CraftyRichela

Food & Whine

2012-01-15T14:20:00.001-05:00

I'll begin this post with a recipe for a basic pesto that I've relied heavily on for the past two months.

BASIC PESTO

Ingredients:
1 package of fresh basil leaves (2.5 ounces or 70 grams)
8 medium size cloves of garlic
2 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil (first press if possible)
1/4 teaspoon of salt
fresh ground black pepper to taste

Directions:
Wash the basil and remove the stems from the leaves. Discard the stems and finely chop the leaves. (You can use a food processor for this.) Set aside.

Mince the garlic. You can run the cloves through a garlic press, but I prefer to finely chop them the old fashioned way with a knife and cutting board. Heat up the olive oil in a small sauce pan and then add the garlic and the salt. Cook over medium heat for 1 minute. Turn off the heat and add the basil. Add the ground black pepper. When the mixture cools, transfer it into a small jar and cover it with the lid. Can be kept in the fridge for 3 or 4 days.

My version of pesto doesn't have cheese or pine nuts for two reason: 1. my son has food allergies, specifically dairy and peanuts/tree nuts; and 2. the absence of cheese and pine nuts makes it more versatile.

I've used this pesto for pizza toppings, as the main flavoring for a quick pasta/tuna fish dish, and swirled into a white bean soup. It can be a spread for a fresh mozzarella and tomato sandwich or for an herb crusting on a roast. For my daughter who can eat copious amounts of cheese, I'll add grated Pecorino Romano cheese to it and add it to some fettucini. And when I feel like including the pine nuts, I'll toast a handful in the oven, chop them up, and toss them in whatever dish I've made after it's completed. This makes cooking a lot easier when you've got a million things going on and very little time to whip up a tasty meal.

Which brings me to the "whine" portion of my post...

I've been really sick these past two months and didn't have a medical clue why. My symptoms were chronic fatigue, rapid weight loss, lack of appetite, anxiety, sleeplessness, lower back pain, and depression. I seriously thought that I was dying, and the idea of my inexplicable demise made me a complete basket case during the holidays. I visited a few doctors who made things worse by finding more things wrong with me. I started seeing a therapist so I could unleash a barrage of irrational thoughts and fears into the ether without scaring the bejezuz out of my kids and poor husband Dave. I was becoming emotionally and mentally unhinged.

And then I saw Dr. "S", a human being that at first glance embodied the androgyny of the SNL skit character Pat, possessing big blue eyes with long, dark eyelashes and an endomorphic body. And it didn't help that one of the nurses introduced Dr. "S" as a she. This sexual ambiguity made me regard him with an immediate cocked eyebrow, especially after he asked about my sex life. But after a medical exam that lasted a whopping 45 minutes in which he lectured more than he inspected, Dr. "S" finally referred to himself as a he and casually asked the nurse to draw my blood for some tests. I left with the opinion that Dr. "S" was a certifiable quack who had wasted my time.

Boy, was I wrong. The next morning I got a call from Dr. "S". It turns out that the level of vitamin D in my blood was almost non-existent and he prescribed some toxic amounts of vitamin D for me to take weekly for the next 8 weeks. And the lack of vitamin D in my body was the cause of ALL my symptoms.

Here is a website that can tell you more about vitamin D deficiency: http://www.vitaminddeficiencyguide.com/

Dr. "S", you are not a quack. You are a miracle man. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The Busiest Time of Year

2011-12-13T10:58:00.003-05:00

It's been a few weeks since my last post and I'm feeling guilty about neglecting my poor blog. But the the holiday fairs are over and I'm back. Unfortunately, it's not for very long.

Let's start with the good news: ETSY SALE! Receive 10% off when you use coupon code: HOLIDAY. Good until 12/17.

Okay, the bad news: the holidays are NOT over. And I'm heading back to my bunker---I mean, my studio. (Yes, I upgraded my work space so it's now an official studio; I have a door to prove it!) Presents to make, holiday cards to design, and kids' schedules to organize. 'Tis the season...

One little story to share with you:

Last night my son Mack was sitting at the dining room table, lost in his thoughts and chuckling to himself. Curious to break into the mind of a precocious eight year old boy, I asked him what was so funny.

"Mommy," he began with a smile still on his lips, "I finally know what a round of applause means. It's just when you clap for someone."

I tilted my head to the side and gave him an inquisitive look. "Oh, yeah? What did you think it meant before?"

Mack held up his hands and positioned them so the tips of his fingers and the bases touched, forming an O. "I thought people were saying 'a round applause' and how stupid is that? You can't even make a sound with your hands when they are like this."

We looked at each other and then laughed for a good five minutes. Let's give Mack a "round applause" for getting that one!

Until next time.

Peace.

xxoxRichela

Wine Crate Portfolio Case

2011-11-27T16:21:00.001-05:00

My apologies for being largely absent these last two weeks. (And my apologies for using a cute baby picture of my now ten year old daughter to draw your attention in--but she is cute, isn't she??) I am gearing up for two holiday craft fairs and my hands have been busy, busy, busy.

Recently I had to put together my portfolio and came across a HUGE problem: most of my work is not flat. A traditional portfolio case would not fit anything I've done. My incredibly talented friend Charise Harper (illustrator, children's book writer, all-around creative guru) came over my house yesterday and said, "Why don't you just make a portfolio case?" And after looking around my dining room she spotted an empty wine crate and handed it to me. "Make it out of this."

And I did! I added a hardboard lid and covered it with an old NYC map I found at the Hell's Kitchen Flea Market a month ago. I also used buckles, brackets, screws, and wing nuts that were salvaged from a broken desk, bag, or lamp. But I couldn't avoid a trip to the local hardware store for hinges and a handle.

