Unputdownable.

A few months ago, H. and I grabbed lunch at Tommy's in Cleveland. In case you were wondering, I do remember exactly what we got. H had a burger and I had a baba ganoush/falafel pita. FOOD BLOG! But that's not the point...the point is, Tommy's is attached to a little book store, where I found this book:

I picked it up because of the cover, then found out it was a children's book, then convinced H to buy it for me anyway. I just read it this week and I can't recommend it highly enough! It is meant for kids, so if you have a problem with that...then I don't know, you shouldn't be reading this blog. It was completely engaging from beginning to end, and I can't remember the last time I've been so involved in a book. It's surprisingly dark and even a little scary (but I'm very easily frightened). I'm reading the second one now!

Sewing!

The reason for my lack of posting (besides the fact that no one reads this, obvs) is that my life has been taken over by a new obsession: sewing. Basically, much like J.C. Chasez, my life's motto is now ADIDAS, except for me the 'S' stands for sewing (I find that when writing a new blog post after a long while, it's always a good idea to make a reference to a solo album by a former member of N'Sync. It really draws people in!). I really don't want to do anything else but sew lately. Maybe some crocheting, but that's about it.
I've tried many, many other times to learn to sew, but it's never "clicked" for me. For some reason, this time I was serious about it and I've been learning the basics in a slow, methodical way. I started with an apron about a month ago:

Seemingly easy; just a rectangle, right? Well, no! For me, the biggest hurdle (and the reason I could never get into sewing before) was just learning about the machine. Sewing machines can be daunting; they're expensive, heavy, and confusing. It took me an embarrassingly long time just to learn how to wind the bobbin. Even after you learn how to set the machine up, there's the matter of decoding commercial sewing patterns. You'd think they'd be simple, but if you have no idea where to begin, it's like they're written in a different language. I would've given up if I hadn't had my mom around to explain what "baste," "gather," and "blind stitch" meant.
Before I sat down at the machine this go-round, I told myself that this was it. Now or never. I was going to conquer this thing, no ifs, ands, or pouting. My mom walked me through the machine's basic functions and then scurried off to garden or bake a commissioned cake or something. I painstakingly stiched white bias tape onto a pocket. The fabric kept slipping and it was so difficult, but I told myself I couldn't give up. I had to keep doing this even if it killed me, and I was starting to think that it might.
After a tedious hour and a half, my mom came inside and told me I didn't have the presser foot down, which was why my fabric wouldn't stay put. I didn't even know what a presser foot was. Needless to say, I've come a long way in a month.
What I love most about sewing is the deep feeling of connection it gives me not just to the women in my family, but to women throughout history. One of my biggest annoyances in life is people who persist on labeling sewing, knitting, crocheting, or any type of needlework as "anti-feminist" or in some way a step backwards. Debbie Stoller (editor of Bust) effectively counters this in the introduction to her excellent knitting book Stitch 'n Bitch. She explains that domestic arts like embroidery were often the only way stifled women had of expressing themselves; playing with color and pattern were outlets for creativity, not always a necessary chore. In addition to this, she points out that knitting is often looked down upon precisely because it's primarily a hobby for females. Traditional "men's" hobbies (like, for example, fishing) don't have the same stigma. The fact is, many women enjoy these hobbies. We don't need to look at them as trivial ways to pass the time or as a way we allow ourselves to be subjugated. I'm certainly feeling much more powerful just knowing that I'll be able to make several new pieces of clothing.
Here are some of the other things I've made. Definitely nothing spectacular yet, but I'm trying to progress at a natural pace and not attempt anything too difficult before I'm ready. I know how stubborn and easily frustrated I am, and I don't want to burn out.
I made curtains to replace the ugly, dark green lace valances that came with the apartment. I just wish I'd done this sooner.

Also I made this turtle out of a pattern my mom had from the 1970s. I appreciate the attention to anatomical detail.

Last week I completed a pair of PJ pants that I haven't photographed yet, and I'm currently working on a skirt and a quilt (actually, I've been working on this quilt since the SECOND GRADE. Um...yeah). On deck are curtains for my bedroom, another pair of PJ pants, drafting a pattern for PJ shorts, and a really lovely blouse.

