkets from The White Sleigh or a cozy flannel from Roland's Men and Boys. Surely, living in Hawaii, our annual afternoon outting is only momentarily paused. I vow, as soon as we are back on the mainland, that I will travel home every November to reinstate this coveted tradition.
But that's besides the point.
Always, while driving or while sitting in traffic, my mind sifts through the past, and I delve into a favorite memory. Lately, my memories have a theme.
Autumn.
I miss autumn. I miss the wind nibbling at my cheeks, and the click-clack of my stack-heel leather boots, and scarves and jeans. Gosh I miss jeans. Perhaps this ache for the cold is instigated by the sweltering days in the sun, by the humidity that seeps into the walls of our Hawaiian home and bakes us all afternoon like a slow-cooking turkey. No. There is no 'perhaps'. These are most certainly the reasons for my ache for the cold. I seek refuge from the heat in the chill of my thoughts, especially when my skin is clammy-wet from the heat and the feeling of sweat tracing the curve of my spine is more familiar than.... the curve of jeans around my waist.
Anyway, I know none of you feel sorry for me. I live in Hawaii. So I'm not looking for pitty. I'm merely attempting to articulate my love for cooler climates. And, for those of you who know me well, you know that the arrival of mid-July typically provokes my yearning for the fall. I'm a fall girl. Our October wedding was not chosen based on convenience.
One of my top ten favorite fall memories is from Labor Day weekend 2010. I know (Nick) that Labor Day technically isn't fall. But it signifies the closing of summer time and, depending on the weather for that weekend, it certainly can inspire that familiar autumn chill.
In 2010, I surprised Nick with a weekend in Skaneateles to dually celebrate his birthday and our anniversary. He had been gone all summer working for an engineer company outside of Chicago, and I wanted us to retreat for us time in the quiet of a a bed and breakfast called Hobbit Hollow. I found Hobbit Hollow on a listing of New York b&bs. The photos of the property stole my breath, never mind that the location was Skaneateles.
Nick and I drove along the far side of the lake. Crimson and burnt orange leaves popped in preview along some of the tree tops. As we slowed to the driveway off 41A, I was enchanted by the colonial architecture of the old home.
We were greeted by the inn-keeper, a Mrs. Potts figure who offered us a tour, our house key, and warm chocolate chip cookies. The library we passed on the way to our room neatly held old books with tattered spines. I can only describe this space to you by telling you to close your eyes and picture a small library from a movie or a novel. The room smelled like the pages of an antiquated book. An old sofa, curvy and romanticly French, sat rigidly against the wall. It didn't invite you to curl up and read, but it somehow did capture the spirit of the whole house. I wanted to live there.
Our room was the Lake View room. It sat above the front porch. It had a fireplace and a queen-size bed. On the bed we found a tray of chocolate covered strawberries and a bottle of wine on ice. Before we ventured into town, we sipped our wine and laughed our way through stories from our adventures, together and apart, over the summer.
In the early evening sun, we slipped on jeans and long sleeves, and drove the mile into town, passing breathlessly beautiful mansions and old victorians. We parked near the town center, and wandered out on the board walk, but didn't stay long. Whispers of fall prickled our skin and we chilled quickly.
The rest of the evening was storybook-like. We strolled along the main street of Skaneateles. We ducked in and out of shops. We stopped in the park to sit on a bench before we realized the park's name (Thayer Park). We laugh and naturally, like most romantic stories in our repertoire, we sent a photo of the park to our Wags. Tired from the day, we retreated early. Our room, cozy and dark with rich reds and deep mahogany wood, captured us and spun the night into a sleepy daze. Right before we drifted out of consciousness, fireworks lit the lake and jolted us to look out our floor-to-ceiling windows. As if it all could not have ended more perfectly.