Here is a little video of my (mostly) finished portfolio case:

Thank you, Charise! You are a genius.

Feeling The Etsy Love

2011-11-12T08:09:00.001-05:00

I am fortunate to be included in two Etsy treasuries recently.

This one, by Petrina Case Studio, is called "trendy for the princess in you":

Petrina Case is a paper engineer that makes lovely made-to-order pop-up books, cards, and business card sculptures. And ,oh, how I love paper artists and engineers. Petrina is quite a talent. Check out her website.

Check this treasury list by Bathing in Luxury of San Francisco, CA (aka "soap") entitled "Held Together With Duct Tape":

My little wallets are in good company. Thank you, Petrina Case and Bathing In Luxury!
I'm feeling the Etsy love today. What a great way to start my weekend.

Awl Choked Up

2011-11-10T09:04:00.001-05:00

I lost my awl. She is gone forever. (Yes, my awl is a woman. What else would she be??)

The last time I used her was on Halloween to poke holes into some rather large pumpkins. It was a last ditch effort to save our jack-o-lanterns and it worked. For the first time since the kids could understand the meaning of the holiday (costumes, free candy, haunted houses, occasional tricks instead of treats, and jack-o-lanterns) we made some pretty darn good-looking jack-o-lanterns.

I must admit that past Halloween jack-o-lanterns have been fairly lame because I won't do any actual pumpkin carving. I'll draw the "old school" triangle eyes and nose with the badly spaced teeth, take a kitchen knife and hack away. And despite what is being advertised, I think the carving kits in the grocery stores are a waste of money. I never bought one despite the whiny complaints of two unhappy Morgan children. But this year I gave in. A week before Halloween the kids and I were grocery shopping and I spotted the corrugated display at the end of the aisle. The kids looked at me; I looked at them. Without saying a word I threw the kit in the shopping cart, causing Masana and Mack to dance around like idiots for the rest of our grocery expedition. (And for the rest of the week can I just admit that I was the favorite parent and I LIKED IT??)

But when we finally got around to using the kit, the word "frustration" would not be sufficient to describe how we all felt. The tools were plastic and the small poker tool broke after a few minutes. So I went into my tool box and got my trusty awl. After working magic on the pumpkins, I washed her and left her on the windowsill by the kitchen sink. I forgot about her until the next afternoon, and when I remembered to look...oh, no! Not there. I looked in the garbage and searched every cabinet, drawer, and basket in the kitchen. I looked in the dining room and all the cubbies. I took my work room apart and combed through all the jars and containers and boxes. I turned my house upside down. But I couldn't find her.

I've gone to the local hardware store to see if I could replace her, but the lovely (and mostly patient) staff could not find anything in the True Value catalog that met my requirements. Of course it's hard to replace something that I've grown to love and have a deep connection with. Of course it's a nearly impossible task to find a tool that has become an extension of my creative mind. But that darn catalog was thick and I was full of hope. And now I sit here, dejected and miserable and awl-less.

Oh, my pretty awl. Look at her! The rounded bottom of her smooth wooden handle, the sharpness of her thick metal pin---how I loved to hold her and know what she could do in my hands.

I am wearing black today, mourning my loss. And if you've ever lost a really important tool, you know how I feel.

A Fresh Take On a Failed Concept

2011-11-02T11:00:00.001-04:00

For the last few months I've been making these letter cards from newspaper and dishwashing detergent boxes. I tried selling them as blank notecards at flea markets, but so far not one has sold. When given the opportunity to hold and examine one up close, a potential buyer would admire it and spew compliments that inflated my ego. But then the card would return to its spot on the display table and the "potential buyer" would turn into the "buyer that got away". (Aw.)

Recently on a rainy afternoon, my kids were playing with the letter cards, spreading them out on the living room floor and arranging them into words like Scrabble tiles. I usually protest when they use my stuff as their playthings, but watching them inspired me.

I made this for my friend Charise and I think it turned out well.

I'll be participating in a few holiday craft fairs and flea markets between now and Christmas, so I'm hoping these letters can work their way into another more successful retail item. Hmm, maybe holiday banners?

Stay tuned...

An Etsy Treasury List

2011-11-01T15:56:00.000-04:00

Cheers to my wine-o ways!

A little wallet of mine was included in an Etsy treasury list by Polyester10.

Thank goodness for wine in a box.

And a big thank you to Polyester10!

No More Corrugated Boxes, Mom!

2011-10-31T11:46:00.001-04:00

I loved making Halloween costumes for my kids--- loved, as in past tense. My costume-making days have been declared over and done with. Masana and Mack have grown tired of my proclivity to use corrugated boxes as the primary costume material and have left me to twiddle my thumbs in the month of October.

Masana's epiphany about cardboard costumes came in kindergarten. In the picture to the right, she is Lady the magical train from Thomas and Friends. Masana discovered (at the tender age of 5) that homemade cardboard costumes were not as compelling as, let's say, a shiny store-bought princess outfit. She wore Lady the cardboard-costume-my-cheapo-mother-made with an embarrassed expression during the school parade and quickly took it off once she reached the safety of her classroom.

In the ensuing Halloweens, Masana has been a frog, a cat, and a tree---all costumes that did NOT involve a corrugated box. Sadly, she will not dress up this year because, according to her posse of 5th graders, she is "too old to go trick or treating." I don't know how any kid can pass up free candy, but Masana will not be carousing the streets this evening. And I guess I'll have to go with it.