Ice Cream Update: Jeni's

You can stop worrying now; I made it back to Jeni's! I know you were like, "Is she ever going to try that Salted Caramel??" This time we went to the Dublin branch (I know I could say "location," but "branch" makes it sound like I was there on official business. Which I was. Official Ice Cream Business.) and it was just as charming, possibly more so, than the location of our previous visit. Downtown Dublin will make you overdose on "quaint." Seriously, it was so cute it was almost too much. This time I got a half scoop of Salted Caramel and a half scoop of Bourbon Butter Pecan. The Salted Caramel had a really wonderful, almost burnt taste. I loved it so much. And the Bourbon Butter Pecan actually tasted like alcohol! Also I'm pretty sure our ice cream scooper was this guy:

Pretty sure.
Perhaps most importantly, this happened:

If I had better/any Photoshop skillz, I would make sure La-duh-loo was sitting right where my purse is. You'll be glad to see that H. is still wearing that hat! He's worn it everywhere for the past two weeks. I'm really not kidding; he's actually worn it every single place we've gone.

Pizza Galore

I made a lot of food for H. this weekend because, clearly, I am the best girlfriend ever.
Saturday night I made a pizza. This was my first attempt at pizza dough and I was pretty nervous, probably more nervous than I should have been, seeing as pizza-dough-making is a relatively small stakes game. But I'm almost as afraid of yeast as I am of drifters, and I spend a LOT of time thinking about drifters. I've never been able to make yeast "work," no matter how many "no-fail" recipes I've tried. I ended up using the recipe from How to Cook Everything, also known as one of my favorite cookbooks ever. It turned out pretty well! This was the pizza before it went in the oven.

H's half is covered in pepperoni, olives, and a cheese substitute called Veggie Shreds, which is made mostly of soy and lots of other things. I was a good sport and ate this on my pizza about a week ago, but in general I don't like to eat anything that isn't made of real ingredients. So, basically anything that's called a "food product" instead of, y'know, food. I can definitely see the benefit of this for people like my boyfriend, though! My half is green peppers, olives, and sliced mozzarella. When I pulled this puppy out of the oven, H said, "It looks like a real pizza!" I'm not sure what he thought I'd been working on; fake pizza? I went ahead and took it as the compliment it might've been intended as. We both really enjoyed this, especially the crust! Mark Bittman was right. He always is.
This morning, I got up early to put together breakfast. You should probably just hire me to come to your house and make breakfast while you sleep, because I am an early riser; I usually wake up a good two hours before H. Today I made pancakes that were unintentionally vegan; I mean, neither of us are vegans, but H doesn't stock dairy products and he didn't have any eggs since he's trying to clear out his fridge before his move. I used this recipe for vegan oatmeal pancakes, and honestly, I didn't expect them to be very good. But, surprise, they basically tasted like regular pancakes! To go along with them, I made some "homefries" that weren't actually fried. I used the "crispy potato" technique discussed in one of my favorite podcasts, Spilled Milk. Basically, you boil the potato chunks awhile, rough 'em up a bit, then put them in the oven with lots of oil (or goose/duck fat, if you happen to have any of that lying around, but H doesn't seem to stock that, either).
Ta-da, breakfast!


I also sautéed some kale to go with mine, but H didn't have any. That boy doesn't eat greens with breakfast. Get outta town.

Ice Cream Obsession: Jeni's

This weekend I "helped" H look for apartments. Mostly this involved me complaining about how ritzy everything was. I just don't like things that look too new, shiny, or uniform. I like character, age, a slight shabbiness, perhaps outdated wood paneling...oh, is that last one just my apartment? Well, the point is I'm not a very useful apartment hunter. But that's okay, because the high point of the day was stopping for food in a cute neighborhood.
I'd wanted to try Jeni's Ice Cream forever. I read about it in magazines, gazed longingly at it in the Dean and Deluca catalog my bosses get in the mail, and pressed my hand forlornly against the freezer case at Whole Foods. Somehow driving, like, 50 miles to get some was out of the question? No longer! I finally had Jeni's ice cream and it was delicious.

Jeni's is famous for flavors like Salted Caramel and Bourbon Butter Pecan, but when it's hot, I need fruit. I wanted to get a scoop of something a little strange and a scoop of something normal that I thought H might try. He refuses to tolerate lactose, but I thought a nice Lemon Blueberry might tempt him. For the wildcard, I chose Wildberry Lavender. The description promised a "complex" flavor. I don't know what that means! It was good, though.

I ate it all. H wouldn't even try it.