The next morning, Nick and I woke early. The inn-keeper offered us coffee when we ventured downstairs. As she made a homestyle breakfast (with fruit and veggies from the garden on the property), Nick and I rocked in the wooden rocking chairs on the front porch. A Central New York frost swept the tips of the grass, and the pristine lake glistened like glass in the morning sunshine. Our noses ran with the airy chill, but the sun kept us from seeking warmth in the house.
I ascertained at the moment on the porch that Nick and I would be back to Hobbit Hollow. It has the potential to be our special spot in the rolling hills near home.
Photo from that weekend, right before we left
Sept 5, 2010
Blueberry Goat Cheese Pie
Early morning pie-baking goodness. Nick requested this non-traditional pie after an afternoon binge on Diners, Drive-ins and Dives on the Food Network. The Food Network featured this recipe while visiting the 3 Sisters Cafe in Indianapolis, IN.
We Starmwebers are partial to this show since we've been to two of the featured restaurants: The Eveready Diner in Hyde Park, NY and now Murphy's in Honolulu, HI. But that's besides the point. So here it is: the creamy sweet pie with the foundational taste of basil. Enjoy!
We Starmwebers are partial to this show since we've been to two of the featured restaurants: The Eveready Diner in Hyde Park, NY and now Murphy's in Honolulu, HI. But that's besides the point. So here it is: the creamy sweet pie with the foundational taste of basil. Enjoy!
Blueberry Goat Cheese Pie
Make your traditional pie crust. I use my mom's recipe for apple pie. You don't need to cover this pie, so only make enough for 1 crust. Roll dough. Place in 9" glass pie plate.
Filling:
1/2 c. soft goat cheese crumbles
1/2 c. heavy cream
1 egg
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. flour
salt
1 tbs finely chopped basil
5 c. fresh blueberries
Combine everything except the blueberries. Then, carefully fold in the blueberries. Pour into bottom pie crust.
Cut off excess dough around the edges of the pie, and kink the edges
Topping:
1 c. sliced almonds (toasted)
1/2 c. sugar
1/3 c. melted butter
Top pie evenly with topping.
Bake 350 F degrees for about 25 minutes, rotating pie halfway through.
*Nick and I like the crust of our pies a little thicker. For that, add about 5- 10 minutes in the oven. Watch that it doesn't burn, but make sure the crust is golden brown.
The pie - yum
My critic - we love it!
I approve, too :)
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Mia-Approved Mexican Cuisine
Let's just have a moment of honesty, here: I'm not big on Mexican food. I will certainly comply with our friends when they want to have Mexican dinner night or go to a local Mexican style restaurant, but salsa and guacamole don't make my mouth water. Last night, however, while perusing through Target for fans to cool down our sauna of a house, Mexican dinner inspired me. It was the tacos, actually. They looked delicious and from there, I created the rest. This meal will be recycled into our dinner menu.
Mia-Approved Mexican Plate
1 pack mini pre-made chicken tacos (found near the other dinner-ready foods)
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 can shoepeg corn, drained
1 can chick peas, drained and rinsed
Shredded carrots
Shredded Mexican blend cheese
mixed greens
Pineapple Mango Salsa
90-second Spanish rice (if desired)
Preheat oven 425 degrees. Place mini chicken tacos on baking sheet. Bake for 6 minutes thawed (8 min frozen). While tacos are baking, on two plates, separate bed of mixed greens. Top each pile of greens with black beans, chick peas, corn, carrots and finish with sprinkled shredded cheese. Scoop Salsa on the side. Add 1/2 serving of Spanish rice.
Pull chicken tacos from oven. Let stand 1 minute. Add to plate, and serve!
Yum :)
Monday, July 16, 2012
Run the World
Maybe 'run the world' is a little presumptuous, but yes! I decided to start running (small) races. I need something to train for. It's not enough to go to the gym or run aimlessly to consume a certain time. I've stalled at a plateau. I feel like I'm constantly striving for a fit lifestyle, but I have nothing to measure the progress.