Mack, on the other hand, envied Masana's Lady costume and couldn't wait until Halloween to employ my skills for his benefit. For his 4th birthday in the spring of 2007, he asked for a car race straight out of the movie Cars. I made sixteen (16!) car costumes. Each child took a car costume home as a party favor, which made Mack a little sad. He was hoping we would keep all sixteen (16!) cars in the backyard.

After that party, I was ready to make another locomotive. Trains? Been there. Cars? Done that.

A few months after his birthday, Mack asked me to make a tugboat costume for Halloween. I was ecstatic. A boat! How could I refuse?

Mack the Tugboat marched in his school parade. He marched in the village parade. He got interviewed by middle school kids writing a paper on Halloween costumes.

"Where did you get the idea to be a tugboat, kid?"

"Did you help your mom make your costume?"

"Is that thing heavy?"

"Can I try it on?"

Mack loved it.

The following year Mack wanted to be a rocket. So with a corrugated box, two empty paper towel rolls, foil, and two plastic bags we transformed him into "Weapons of MACK Destruction."

I think he simply wanted an excuse to run around like a maniac, but he loved that costume. It stayed in our play room for another year where his friends would admire it and even try it on for kicks.

Then came the year everyone wanted to be a vampire, and I couldn't make a vampire costume out of a corrugated box. And last year Mack wanted to be Brian Wilson of the San Francisco Giants. This year he's a football referee. I offered to make him a football stadium that he could wear over his referee outfit, but he declined.

Oh, well. It was good while it lasted.

Dresses For My Girl

2011-10-27T10:47:00.002-04:00

Masana expressing her discontent.

Here's a little post about my girl.

A few weeks ago, I began searching for formal dresses that Masana could wear to her ballroom dance classes. (Yes, I said ballroom dance classes. "Dancing With The Stars," here we come!) I knew it would be a painful endeavor because she HATES dresses---or more accurately, she HATES the way she feels in a dress. Getting Masana to go shopping with me for a dress was never going to happen, so I went solo and just bought what I considered the least offending styles and colors. A few days before her first class, I laid the dresses down on Masana's bed and asked her to try on each one. After the longest hour in both our lives, Masana chose a black lace dress that didn't make her feel "weird." That night I popped open a bottle of Shiraz and toasted my small victory.

Masana is not some dress hating tomboy. She loves wearing pretty headbands, enjoys getting her nails painted, and is exhibiting signs of having celebrity boy crushes. But she developed an early negative body image a because some idiot "friend" of hers back in the third grade (why is it that mean girl behavior always starts in the third grade??) told her she was fat, that she had fat lips, and that her eyes looked funny---all in one breath. It was expressed with that rhetorical questioning that only lawyers and mean girls seem to have down pat. The only difference is that a mean girl will fire her ammunition in that sing-song playful tone and through a smile so tight that the seams of her face might rip.

This all transpired within the confines of my home, so I guess I was lucky to cut the verbal abuse short. But it took all of my newly acquired suburban prissiness to hold back my inner Brooklyn girl and not throw down right there in our play room. I heard this child say these awful things and I went completely red inside. Yeah, and I didn't want to be on "Dateline NBC" for being the mom-who-got-sent-to-jail-for-threatening-her-kid's-frenemy, so I ordered Masana out of the room and called the girl's sitter for an early pick-up.

Last Friday was her first ballroom class and I struggled mightily with Masana to put on her dress and white gloves. While waiting for her carpool to show up, she hid behind the bushes in our front yard and complained bitterly about everything wrong in her life. I topped this list, of course. But then her ride showed up and all the girls in the car got out. The goofball of the group started doing a mime act with her white gloved hands and Masana laughed. She popped out from behind the bushes and all the girls started talking at once. After striking poses for the camera, the girls piled into the car and went to class. When she came home a few hours later, Masana was all smiles.

This morning I began my usual routine: empty dishwasher, make breakfast, pack lunches, review what extra-curricular activities each kid has. I called out from the kitchen and reminded Masana that she had to leave early for band practice. Before I finished getting the words out of my mouth, Masana entered the kitchen fully clothed and ready to leave. And she was wearing a sweater dress.

My husband came down the stairs and stopped in his tracks when he spotted Masana. And I saw the arc of his emotions: surprise, pride, and...concern.

That's right, Dave. Our girl is a knock-out. In about six months you'll have to deal with the stupidity of boys as they notice her. And in about six years you'll have to scare the bejezus out of all these same stupid boys as they try to date her.

Masana is starting to wear dresses again. And she's enjoying it.

Lights, Camera, Action!

2011-10-18T11:07:00.002-04:00

Last Friday my new iPhone arrived. Ain't she a beauty??

Despite the numerous ways this shiny new toy can organize my life, I am having trouble focusing on specific tasks. Like making lunches for my kids. Today they are having pasta for the umpteenth time. And whatever crafty projects I've had the gumption to start have languished in the middle phases and unceremoniously dumped on the floor of my workroom. It's become a booby trapped area of my home, riddled with thick sewing needles and C-clamps and wire cutters and light bulbs and...anything else that would seem inappropriate for little children to play with. (Gimlets and awls, anyone?)

It might be sheer coincidence, but lately the Mel Brooks classic Young Frankenstein has been airing on HBO during the day. In lieu of music, I sometimes turn on the TV for a little background noise, so the lines of Dr. Frederick Frankenstein have been filling my head.

"Love is the only thing that can save this poor creature, and I am going to convince him that he is loved even at the cost of my own life. No matter what you hear in there, no matter how cruelly I beg you, no matter how terribly I may scream, do not open this door or you will undo everything I have worked for. Do you understand? Do not open this door.