I've begun a series of photos of H saying no to dairy. Like this one:

I would highly recommend Jeni's. It's on the pricey side, sure (four dollars for two pretty large half scoops), but they have unusual flavors you can't get anywhere else--Sweet Corn & Black Raspberry, Cayenne Pepper, Pistachio and Honey--and, remember, this is a treat! You don't have ice cream everyday, so when you do you might as well go all out. Don't be like the bitchy lady who exited the store with her four year old and sniped, "Nevermind. We're not getting ice cream. They don't have vanilla. What kind of ice cream shop doesn't have vanilla?" Um, the kind that sells specialty flavors? Also, there was a Coldstone down the street, and I know you can get the Papa Winfrey Special there (vanilla with chocolate chips). I can't wait to go back and get something weirder!

Richard Brautigan

I'm not a poetry person. I used to be, when I was in high school, but even then I was only reading the poets that every teenage girl swoons over; e.e. cummings, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton. There are poets that I like, but in general I am not going to sit down with a book of poetry. I don't enjoy things that have to be read several times in order to be understood, unless they're going to make me feel really sad or really happy. I like poets that evoke maximum emotion in minimum words, like Charles Bukowski. Easy to read, funny, makes me depressed. Check, check, and check! But what if you want a version of Charles Bukowski that doesn't, like, make you feel terrible to be a woman? Enter Richard Brautigan.

Richard Brautigan manages to describe things in ways that don't make any sense at all, yet they make perfect sense. It's the same way I feel about a really good pulled pork sandwich; I wouldn't be able to tell you why it tastes so great, it just does. Richard Brautigan's poems make me see things from different angles, and they make me sadder than just about anything. Here's one of my favorites:

"Boo, Forever"
Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

Probably my favorite website in all of the internet is The Brautigan Bibliography and Archive. Don't visit it unless you have an afternoon, or an evening, or a few days to kill. You can read his poetry there, as well as read about his life.
Here's one of his most famous poems:

"Love Poem"
It's so nice
to wake up in the morning
all alone
and not have to tell somebody
you love them
when you don't love them
any more.

Not that all of them are so sad. Some of his poems are funny, maybe even cute, without any hint of sadness:

"December 30"
At 1:30 in the morning a fart
smells like a marriage between
an avocado and a fish head.

I have to get out of bed
to write this down without
my glasses on.

You can search by poem title and also by collection title in the archive. It's such a great resource and I'm so happy it exists. You can also, if you're curious, read about Richard Brautigan's life and death, but be warned that it is confusing and tragic, and not in the fun way. If you're near a good library or in the mood to buy some books, I'd recommend his poetry collections. For me, his novels have been a little difficult to get through, but maybe they'll be exactly what you're looking for! Several summers ago on my lunch break from my shitty summer job I was reading Trout Fishing in America, which features a scene where two characters have sex in a pool of stagnant river water and a dead fish floats by. Now I can't eat chicken salad anymore without thinking of that scene. SO be warned, I guess. Regardless of what I just said, please check out Richard Brautigan's poetry and that wonderful, wonderful website. Whenever I visit it, I think, "So THIS is what the internet was made for!"

Books of My Youth: Grandma & Grandpa's Basement Edition

When I was a kid, my grandma's basement housed a lot of things; canned fruits and vegetables, way-too-realistic-looking toy guns from when my uncles were children, a persistent mildew smell. But what I was most interested in, of course, were the books! A shelf in the corner held a relatively small but reliably strange collection of damp books, many of which I read on the long afternoons Alex and I spent there during the summer. I know it's such a cliche to reminisce about the laziness of your youthful summers, but man, it just seemed like we had endless amounts of time then. I could just pick up a book I'd never heard of and knew nothing about and not think about all the other millions of things I should be doing with my time. Okay, to be honest that kind of sounds like my life now. But it was just different somehow. When I think of summers spent at my grandparents', I think of Little Alex running around wearing an army helmet, stray cats that we terrorized (we were just trying to love them!), and rooting through those books in the basement.
Memorable books include a cautionary but still pretty tame story about teen pregnancy that I really wish I could remember the title of; a copy of 1984 that included a picture of George Orwell with a mustache added by one of my aunts or uncles; a young-girl-friendship book called The Secret Language; and this gem, which I just remembered today for no reason at all:

Tomas and his sister didn't have parents or something, and they were trying to avoid being found out by children's services or the welfare agency. It was all very Boxcar Children, but with a Puerto-Rican twist. That cover's been lodged in my brain ever since I first saw it. I wish book covers still had this delightful hand-drawn look. I would say that I want to save this book for my future children, but honestly, it's probably been overtaken by the mildew at this point.