I lift at the gym. I run, but not for milage and not for fun. I run to consume minutes. I run until I feel like I've wasted enough time, until I surrender to the surge of panic that could or maybe should be doing something else.
Over the last few weeks, as I've built my endurance back, I've been pursuing this idea of running races. It started with my conscious moratorium wherein I asked myself how I drifted away from the love of running. Over the last few weeks, I still haven't be able to discover why I fell out of love with running, but I do remember our steamy, sweaty love affair.
In high school and in college and all through grad school, I used running as my therapy. Stress and happiness and anger and sadness and procrastination and overwhelmed-ness instigated a hardy run. I craved the ache. I relished in the sore muscles. I sacrificed work to be at the gym. Feeling the burn made me feel alive. The endorphins blasted through my veins for a high that could inspire just about anything. I sincerely (and sadly) cannot articulate when I lost this motivation, but it's certainly slipped over the last two years.
I've noticed. And I want it back.
So, to begin, I am signing up for races this fall. Re-igniting my drive needs a catalyst, and I ascertain that training for something will serve that purpose.
I have the best workout buddy any girl could ask for, and she has agreed enthusiastically to be my race buddy. For now, we have fully committed ourselves to The Color Run on November 3rd. The concept of this run excites me. It just looks fun. When my runner girl gets back from New York, we will carefully choose our other autumn races.
I'm motivated. I want to be a girl on the run again.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Summer Pursuit
"Life ought to be a struggle of desires toward adventures whose nobility fertilizes the soul"
Rebecca West
I've decided I want to read Rebecca West this summer. Twentieth century feminist, though not self-proclaimed, she was a lit critic and wrote a myriad of texts. She even covered the Nuremberg trials in The New Yorker. Her wit is sarcastic and timeless, and I'm excited to embark on familiarizing myself with this woman's voice.
Here's Your Sign
I hate crafts. I've always hated crafts. They make me sticky, or they don't turn out as planned, or they take too long.
When I start something, I want to finish it in one sitting. That's how I wrote my papers in college. That's how I build this blog. That's my flow. If I walk away, the return percent decreases by a half life every fifteen minutes.
In high school, I used to scrapbook. But I followed the same rules, and I completed every album in less than an afternoon.
Needless to say, I haven't attempted anything crafty in quite some time.
However, Nick has been on surgery recovery all week and I am officially on summer vacation. We caught up on sleep, cleaning, laundry and grocery shopping in about two days, and since, the urge to 'make something' overwhelmed me.
And not just any 'something'. I wanted to make canvas art for our home. Here are my first two attempts:
Attempt #1 is a 11x16 canvas wrap. It is the signature lyrical phrase from our wedding song. I created the lettering with stick-on 2" lettering (3" for the 'kiss me' part) and then Design Master spray paint - a combination between blueberry and a royal blue. It dried in less than five minutes, and I pealed the letter off of the canvas.
When I'm out of my comfort zone, I make every effort to follow societal norms so as not to illuminate my novice. I, therefore, attacked this particular project without any sort of planning or measuring so as to foster my spontaneous artistic muse. That's what artists do, right? My lovely, medically-stoned, engineer of a husband kindly pointed out that failure to plan, sketch, measure and level results in crooked lettering. While I rebutted his claims and criticize him back for being too structured, I was simultaneously irked by the crooked lettering brought on by my failure to incorporate planful tendencies. So for Attempt #2, he helped me...
This time, I used a 16 x 16 canvas. I drew 2" lines with a straight edge and plotted out the message before I started to stick the lettering to the canvas. I hand-painted the canvas over the lettering with a cloudy blue acrylic paint. And let everything dry in the sun for approximately 2 hours before I peeled off the lettering.
I far from love my two projects, but for someone who was going to outsource my future children's craft days to my crafty friends or local youth bureau afternoons, I think these two signs aren't terribly bad. Good enough to share on pinterest, at least :)
When I start something, I want to finish it in one sitting. That's how I wrote my papers in college. That's how I build this blog. That's my flow. If I walk away, the return percent decreases by a half life every fifteen minutes.