"Let me out. Let me out of here. Get me the hell out of here. What's the matter with you people? I was joking! Don't you know a joke when you hear one? HA-HA-HA-HA."

The only project that I've completed in the last few weeks is a pendant lamp made from an oatmeal tin. Since pictures won't do it justice, here is a quick video of the lamp turned on (shot with my new fancy iPhone):

The metal of the can and chains, the lightbulb, the electrical aspect...hmmm. Maybe I was influenced by Herr Doctor Frankenstein??

Another project that is almost finished is a little sign for my husband Dave.

Dave sleepwalks. I wrote about his sleepwalking last year and how it can be a little, uh, disturbing.
To help rouse himself back to reality, Dave made a little sign that he keeps by the bed, and sometimes it actually works. While in mid-dream, he'll pick his head up from the pillow, open his eyes, and scan the room for whatever he thinks made a noise (usually it's a spider, but do spiders make noises??). Dave will spot his sign and realize that he is just dreaming.

I decided to make him a new sign and have a little fun with it.

Again, I think that you can see the influence of Young Frankenstein here. While sketching, I heard Frederick Frankenstein shouting (while in dream mode):

"DESTINY! DESTINY! NO ESCAPING THAT FOR ME! DESTINY! DESTINY! NO ESCAPING THAT FOR ME!"

It seemed appropriate to include Dr. Einstein and Dr. Freud in this new jazzed up version of Dave's "It's Not Real" picture. You can almost year them saying,

"I beg of you! We are not children here, we are scientists! I assure you there is nothing to fear!"

Okay, okay, I'm done with the Young Frankenstein quotes for today.

But I'm not quite done with this picture. I'm working on the mat and frame, which will hopefully be ready before the end of this month. Cross your fingers that Young Frankenstein is on TV again.

Cheers!

Cheese Babka and BK Swappers

2011-09-15T10:51:00.002-04:00

Individual cheese babka for the BK Swappers event last week.

Cheese babka is one of my favorite treats to bake. The bread is buttery, pliable and firm enough to hold the filling without becoming a mushy mess. The cheese filling is delicately sweet and light. I usually bake it in a loaf pan, but for last week's BK Swappers event (held at 61 Local in Brooklyn) I decided to make them individual size. Using the same recipe for two babka loaves, I was able to divide the dough into 2 large muffin pans for twelve mini cheese babkas. I only traded nine of them; three suffered the "let's make sure it taste good" fate shortly after leaving the oven. Oh, well.

If you want to learn more information about BK Swappers and the concept of food swapping, The New York Times wrote a terrific piece on the women who started it and how it all works. Check it out if you can. And if you're inspired to either join in the next BK Swappers event or start a swap in your comfy corner of the world, check out the BK Swappers Facebook page.

Salsa before I ate the rest of it.
I wish that I had more!

At last week's swap, I was fortunate to trade a babka (or two?) for some delicious heirloom tomato salsa. I was pleasantly surprised to find out that my fellow swapper not only grew all the heirloom tomato varieties, made, and jarred the salsa, but she also maintains a decent blog about gardening in the boroughs of New York City. Being a Brooklynite and watching my Dad till the soil in the patch of dirt we called a backyard, I understand how hard city gardening is. It's a love and a passion and an OBSESSION. The faint of heart need not attempt such an endeavor.

And because she asked (and because she is willing to trade her salsa recipe for it!), I am presenting (yes, to anyone who wants it) my cheese babka recipe.

CHEESE BABKA (yields one loaf or six mini muffin babkas)

Ingredients
Dough
1/3 cup warm milk
1 teaspoon plus 2 tablespoons of sugar
1 package of dry yeast (1/4 ounce)
1 2/3 cups all purpose flour
1 large egg (room temperature)
1 egg yolk (room temperature)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
5 tablespoons unsalted butter (room temperature)

Cheese Filling
1 eight ounce container of whipped cream cheese
1 cup powdered sugar

Wash:
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon whole milk

Crumble Topping (optional)
1 tablespoon cold unsalted butter
1 tablespoon all purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Directions
Dough: activate yeast by mixing it in a large bowl with milk and 1 teaspoon of sugar. Let it stand for 5 minutes. (If the it does not bubble, then the yeast is not useable; start over again.) Mix in the rest of the sugar, then 1/3 cup of flour. Mix in these ingredients one at a time, taking care to mix in between: egg, 1 cup of flour, egg yolk, and 1/3 cup of flour. Add vanilla extract and salt. Add butter and knead it thoroughly in the large mixing bowl, adding extra flour to get a soft and slightly sticky dough. Butter the surface of another large mixing bowl and transfer the dough into it. Add butter to one side of a piece of cellophane and cover the top of the bowl, butter side facing down. Be sure to push the cellophane directly down on top of the dough. Place in a draft free space (inside the oven will do--be sure it's not turned on!) for 2 hours until is doubles in size.

(If you are not ready to bake, you can place the dough in the fridge for up to 24 hours. Take it out a few hours prior to continuing on with the rest of this recipe. This allows for the dough to reach room temperature).

Cheese Filling: in a medium size bowl mix the cream cheese and the powdered sugar.
Wash: in a small bowl mix one egg yolk and a tablespoon of milk.