Recent Acquisitions

For Christmas last year, H. bought me a really wonderful, thoughtful gift; McSweeney's San Francisco Panaorama. I actually still haven't read some sections of it yet (politics, sports), but I loved the comics and I pored over the literary supplement for weeks. It was exactly the sort of thing I've always wished we got with our newspaper; a thorough, magazine-sized contemplation of books. Besides a really charming interview between Miranda July and James Franco, the piece that most caught my eye was a column dedicated to out-of-print books. The words out-of-print always make my heart sink; whether it's a book or a little-known movie from the 80's (Electric Dreams, anyone?), the idea that something exists but isn't really accesible is a hard one for my mind to grasp. Anyway, this column was dedicated to Edna O'Brien's August is a Wicked Month, a book I'd certainly heard of but hadn't ever thought much about. The author of the piece described finding her copy at a used bookstore on a roadtrip in the midst of a relationship's unraveling. She ended the article by basically saying that if you ever find a copy, you need to buy it.
I immediately went on a hunt. Surely the internet, that great treasure chest, would prove to be my salvation. Not exactly...this book really was hard to find for a reasonable price, unless I wanted the Spanish edition, which was strangely easy to find. Of course B&N was out of the picture, as was my library, which has a long history of having every book/movie in the world except for the one I want at the moment. So for the last six months, I've been searching in vain.
This weekend, H. and I visited a bookstore in his town. It's one of my favorite bookstores because it's run by a charity that helps adults learn to read, or get their G.E.D., or learn English as a second language. All the books are ridiculously cheap, and since they're donations, the store has a pretty weird assortment. All hardcovers are only three dollars, and I've found some relatively new books. I got quite a haul this time, and as we were leaving, H. pointed pointed out a shelf and two boxes marked "FREE." As I idly picked up a copy of The Bell Jar, a purple paperback stuck out beneath it. "Holy shit," I dramatically stage-whispered to H.

I couldn't believe it. After six months spent searching, there it was, free for the taking! This isn't the sexiest cover available, but I'm not about to look a gift free-book-box in the mouth.
What are the sexiest covers, you ask? Well, there's this one. Edna O'Brien is basically the biggest bad-ass.

Then there's this one:

And then there's (eek!) this one:

The cover describes the book as "a fluid, sensual novel, throbbing with the heartbeat of desire." I assume I'll love it. In the usual nature of such things, I'm sure that this book is now available everywhere for a very reasonable price. But if you can't find it, feel free to borrow my copy.

Recommended Reading

One of the books my mom bought me for my birthday was called Little Bee by Chris Cleave. I love surprise book gifts like that; my mom's a big "Give me a list of what you want!" type of person when it comes to holidays, but really all I ever want is for someone to pick out books they think I'll like. We'd been admiring the cover one day at Barnes and Noble, and I think she bought it as much for her and she did for me. Which is just fine by me! I do that sort of thing all the time.
I was a little familiar with Chris Cleave before starting Little Bee, because I once took an English capstone dedicated to the effect/portrayal of 9/11 on literature. It was one of my dumber ideas...I don't know where in my anxiety-riddled brain I thought it would be cool to meet twice weekly and hear about one of the greatest catastrophes to ever happen in the U.S. To this day, if I see the words "September 11th" on a book jacket, I immediately put the book down (not kidding). I remember Chris Cleave's book, Incendiary, being very good, but still very disturbing.
I thought perhaps this one would be different, which is understandable given the copy on the back cover:

"We don't want to tell you what happens in this book.
It is truly a special story and we don't want to spoil it.
Nevertheless, you need to know enough to buy it, so we will just say this:
This is the story of two women. Their lives collide one fateful day, and one of them has to make a terrible choice, the kind of choice we hope you never have to face. Two years later, they meet again--the story starts there...
Once you have read it, you'll want to tell your friends about it. When you do, please don't tell them what happens. The magic is in how the story unfolds."