In high school, I used to scrapbook. But I followed the same rules, and I completed every album in less than an afternoon.
Needless to say, I haven't attempted anything crafty in quite some time.
However, Nick has been on surgery recovery all week and I am officially on summer vacation. We caught up on sleep, cleaning, laundry and grocery shopping in about two days, and since, the urge to 'make something' overwhelmed me.
And not just any 'something'. I wanted to make canvas art for our home. Here are my first two attempts:
Attempt #1 is a 11x16 canvas wrap. It is the signature lyrical phrase from our wedding song. I created the lettering with stick-on 2" lettering (3" for the 'kiss me' part) and then Design Master spray paint - a combination between blueberry and a royal blue. It dried in less than five minutes, and I pealed the letter off of the canvas.
This time, I used a 16 x 16 canvas. I drew 2" lines with a straight edge and plotted out the message before I started to stick the lettering to the canvas. I hand-painted the canvas over the lettering with a cloudy blue acrylic paint. And let everything dry in the sun for approximately 2 hours before I peeled off the lettering.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Beautiful
Sometimes, a writer is an artist who crafts a masterpiece so honest and raw and beautiful, the world will not be right until everyone reads her words.
For my friends, please read this article by Sarah Shanfield published on the Huffington Post's website.
What it means to be 25 Today
For my friends, please read this article by Sarah Shanfield published on the Huffington Post's website.
What it means to be 25 Today
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Buffalo Chicken Salad 'Zone
Two fabulous recipes with practically the same ingredients.
Buffalo Chicken Salad
for Two
1 Chicken breast, chunked
Red Hot Sauce
Spicy Ranch Dressing (Hidden Valley)
Lettuce
Carrot
Fresh tomato, chunked and seedless
chunked cucumber
Goat Cheese or Sharp Cheese
In a pan, throw in the chunks of raw chicken with a tsp of olive oil. When chicken is almost cooked, add red hot sauce. I add a lot because I like to see how far I can push Nick with spicy foods and also, my father calls me 'asbestos mouth' in reference to my tolerance for anything hot.
Also add a tbs of spicy ranch dressing. Let cook through. Set aside.
Make your salads using lettuce, carrots, tomato, cucumber and cheese. Add chicken. Top with combination red hot sauce and ranch dressing. Top with broken tortilla chips for added crunch.
Buffalo Chicken Calzone
for Two + Lunch-overs
1 Chicken breast, chunked
Red Hot Sauce
Spicy Ranch Dressing
Ricotta Cheese
1 egg
Fresh Pizza Dough
Pizza Sauce
Shredded Sharp Cheese
In a pan, throw in the chunks of chicken with a tsp olive oil. Like the salad above, when the chicken is almost done (but not quite!), add red hot sauce and a tbs ranch dressing. Let cook through. Set aside.
In a small bowl, whisk together ricotta and egg. Roll out pizza dough with flour on your hands and the counter. Spray pizza stone with Pam. Set round, rolled out dough on stone. Spread ricotta mixture on 1/2 the dough (avoid edges). Top with chicken and sharp cheese. Add more ricotta. Add more sharp cheese. Add red hot sauce and a tiny bit of ranch dressing.
Fold together. Pinch edges of dough to avoid leakage.
Bake 400 degrees until done. Honestly, I lost track of time. Maybe 30 minutes? Go until the crust is golden and then add five minutes to make sure it isn't dough-y.
Serve with pizza sauce :)
Friday, June 8, 2012
So The Book I'm Reading...
I was that child who hated to read, and I know exactly why. It had absolutely everything to do with my last name: Starmer.
I fall into a nostalgic abyss frequently on this blog, and I'm going to do it again here. You need it as the back story, anyway.