Remove cellophane and set it aside (you will use it again). Punch down the dough. On a well floured surface, roll out the dough in a rectangle that measures approximately 12 inches high and 20 inches long. With a spatula spread the cheese filling on top evenly. Take the horizontal top end of the dough and roll it inward and down towards the horizontal bottom. You should form a long roll. Bring the two ends together to form a "U" and gently squeeze the ends together. Pull and twist the dough into a helix.
Butter the surface of a bread pan and carefully place the dough in it. With a pastry brush, spread half the wash on the top of the dough. Cover with the buttered cellophane previously used and allow to rise in a draft free area for 2 hours.

Crumble: with a fork, cut butter into small pea size pieces. Add flour, sugar, and cinnamon. Mix until it has a breadcrumb consistency. (This can all be done using the pulse setting on a food processor.)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Remove cellophane and sprinkle the crumble over the top. Spread the rest of the wash over the top and then place in the middle rack of the oven. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes.

------

And there you have it. Now I guess that I'll have to bring something else to the next food swap. My cheese babka secret it out!

The One Dedicated to Food and Tom Cruise

2011-09-14T11:57:00.002-04:00

And there's a recipe at the end of this post.

My children are Food Network junkies, which isn't surprising if you consider the cartoonish drama purposely woven through the narrative of shows like Cupcake Wars and Iron Chef America. The result of their addiction is a positive one--well, at least in my book. At the tender ages of 8 and nearly 10, my children are budding "foodies."

Please note that the glass of red wine in this pic belonged to me
and not my kid! He's a budding foodie, not wine-o.

When my husband Dave and I travel with the kids, we try to incorporate the local food scene into the itinerary. So a trip to a museum could be followed by lunch at a white table cloth restaurant that sometimes does not have a kids' menu. My kids used to roll their eyes when we would announce the day's food destination because "nice places to eat" means they must have table manners or else suffer my wrath. But now they know better. They know that "nice places to eat" also means they are getting the good stuff. So the idea of using utensils, of having a napkin on their laps, of not burping out loud or chewing with their mouths open or talking loudly, is but a mild nuisance in the pursuit of an epicurean delight.

While there may be typical kid food on the menu, there is always a twist. For example, during our recent trip to San Francisco we made a pilgrimage to Alice Water's Chez Panisse. My son Mack had a pizza (typical kid fare) topped with a sunny side egg. The photo above is Mack prior to devouring his pizza. If the darn thing didn't cost $20, I would have ordered him a second. (That boy sure can eat.) My daughter Masana ordered the meatballs and spaghetti (again, typical kid fare). But when her dish came to the table, the meatballs had walnuts in them and the sauce was a green pesto. She initially gave her plate the skeptical once over. After a shrug, she gamely bit into a meatball, smiled, and gave me a thumbs up.

All their travel food experiences have translated into fun dinners at home. I made pizza for dinner the other day and guess what Mack requested for his toppings? Pepperoni, basil, and a sunny side egg. When I served it, I got a round of applause! Oh, Alice Waters. I love you.

Okay, now on to a more personal television-related food experience.

I've been watching a lot of television lately, especially after everyone has gone to bed. And the programming gods of cable have bestowed a gift to me that's better than a food show. They have given me Tom Cruise. Jerry Maguire, Minority Report, and Far and Away...

Far and Away. While I admit that Tom's Irish brogue is anything but lilting, I find his on-screen presence to be mesmerizing. Or maybe it's the size of his biceps.

I've seen pieces of Far and Away almost every night for the past 7 days and it has inspired frequent dreams of potatoes. And Tom. And Tom on a bed of potatoes (oh, dear).

Being a middle aged suburban mom, I will cease providing readers of my blog with salacious visuals and turn to culinary expression. Below is my latest potato dish, inspired by these late-night Tom Cruise dreams--with an occasional bare-chested boxing scene.

Tom Cruise's Twice Baked Potatoes.

Ingredients

3 large potatoes

8 strips of pork or turkey bacon, chopped small
1/2 large onion diced

2 cloves of garlic minced
1 cup finely chopped spinach

1 small carrot, finely grated

4 tablespoons Irish butter

salt and pepper to taste

2 cups grated Cheddar cheese

1. Preheat oven at 350 degrees. Poke holes and cut slits into the potatoes and lightly brush with olive oil. Arrange potatoes on a baking sheet and bake them in the oven for 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

2. Remove potatoes from the oven and let them cool. Set aside.

3. In a medium size skillet cook the bacon. Remove the bacon from the pan and drain excess fat by place it on a paper towel lined plate. Set aside.

4. In the same skillet (and using the bacon fat) cook the onions until it reaches a golden brown color, about 10 minutes. Add add garlic, spinach, and carrots. Saute for an additional 10 minutes. Turn off heat and add the butter. Stir until the butter is melted, then add the bacon. Stir until mixed then set aside.

5. In a large mixing bowl, place the cooked potatoes and mash them (include the skin if you want). Add the bacon mixture from the skillet into the mixing bowl. Add salt and pepper to taste.

(If you are not ready to serve the potatoes, wrap the mixing bowl with cellophane and place in the fridge. Can stay in the fridge up to 24 hours. Remove two hours prior to baking and preheat oven to 350 degrees.)

5. Mix 1 1/4 cups of the grated cheese into the potato mixture. Take out six 10-14 ounce ceramic ramekins or ceramic dishes and fill them equally with the potato mixture. Use the remaining cheese to top each ramekin. Place all the ramekins on a baking sheet and place in the middle rack of the oven. Bake for 30 minutes. Remove and serve hot.

Enjoy!

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2011-08-22T17:45:00.001-04:00

It seems that I took an unannounced hiatus from writing. Having children with busy summer schedules will make any (responsible) adult neglectful of her beloved blog. But look! I have some great photos of what I've been up to this summer. And since most of us like pretty pictures...