Well, that sounds cute! I thought to myself. Well, okay. This was a great book. I couldn't stop reading it, especially up until about the halfway mark. Not only did it have an unbelievable amount of momentum, but the narrators were charming and intriguing (one more than the other). But cute it was not. Totally horrifying and upsetting would be a better description. The book dealt with a lot of issues, chief among them the divide between the "first world" and the "third world," the concerns of the upper class vs. real problems, what sort of responsibility people of privilege have to help those who are disadvantaged, and the treatment of immigrants. But here is the moral of the story, in my opinion: Don't take a vacation in a country that's in the midst of an oil war! It will not turn out well.
This book will only take you a night or two to finish, and it's about 8 dollars or something on Amazon. Recommended!

On Being A Sorry Excuse for an English Major, or My Reading List

I have an English degree. This might surprise you if you've perused my blog. You are like, "I'm sorry, was your concentration in Creative Writing, or was it in Using a Webcam? Because this is terrible." You are awfully judgmental, but you're nothing compared to the Voice Inside My Head. There's a 24/7 dialog going on inside this little noggin that usually culminates in me shouting (in my head, remember!) about how I coulda been a contenda. It's a nightmare in there.
About 2.5 seconds after I graduated, I realized that there were huge, embarrassing gaps in my reading history. This wasn't something I expected. See, I've always been a voracious reader. When I was growing up, there were so many rewards for reading. Of course, Book It, but aside from that there was Accelerated Reader. I don't know if everyone else had this, but the general idea was that each book was assigned a point value. You took a ten question quiz on the school's ancient computers, received the appropriate percentage of points, and then accumulated those points in order to win prizes. Fabulous, fabulous prizes, like...MORE BOOKS! For having the most points in my grade level (huge nerd here), I got a boxed set of the Little House on the Prairie books. Also, a t-shirt, which I wore with misguided, nerdy pride.
In high school, I realized that while the rewards of reading weren't tangible,they definitely still existed. For one, I got to escape my life for a little while. I got to daydream about what the future might be like. Most importantly, I could feel better than everyone else. That's right, I used reading to fuel the sort of superiority complex that only a true outcast could really have. I had the patience to read almost anything, most likely because there was little to no intellectual stimulation at my public school (the only classes I ever studied outside of school for were Calculus and Physics, because like I said, I was an English major). I even read The Fountainhead, a fact that shocks me now. How did I slog through such a boring, long, terrible book? Because I literally had nothing else to do.
I assumed that college would introduce me to the rest of literature's classics, and that would be that. As it turns out, that didn't happen! I read some great books in college, but I still haven't read The Grapes of Wrath. Or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Or Mrs. Dalloway. How did this happen? And what can I do about it?
My solution was to implement a reading list. At first blush, I leaned towards The Modern Library's 100 Best Novels. Plenty of people on the internet are working their way through this list of classics, and it seemed rock solid. On closer inspection, though, it was kind of lame. There are less than ten women on this list. And mostly white dudes. And, most importantly for me, not a lot of books post-1960. While I want to check out all of those novels, I wanted a list that was a little more interesting and diverse. So I found Time's 100 Best Novels from 1923 to Present. The date requirements solve my "too many old books!" problem, and it fits my most important rule: No Ayn Rand! I am not reading Atlas Shrugged, you guys, because I am not a naive, selfish 17 year old. Also, there are lots of fun, light-hearted picks on this list. Like Judy Blume!
I've been very, very slowly working my way through this list for a little over a year. I don't read books off the list continuously, but whenever I'm at a loss over what to read next, it is nice to be able to look at this list and make a pick. I still have a long, long way to go, but maybe someday I'll consider myself "well-read."

Cute Book Alert

Why, yes, all my photos ARE going to be of me holding a book up to my webcam. I think it adds a certain Human Interest. Actually, I can't be bothered to hook my camera up to my computer.
This is a great book I got yesterday. It's a good read if you are:
1) A creative type, but...
2) You have a job.
Oh, that's everyone! Good.

This book will tell you that writing for 15 minutes isn't anything to sneeze at. It's still 15 minutes more than you had yesterday, and something is better than nothing. Sometimes that's all you need to hear.
Also, there are illustrations of Bukowski and Sedaris! Too cute.

Happy Birthday To Me

My family and boyfriend bought me lots of books and DVDs.




I'm the happiest girl in the world.