When I was little, my parents and I (one, or both of them, situationally depending) would snuggle up before bedtime and read.
We would read Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present.
We would read Where the Wild Things Are.
We would read ALL of the Mercer Mayer books.
We read Corduroy four million times.
I could compose an entry with just the list of all my favorite children's book. You might be better suited, however, to peruse the children's section of Barnes and Noble, because I'm fairly certain we owned them all.
This, if you can't tell, is not when I hated reading. I loved it. It was cuddle time with Mom and Dad. It was a world of life lessons, of learning the foundations of great literature, of using a book to relax at the end of a long day. It's how I learned to read. It's when I learned to love writing. I am so not ready for children, but I do like the idea of starting a collection of my favorite children's book.
Nick might faint, however, and accuse me of trying to convince him to have kids by way of books. He then might then divorce me when he finds me curled up in a corner reading Guess How Much I Love You before he leaves for deployment. Don't worry honey! I won't start the children's book collection... yet. Or if I do, I'll hide it well.
No, my hate of reading happened in elementary school.
The first incident occurred in the first grade. My teacher was obsessed (ob-sess-ed) with dinosaurs and whales. What foofoo first grade girl wants to read about T-Rex and Shamu?? Well not me. I'm pretty sure we were on Land Before Time III at that point, and I was over it. There is only so much a bunch of dino babies can do with rocks and trees. Anyway, first grade lasted forever (for a few reasons), but my horrid memories lie in the perpetual post-lunch reading circles that seemed to only produce books on dinosaurs and whales. And while, at first, they minimally piqued my interest, I was done by October. And 40 weeks for a seven year old is a life sentence.
That was incident #1.
The second incident occurred in the second grade. I know. I was hit twice. How ever did I survive?
In the second grade, we began the "accelerated reading program." This, for your non-ninety's kids, is a program that promotes reading at home with your parents. Which is great! I already did that! Ah, but there was a stipulation: I had to check out books from the library.
Theoretically, this was a fabulous idea. The bookshelf that my younger brother and I shared choked with books stuffed in ever open space possible. Really, it was time for a bigger shelving unit. We had read all the books!! Of course we had our favorites that we pulled out frequently, but the idea of a library fascinated me! We only really visited the public library during the summer time. So I was thrilled to have one in my school!
And then, the first library day arrived.
We walked in, single filed in a 'boys' line and a 'girls' line. The school's librarian, an order woman, welcomed us to her lair. Half the entire library was dedicated to the primary grades (k-3). Half the library! I was so excited to slide my fingers along the spines of the books until I found one with a pretty cover that I wanted to pull out and take home. The librarian, we'll call her Mrs. Eggs, made us sit on the thin, blue rug, and she introduced us to the library.
She gave us a tour. She read a book that won something called a Newbery Award (though I don't remember what book it was, I remember that I didn't like it. Or maybe I just didn't like the way she read it). Then, it was time to choose our own books to take home with us for a whole week until it was library time again.
I perked up, hoping to be the first to the bookshelf. I had to beat out my classmates for the most fruitful selection. But instead, Mrs. Eggs told us to settle down. We were only going to choose from the books on the table. She pointed to a small, round table with about 15 books scattered across it. Then, to make the selection even worse!, she called people up by the first letter of their last name:
"If your last name begins with A, you may go pick your book out now."
"If your last name begins with B, you may go pick your book out now."
"If your last name begins with ...."
I was the second to the last person to pick out my book, and I so very clearly remember my choices:
Dino-Baseball
or
The Elephant's Wrestling Match
Really? Dino-baseball which fuses my first grade experience with boy stuff, or a book about an elephant that wrestles? Elephants were big creatures so it was practically the same thing as a dinosaur or a whale. So I had to choose between baseball or wrestling for a seven-year-old girl probably wearing a pink headband.
The remainder of my second grade year followed suit. Most of the books were chosen for us. Most of the time, I chose last.