Riding Around On Two Wheels
This is my bicycle. Yes, I get looks and comments around town while to-ing and fro-ing, mostly of the appreciative variety. It's just a regular single speed with some bamboo and rattan thrown in for that hipster effect--despite the fact that I am far from being a hipster. (There will not be a need to set any hipster traps in my neck of the woods, that's for darn sure.) I have grown to love my bicycle, which says a lot about me since I loathe to move any faster than the speed my own two feet.

Cooking, Cooking, and More Cooking
Although I did not have a creative/cathartic outlet via writing, I did have cooking. And I added a lot to my culinary repertoire. My most important feat? Learning how to convert my gas grill into a smoker. That in itself is not a huge deal, but I learned how to smoke baby back ribs and whole chicken legs with a Tennessee style rub. Sadly, there are no photos. In my haste to get the falling-off-the-bone goods from the smoker to the table (where hungry children and child-like adults eagerly waited), I forgot to document the moment. But fear not: smoked ribs and chicken shall rise again from my grill!

The farmers' market has been a weekly destination for fresh corn, heirloom tomatoes, okra, onions, garlic, eggs, various herbs, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, and plums. Here are some dishes inspired and made from each week's shopping excursion:

Zucchini and Carrot Pancakes.

Penne with Tuna, Garlic, and Spinach.

Fried Okra, Garlic Rice with Tomato/Cilantro Salsa, and Corn.

Fruit n Juice Pops.

Popovers.

I'll try to post recipes sooner than later. (Really!)

Wallets, Bags, Cards, and Collages
You know what happens when the computer is turned off? I read the newspaper and the magazines that have been piling up around me. Heck, I even read a few books, but I digress...

The newspapers and magazines have provided ample graphic inspiration for new wallets, bags, and cards for my Etsy store. I've decided to try my hand (again) selling at flea markets and fairs. Most of the time I post pictures of my stuff on Facebook, but here are some of my latest and greatest:

Last Friday I participated in Jersey City's Creative Grove Market. Many thanks to Uta Brauser for welcoming me to the Creative Grove family. And a big hi to fellow artisans Yanni, Eddie, and Diane. See you ladies in three weeks when the market resumes.

Back in June I wrote about the collage art of Kurt Schwitters and Richard Meier. Feeling inspired to use my knife skills in more creative ways, I started making my own collage art.

There are more photos for sharing, but I'll end this post here. In my next post, I'll talk about the Jersey Shore, a day trip to Beacon, NY, and racing through the Harry Potter series with my kids.

Until then...

ReadyMade magazine/Ben & Jerry's Pint Challenge

2011-06-28T21:28:00.000-04:00

I made this cooler/briefcase for the Readymade magazine/Ben & Jerry's pint challenge. Vote for me!

I spent the last two weeks eating ice cream, emptying all the pretty containers and sketching out the design of my cooler/briefcase. And while I am paying for it in more ways than I care to share with anyone (hello, fat jeans!), my daughter and I had fun tasting all the different flavors from Vermont's Finest (ice cream, that is). Red Velvet Cake and Jimmy Fallon's Late Night Snack topped our list.

Here are more shots of the cooler/briefcase:

Top view.

Close up of front. I gave the Jimmy Fallon-inspired Late Night Snack prominent placement. I heart Jimmy.

Close up of the handle.

Back of the cooler/briefcase. I couldn't resist adding a little duct tape.

Inside of the cooler/briefcase. Yes, it's insulated!

Please vote for me!

A few things I'd like to mention in this post.

I found out last week that my favorite magazine ReadyMade will close up shop. I was more sad than angry to hear the news. It makes me wonder about the future of DIY. More thoughts on this when I can fully digest the consequences.

Duncan Hines re-designed their cake boxes. What the heck?? I absolutely hate it. The changes were meant to be subtle ones, but it lost so much of its character. The result is a dull, boring box.

You might be wondering why I care so much about Duncan Hines cake mix boxes. For the past 4 years I've been making journals out of them. I had one last retro style cake box left in my stash and made this book.

I may put it under my pillow and pray for the cake box fairy to come. Or maybe I'll frame it so I can gaze upon it from time to time and remember the good ole days of Duncan Hines cake boxes. But the one thing I am sure of is this: I will not sell it.

I'm feeling my age and the prospect of change makes me crotchety. I'm mourning the loss of my favorite magazine and the cake box designs of yore.

But, hey, at least there's Ben & Jerry's. I can always find comfort in a pint of their good stuff, inside and out.

Full Metal Basket and Other Inspired Works

2011-06-09T11:31:00.003-04:00

Back in March, the New York Times featured the work of Kurt Schwitters on the front page of their Weekend Arts section. And while I got really excited about the article and where it led me, I did experience a not-so pleasant feeling when I tried my hand at artspeak and mispronounced the artist's name in front of a snarky acquaintance. (Note to self: the "w" in "Schwitters"is not an optional consonant.)

Shortly after reading about Schwitters' collage pieces (now on exhibit at the Princeton University Art Museum in Princeton, NJ) and his Merzbau, I had the pleasure of visiting the Richard Meier & Partners Model Museum in Long Island City, NY. Among the giant wooden models of the J. Paul Getty Museum and other less formidable work, framed collages by Mr. Meier hung proudly against a small wall. Impressive and a little surprising since I primarily know Mr. Meier from his work on the Getty. I suppose a true connoisseur of art and architecture can draw parallels between the two men and their body of work, but I never made it past the required art history classes one needed to graduate college. So I ain't going there...