I Like Food, Food Tastes Good

If you ever met my friend Dan, you would love him. If you're reading this, you probably have met him, so you know what I'm talking about. It's very clichéd to say this, but you know how some people just "light up a room," as the saying goes? Dan's that type of person, the type of person everyone likes. I can think of exactly one girl that didn't like him, but she was a crazy bitch who more than likely stole Dan's Talking Heads album (never proven, but Dan remains convinced). Over the years, Dan's become a part of my family in the way that close friends often do, and I think that my mom actually likes him more than she likes me. We first met at Kenyon college, where we were attending a two-week writing workshop for pretentious 17-year-old writers. Then, in what was either fate, divine intervention, or just an extremely likely coincidence since we had similar majors, Dan showed up in my very first class at Miami University. We walked from that class to Miami's Shriver Center to buy notebooks or something, and the rest is a purple haze of Prince-filled history.
One of Dan's favorite foods (and mine, too, I'll admit) was mini corndogs, referred as Mini Corn D's and served ONLY with honey mustard, which he would mix himself if necessary. I don't eat Mini Corn D's anymore, and I have a feeling Dan doesn't either, since he's become quite the chef as of late. While in college, neither of us were the gourmands we are today (ha), but Dan once bought me a wonderful cookbook that I still use.

This is one of the most fun cookbooks I own. It's all recipes from indie bands! Some of them are like, "Here's a sandwich I eat a lot," and then some of them are pretty complex. So far I've made two: Sweet Potato Biscuits by a band called Roots of Orchis and Rock 'n' Roll Rangoon (Crab Rangoon, der) by Headlights. Even though the latter is supposed to be eaten as an "appetizer," I am guilty of making a lot and eating them all for dinner on Friday. Major yums to both recipes! And the Sweet Potato Biscuits snuck some veggies into Chase and Dad's diets. Chase unwittingly ate, like, a fourth of a sweet potato.

The Lone Surfer of Montana, Kansas

This blog has been a little food-heavy, so here's what I've been reading.

I bought this book on a whim because it was cheap on BetterWorldBooks.com. I was happy to discover that Davy Rothbart snagged cover blurbs from Charles Baxter, Judy Blume, Ira Glass and Arthur Miller! I put those in the order of importance for me, but I think most people would probably reverse them. This is a breezy, fun read; it was a good post-Snow Angels pick, since Snow Angels made me feel a bone-deep despair that hung around for days. I knew I liked this book when one of the stories started with this sentence:
"We were on State Road 400 zooming across yellow Kansas and Sally and I were sore at each other."
Those sorts of sentences are like the fried eggs of writing, i.e. simple, unadorned gems that I will always happily devour. I'm reading about 5 books right now, as is my usual (annoying) habit, so basically I am never going to finish anything.

From My Head Down to My Legs

Do you remember that old advertising campaign for eggs? You know, the one that said, "I love eggs/From my head down to my legs"...? No? Well, I certainly do, and I have to say that I echo the sentiment. I really do love eggs. Most days, my dinner looks a little something like this.

Not very exciting, maybe, but a scrambled or fried egg is the perfect convenient meal for a Lady Dining Alone. I can't ever remember a point in my life that I didn't love eggs. When I was little, naturally, it was only scrambled, but as I grew older and came to realize the glory of a runny yolk, I started to daydream about fried. One of the best things about eggs, in my opinion, is just how easy it is to make them; Papa Winfrey, who would himself admit that he's no great cook, has been known to whip up quite a few scrambled egg sandwiches. He was also the culprit behind the most infamous egg dish I've ever tried to choke down: The Peanut Butter and Jelly Omelet. It was dinner, Mama Winfrey wasn't around, and the man had to improvise! It was really terrible and, in a rare moment of strictness, he told me I had to eat it. There's also an Old Winfrey Legend that Mom once made him a baloney omelet with similar results. Perhaps eggs are not as forgiving a mistress as I thought.
Those eggs I used to down when I was little had one thing in common: they were white and from a grocery store. And that's how I happily lived my egg life up until a few months ago, when I had an Egg Revelation followed by an Egg Conversion which is now being followed by Egg Proselytizing. My epiphany looked like this.