"If the last letter of your last name begins with A, you may go pick your book out now" --- "R" is the same as "S". Once, she said we were going to choose by the last letter of our first name. I almost cried out of happiness. And then, she started from the back of the goddamn alphabet. Are you kidding me?
Anyway, those crucial primary years solidified my hatred for books. That librarian added the catalyst when I started picking out books that were "below my reading level", and I therefore were not allowed to check them out. The world of reading, once so comfy and cozy, crashed mercilessly. Why spend time reading my books at home when they didn't count at school? When I had to read Dino-fucking-Baseball to earn credit?
So I stop. My love for books smothered under the stumpy heel of my librarian.
.... this post is dragging; let me get to my point...
My point is this:
Even today, I struggle with books. If I am not immediately sucked into the bowls of the story by page 5, I have a very hard time finishing the rest of the story. Often I don't.
I cling to the books that steal my heart. The Book Thief and Harry Potter and 11/22/63 and The Phantom Tollbooth (ok, the one good book I read in the third grade). I read others. I stomach through them for the conclusion. I wish I was my mother, who can zip through fifty books during the summer. She absorbs them like a dry washcloth. I wish I loved reading that much but every time I pick up a novel, the novel has to prove to me it's good, or at least that it's worth reading.
That said, I'm reading a stellar book right now. It has no literary value. So if you think the college writing professor from University of Hawaii is recommending something that is deeply thought providing, I assure you, I am not. This book does not stimulate the mind.
It does, however, instigate uncontrollable tears of laughter. I cannot read this book in public for fear of laughing out loud and making strangers feel uncomfortable.
The book is called Let's Pretend This Never Happened, and it's by Jenny Lawson. I'm fairly certain that my two best friends co-conspired to write this novel together. It's a mix of Kage and Krista and their very dry senses of humor (is that the plural phrase of sense of humor?).
Read it. Chapter by chapter will prove hilarious. It sucks you in at page #1.
I fall into a nostalgic abyss frequently on this blog, and I'm going to do it again here. You need it as the back story, anyway.
When I was little, my parents and I (one, or both of them, situationally depending) would snuggle up before bedtime and read.
We would read Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present.
We would read Where the Wild Things Are.
We would read ALL of the Mercer Mayer books.
We read Corduroy four million times.
I could compose an entry with just the list of all my favorite children's book. You might be better suited, however, to peruse the children's section of Barnes and Noble, because I'm fairly certain we owned them all.
This, if you can't tell, is not when I hated reading. I loved it. It was cuddle time with Mom and Dad. It was a world of life lessons, of learning the foundations of great literature, of using a book to relax at the end of a long day. It's how I learned to read. It's when I learned to love writing. I am so not ready for children, but I do like the idea of starting a collection of my favorite children's book.
Nick might faint, however, and accuse me of trying to convince him to have kids by way of books. He then might then divorce me when he finds me curled up in a corner reading Guess How Much I Love You before he leaves for deployment. Don't worry honey! I won't start the children's book collection... yet. Or if I do, I'll hide it well.
No, my hate of reading happened in elementary school.
The first incident occurred in the first grade. My teacher was obsessed (ob-sess-ed) with dinosaurs and whales. What foofoo first grade girl wants to read about T-Rex and Shamu?? Well not me. I'm pretty sure we were on Land Before Time III at that point, and I was over it. There is only so much a bunch of dino babies can do with rocks and trees. Anyway, first grade lasted forever (for a few reasons), but my horrid memories lie in the perpetual post-lunch reading circles that seemed to only produce books on dinosaurs and whales. And while, at first, they minimally piqued my interest, I was done by October. And 40 weeks for a seven year old is a life sentence.
That was incident #1.
The second incident occurred in the second grade. I know. I was hit twice. How ever did I survive?
In the second grade, we began the "accelerated reading program." This, for your non-ninety's kids, is a program that promotes reading at home with your parents. Which is great! I already did that! Ah, but there was a stipulation: I had to check out books from the library.