What I can tell you is that inspiration took root. I went home with jazz riffs in my ears and red/black/yellow abstract forms floating in my head.

The first thing I did was take my boring Ikea dresser and paint it with the inspired palette of Schwitters and Meier. I also added casters to the legs so I could roll it around, but that was a purely practical touch.

Okay, I admit that it's a little weird and my husband Dave initially gave it the stink eye--especially when I tried to roll it into the dining room. (Yikes.) But it's back in my little work room and growing on him. And my kids love it.

Now on to my bottle cap collection. For six years I've been saving metal bottle caps from beer bottles. They are stored in bags, jars, and other containers that annoy the bejezus out of Dave. With those jazz riffs still in my ears, I decided to pull out as many red, yellow, and black bottle caps as I could to make (insert trumpets blaring here) this:

A full metal basket.

I tried soldering the darn caps together, but after inhaling the fumes from the liquified solder metal, burning myself, and the caps not sticking to each other, I gave up on the soldering iron. But not wanting to give up entirely, I turned to my trusty awl, poked 4 or 5 holes into each cap, and threaded them together with jewelry wire. Success!

I'm hoping to catch the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art soon. Let's hope I walk away with another tune in my ears and gallery of images in my head--and the urge to make something worth blogging about!

Let's Play Catch Up

2011-05-25T19:06:00.000-04:00

For the past last month I have been obsessed with duct tape bags again.

This little beauty is something I like to call "British Punk Rock," though there may be some fashionistas out there that will recognize the tartan as something other than. (Uh, oh...)

My sewing machine Kenmore does not like the sticky mess of duct tape. In fact, he despises it. Two broken needles and a full dismantling delayed the completion of this bag by almost a week. There were times when I picked Kenmore up and walked him over to the garbage can, threatening to toss him out in favor of a fancier model. But I eventually came to my senses, and felt ridiculous for losing my grip on reality. (He's just a machine, damnit!)

I've switched materials. No more duct tape. And no more insanity!

Anyway, here are more shots of the finished bag which you can purchase at REcologie in Larchmont, NY:

I've also updated my Etsy store a little bit and hope to add more things by the end of this month. So please check it out.

I've been cooking a lot, too.

Meatballs:

I forgot to take a picture after the meatballs were cooked! Oops.

Curried chicken legs with tomato and cilantro over basmati rice:

The chicken legs were broiled in the oven.

And steak sandwiches topped with sauteed onions, garlic, wilted greens and melted provolone cheese on a toasted baguette with melted provolone cheese:

After I sauteed the onions and garlic, I removed 70% of it and then added the greens for a quick wilting.

I have some recipes rolling around my head, so maybe I can write them down next time.

Until then!

Forty Observations: San Francisco (Part 2)

2011-05-17T09:59:00.005-04:00

Hey there. Sorry it took so long to get this post together. I sorta became obsessed with duct tape purses (again) and spent the last two weeks literally stuck to my work table. More on that later. Let's get back to my trip to San Francisco.

A few years ago I started to make travel journals for every family trip. Nothing fancy, just a simple casebound book with 48 blank pages and a duct tape spine. For my San Francisco travel journal, I decorated the case with a reproduction of a 1909 city map.

If you look through it now, you'll notice all the euphoric scribbles and disappointed rants of a family who ate their way through this city. Dave and I didn't envision our trip to be an epicurean one, but Time Out does not publish a San Francisco weekly, which is unfortunate because they do such a great job with Time Out New York magazine. There is a website, but it's not as comprehensive as the one for NYC. I bought the Time Out San Francisco guide book, but it was published in 2008 and has not been updated since. Some businesses that were listed were either closed, had moved, or had different hours of operation. Argh.
So we relied on a Zagats guide for our tour of Frisco, which was great for all of us. After all, who doesn't like tasty food? So this blog post will opine the various epicurean offerings of San Fran and the greater Bay Area that we experienced. I already mentioned the best breakfast (Mama's on Washington Square) and the best bakery (Tartine Bakery in the Mission). Here are the other places we dined at.

11. Katanaya in the Tenderloin section (430 Geary St.) was a nice surprise. Tasty noodles, generous servings, and inexpensive. I had a hot bowl of ramen while my daughter worked through a serving of udon. The right amount of flavor, the noodles were firm and not rubbery, and the broth was soothing in all the right ways. Katanaya also serves sushi, which is a nice surprise since my favorite noodle joint in NYC (Men Ku Tei, 60 W56th St.) does not. Though I was full, I was tempted to order a tekka maki just for the heck of it.

12. Tommaso's Pizzeria. That lone woman who worked the entire restaurant deserves a medal for making us feel right at home. When my daughter asked for a glass of milk, she acted like a proud grandmother and came back with the tallest glass I've ever seen. I nearly hugged her when we left. Oh, and the pizzas were fantastic! We had pepperoni and basil on our pies, and the crust was crisp yet chewy. Well worth the wait on line, and it moves pretty quickly.

13. Garibaldi's in the Pacific Heights neighborhood made our children feel sophisticated and welcome. I had the foie gras and lamb tenderloins, which I heard they were known for. My kids shared the mahi mahi with fregola and asparagus, and Dave had the baked ziti with porcini mushrooms. The ingredients were fresh, the presentation was impeccable, and my kids behaved! A great meal.

14. One piece of advice when eating at Gott's Roadside in the Ferry Building: get a burger--don't get a fish taco! Which I did, of course, while everyone around me basked in burger goodness. This is definitely a burger establishment, though it missed the mark of the "joint" feel. The stainless steel community tables made me feel like I was in the mess hall of some jail...like Alcatraz?? But the burgers are tasty (or so I've been told). The garlic fries are also yummy, though only serious garlic lovers will like the copious amounts of garlic slapped on top.