Farm fresh eggs, one of the biggest joys a lady can find in this life. Completely superficially, the beautiful color is what got to me. Who wants plain ol' white eggs when these lovely brown and baby blue suckers are around? The yolks from truly free-range chickens are oranger, which my grandma attributed to them eating bugs. Who can say? The point is these babies are beautiful.
Most importantly, there's the satisfaction I get in knowing where my food comes from. Our local organic market sells these, but they actually come from a farm owned by my best friend's mom. These chickens work, play, and sometimes run across the road to meet an untimely death just a mile or two from my parents' house. I've seen what they look like, where they live, and how, if you drop one of their eggs on the ground, they will all peck it open and then eat it. I'm not saying chickens are smart animals (they are so dumb), but it is important that they are healthy and, as much as chickens can be, happy. I don't want to get all Food, Inc. on you, but I want my eggs to come from chickens that look like chickens, not chickens with no beaks that can't even stand because their breasts are so heavy.
Eggs from free-range chickens are by no means necessary to enjoy the wonders of a runny yolk smeared over toast. They are noticably different, though, or else I wouldn't be spending my morning waxing poetic about them. But now, what you came here for: egg porn.

Bundt Time

My favorite type of cake to make for special occasions is the Bundt. There's just something homey and welcoming about it. When you make a Bundt cake for someone, in essence you're saying, "You're special enough for a cake!" while also saying, "Oh, this old thing? I just threw this together." The Bundt cake has a kind of casual elegance that transcends its dumpy name; Bundt just sounds way too much like "butt" for my liking, and who wants to bake a Butt Cake? I guess some people do.
This is another recipe from Joy the Baker. I really do make things that aren't from her website, but I have to admit that I made three of her recipes in the past two weeks. She's reliable, like the Barefoot Contessa of baking blogs. Like the Orange Cream Pie, I made this Poppyseed Cake with Blueberry Glaze for Easter.

I ate this after dinner and for breakfast and lunch the next day. That means it's versatile! Or it means that I have no self-control when it comes to baked goods.
Enjoy this money shot.

Orange and Cream Pie

One of the desserts I made for Winfrey Family Easter (okay, actually it wasn't the Winfrey side of the family, but I'm still going to call it that) was Joy the Baker's Orange and Cream Pie. I'd made it once before and it turned out reasonably well, and citrus seemed appropriately springlike. But mostly I just love making pudding like it's nobody's business. There are few things as satisfying in this world as making a pudding pie. First, there's the matter of the graham cracker crust. Graham cracker crusts are easy to assemble but still leave me feeling as if I've accomplished something. Melt butter, add crumbs, press into pan---really, this is a very salt-of-the-earth pie crust we're talking about. Then there's the actual pudding, the making of which seems nothing less than magical every time. Logically, I understand that adding cornstarch to a liquid will cause it to thicken. I mean, scientifically, I get it. But there's still a part of me that always thinks "Maybe this time it won't happen!" And when it does, I feel like an alchemist. Well, an alchemist that deals in pudding, not gold.

There were too many desserts so Chase was the only one that tried this. He gave it a thumbs up, though, so my mission was a success.

The Cheevs

Well, hey there, who is this fine gentleman?

It's John Cheever, of course!

Yesterday I went to the library's monthly book sale and I scored this Collected Stories for only a dollar. As is usually the case with me, it will be awhile before I get to reading any of the books I bought. My reading list is a mile long. I'm excited about this one, though. I've read a little John Cheever (I have a very distinct memory of staying home in bed one weekend night in college and reading one of his story collections), but I only remember two of his stories really clearly. Those two are, as any good former creative writing major knows, The Swimmer and Goodbye, My Brother.

Yes, I AM posting a picture of what I ate for breakfast.

My breakfast this morning, eaten while the rice for the Barefoot Contessa's Orange Pecan Wild Rice was cooking.

Steel cut oats, whole wheat toast with Mama Winfrey's homemade strawberry jam, and coffee ground from whole beans we bought at the farmer's market. The beautiful bowl was a gift from Heather.

Reading Some Books, Eating Some Food

Because I am a narcissist, I have this compulsion to write (in a public forum) about the books I'm reading and the food I'm eating. Of course, this is not exactly revolutionary, and I highly doubt anyone will read this, but at least it will provide me some sort of record, if nothing else.
Alex and I already have a blog, but this is the stuff that I think would bore him. Far better to put my long-winded ramblings in a blog-ghetto. Prepare yourself (who am I talking to?) not for insightful commentary on fiction or for sumptuous snapshots of cakes, but instead for uncomfortable personal stories that barely relate to something I'm reading and blurry, poorly-lit photographs of what I had for lunch.
I'll try to update soon with more details, but for now: I'm currently reading Snow Angels by Stewart O'Nan. Today I made an orange cream pie and at the moment I'm waiting for a poppyseed Bundt cake to cool.