Theoretically, this was a fabulous idea. The bookshelf that my younger brother and I shared choked with books stuffed in ever open space possible. Really, it was time for a bigger shelving unit. We had read all the books!! Of course we had our favorites that we pulled out frequently, but the idea of a library fascinated me! We only really visited the public library during the summer time. So I was thrilled to have one in my school!
And then, the first library day arrived.
We walked in, single filed in a 'boys' line and a 'girls' line. The school's librarian, an order woman, welcomed us to her lair. Half the entire library was dedicated to the primary grades (k-3). Half the library! I was so excited to slide my fingers along the spines of the books until I found one with a pretty cover that I wanted to pull out and take home. The librarian, we'll call her Mrs. Eggs, made us sit on the thin, blue rug, and she introduced us to the library.
She gave us a tour. She read a book that won something called a Newbery Award (though I don't remember what book it was, I remember that I didn't like it. Or maybe I just didn't like the way she read it). Then, it was time to choose our own books to take home with us for a whole week until it was library time again.
I perked up, hoping to be the first to the bookshelf. I had to beat out my classmates for the most fruitful selection. But instead, Mrs. Eggs told us to settle down. We were only going to choose from the books on the table. She pointed to a small, round table with about 15 books scattered across it. Then, to make the selection even worse!, she called people up by the first letter of their last name:
"If your last name begins with A, you may go pick your book out now."
"If your last name begins with B, you may go pick your book out now."
"If your last name begins with ...."
I was the second to the last person to pick out my book, and I so very clearly remember my choices:
Dino-Baseball
or
The Elephant's Wrestling Match
Really? Dino-baseball which fuses my first grade experience with boy stuff, or a book about an elephant that wrestles? Elephants were big creatures so it was practically the same thing as a dinosaur or a whale. So I had to choose between baseball or wrestling for a seven-year-old girl probably wearing a pink headband.
The remainder of my second grade year followed suit. Most of the books were chosen for us. Most of the time, I chose last.
"If the last letter of your last name begins with A, you may go pick your book out now" --- "R" is the same as "S". Once, she said we were going to choose by the last letter of our first name. I almost cried out of happiness. And then, she started from the back of the goddamn alphabet. Are you kidding me?
Anyway, those crucial primary years solidified my hatred for books. That librarian added the catalyst when I started picking out books that were "below my reading level", and I therefore were not allowed to check them out. The world of reading, once so comfy and cozy, crashed mercilessly. Why spend time reading my books at home when they didn't count at school? When I had to read Dino-fucking-Baseball to earn credit?
So I stop. My love for books smothered under the stumpy heel of my librarian.
.... this post is dragging; let me get to my point...
My point is this:
Even today, I struggle with books. If I am not immediately sucked into the bowls of the story by page 5, I have a very hard time finishing the rest of the story. Often I don't.
I cling to the books that steal my heart. The Book Thief and Harry Potter and 11/22/63 and The Phantom Tollbooth (ok, the one good book I read in the third grade). I read others. I stomach through them for the conclusion. I wish I was my mother, who can zip through fifty books during the summer. She absorbs them like a dry washcloth. I wish I loved reading that much but every time I pick up a novel, the novel has to prove to me it's good, or at least that it's worth reading.
That said, I'm reading a stellar book right now. It has no literary value. So if you think the college writing professor from University of Hawaii is recommending something that is deeply thought providing, I assure you, I am not. This book does not stimulate the mind.
It does, however, instigate uncontrollable tears of laughter. I cannot read this book in public for fear of laughing out loud and making strangers feel uncomfortable.
The book is called Let's Pretend This Never Happened, and it's by Jenny Lawson. I'm fairly certain that my two best friends co-conspired to write this novel together. It's a mix of Kage and Krista and their very dry senses of humor (is that the plural phrase of sense of humor?).
Read it. Chapter by chapter will prove hilarious. It sucks you in at page #1.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Too Delish Not to Share, Part I
I've been stretching my culinary muscles as of late, and I have some killer recipes to post. Though, for fear that I have nothing to post later and because I'm a fervent control freak, I am going to allocate my recipes one at a time ....
Before I moved to Hawaii, my mother gifted me with a subscription to Taste of Home magazine. Since as long as I can remember, we've loved cooking together. In the summer, especially, Mom and I would peruse through recipe magazines in the grocery store and find new and interesting combinations to try in our own kitchen. Probably my favorite investment Mom ever made in the recipe realm was The Taste of Home's Big Book of Soup, though that is for another post entirely and to be honest, I'm sitting here typing on my computer and sweating profusely so I don't want to talk about soup right now.
Anyway, aside from Taste of Home sending me fake bills saying I need to pay for the subscription my mother already bought for me, I love this magazine. I found, in their most recent issue, a recipe for Spinach Penne salad. Nick and I have completely been on a salad kick. Our apartment bakes in the Hawaiian afternoon sun, and even by the time the Army finally allows Nick to go home and our body's are telling us we're famished, it hasn't cooled off yet. That said, we've found it absolutely repulsive to sweat while we eat, so we stick to the coolest meals we can possibly find-- and those meals have mainly been salads.
How much can you vary leafy greens so they don't make you gag every night for three weeks straight? Just ask the editors of Taste of Home.
DISCLAIMER: I have my own, vague measurement system since I size everything down to feed only two people. One of the last issues of ToH provided recipes to serve TWELVE humans.
Before I moved to Hawaii, my mother gifted me with a subscription to Taste of Home magazine. Since as long as I can remember, we've loved cooking together. In the summer, especially, Mom and I would peruse through recipe magazines in the grocery store and find new and interesting combinations to try in our own kitchen. Probably my favorite investment Mom ever made in the recipe realm was The Taste of Home's Big Book of Soup, though that is for another post entirely and to be honest, I'm sitting here typing on my computer and sweating profusely so I don't want to talk about soup right now.
Anyway, aside from Taste of Home sending me fake bills saying I need to pay for the subscription my mother already bought for me, I love this magazine. I found, in their most recent issue, a recipe for Spinach Penne salad. Nick and I have completely been on a salad kick. Our apartment bakes in the Hawaiian afternoon sun, and even by the time the Army finally allows Nick to go home and our body's are telling us we're famished, it hasn't cooled off yet. That said, we've found it absolutely repulsive to sweat while we eat, so we stick to the coolest meals we can possibly find-- and those meals have mainly been salads.
How much can you vary leafy greens so they don't make you gag every night for three weeks straight? Just ask the editors of Taste of Home.
DISCLAIMER: I have my own, vague measurement system since I size everything down to feed only two people. One of the last issues of ToH provided recipes to serve TWELVE humans.
Spinach Penne Salad
Whole wheat penne pasta, cooked, rinsed and cooled in fridge
Fresh baby spinach, chopped into bite sizes
Parm Cheese
EVOO (1/3 cup)
Red Wine Vinegar (3-4 splashes)
Sm squirt of yellow mustard
oregano
garlic powder
salt + pepper
goat cheese
onions
banana peppers
black olives
In a mixing bowl, combine spinach, penne, onions, banana peppers, black olives. Set aside.
In small bowl, add EVOO, parm cheese, vinegar, mustard, oregano, garlic powder, salt and pepper. Mix together with a small whisk. Pour on top of spinach penne mix. Toss together. Add more EVOO if desired. Transport to plate. Top with goat cheese.
Makes 1 serving.
Repeat process for additional servings.
DISCLAIMER #2: Photo credit goes to Taste of Home magazine; the final product I created looked nothing like that.
DISCLAIMER #2: Photo credit goes to Taste of Home magazine; the final product I created looked nothing like that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)