15. Though there's an In and Out Burger by Fisherman's Wharf, we didn't eat at that location. We were driving just outside of Sacramento when we spied one, made a sharp left turn into the parking lot, and ordered double-doubles and strawberry shakes. And of course we had seconds. Mmmmmm. It's a Cali thing, and I wish this burger chain would make its way to the East Coast.

16. Dottie's True Blue Cafe in the Tenderloin area (522 Jones St.) was our only disappointing dining experience. I have to admit that this was our very last meal in San Fran. We had breakfast before jumping into a cab bound for the airport. By the end of our trip, our taste buds were spoiled and our bellies were bloated. But we were all annoyed by this place. The service was spotty and the waiter got my order wrong, which really made my blood boil because I ordered one of the special omelets. The day's special omelets plus all the ingredients were prominently listed on a black board hanging up in the front for everyone--including the waiter and the cook--to see. And when I told the waiter that I had the wrong omelette he didn't even acknowledge the mistake. But the true barometer for a good breakfast establishment is my son Mack. His usual order of two eggs over easy with bacon, home fries, and dry white toast was hardly touched. This is a growing boy that loves his eggs and is in a constant state of hunger!

Dottie's True Blue is not as good as the hype.

17. Since Yuet Lee was closed for vacation, Masana and I looked for another suitable Chinese restaurant in Chinatown. We walked into a few places, and then walked right out. Dirty. Empty. Too dark. Too smelly. And then we followed what I discerned to be a local family (of Chinese decent) into the New Woey Loy Goey Restaurant. We ate wonton soup for two, Chinese broccoli with oyster sauce, and salt-n-pepper prawns. Everything was delicious! The wontons in the soup had thin wrappers and were generously filled with pork and vegetables. The Chinese broccoli was cooked perfectly and was not drenched in sauce. And the skin on the prawns were fried so that it nearly melted in your mouth.

18. Somehow we were able to get a table at Chez Panisse Cafe in Berkeley. (Thank you, Tron family of 5 for your last minute cancellation; your loss was certainly our gain.) My braised pork with beans made me cry. It was that good. I can't say enough about this place except that if you love good food then you must eat here at least once in your life. While the restaurant is harder to get a reservation at, try your luck at the cafe for a lunchtime one. It's also a little bit more dressed down, so our children and their preference for "soft clothes" didn't make the wait staff blink.

19. The double latte at Cafe de la Presse is simply a big bowl of caffeine deliciousness! Better than the the latte at Mama's on Washington Square, but then again, I don't think that lattes are Mama's sort of thing. And though I didn't have any of the omelets, I could tell that the eggs in this place were decent: Mack finished his plate.

20. Brindisi Cucina di Mare in the Downtown/Union Square area was recommended by one of the knowledgeable porters at the Ritz Carlton. It's located on a tiny street (Belden). The service has more to offer than the actual food, but it was our first meal in Frisco and I really shouldn't complain. After suffering through a near food-less cross continental flight, we were famished (darn you, American Airlines). They had decent thin crust pizzas, a tomato soup with truffle oil drizzled on top was surprisingly delicious, and fried calamari that was zesty--though served on the mushy side.

I have more to say about San Fran, though at the rate I'm going who knows when I'll finish this particular list?? Back to the duct tape purse making for me...

Forty Observations: San Francisco (Part 1)

2011-04-22T22:32:00.009-04:00

Last week I sorta disappeared before finishing my countdown to the number 40. No, I wasn't feeling suicidal. And I didn't crawl into a cave to escape the inevitable. My sweet husband Dave planned a special birthday trip to a place we both visited once before, though separately.

Sixteen years ago, Dave lived in San Francisco for four months while on a job assignment. He returned to New York about a month before I landed in San Fran with two friends, just a trio of tourists soaking in the sights and eating our first taste of California cuisine. Dave and I met later that same year, and on our first date we talked about the various places we've travelled to. We quickly discovered our shared affection for the Golden Gate City. After we got married, San Francisco has always topped our list of cities we would relocate to if the right opportunity presented itself---or if we simply got sick of New York. But neither ever happened, so we stayed put.

The sticker in this photo says it all. I truly do heart this city. And what made this second trip to San Fran extra special was the inclusion of our kids Masana and Mack, two sophisticated youngsters who patiently waited on long lines to eat what we adults kept calling "the good stuff" and energetically attacked the sharp inclines of the undulating concrete terrain. If it were not for their willingness to try new things, I don't think our trip would have been as successful as it was.

Masana and Mack: I heart you.

I didn't get a chance to finish my countdown to 40, so I thought it would be fun to put together 40 observations of our trip. But I can be loquacious when describing my sojourns abroad, today's post will only include the first 10 observations.

1. The architecture of San Francisco is impressive. While I may not like the Transamerica Pyramid, I do appreciate its Futuristic style. And the rest of the architecture of San Francisco. Victorian homes, Art Deco and Art Nouveau buildings, grand Beaux Arts hotels, and even some French Gothic structures like the Grace Cathedral. Every corner greeted our eyes with something that made us pause.

Or maybe it was all those darn hills. Hmm.

2. The variety of trees is just as impressive as the architecture of the buildings, mainly because San Francisco is a city and not some suburban town. Dave noticed them during this trip because he's become quite the gardener. The trees that lined Lombard Street (the non-crooked section) in the North Beach and Telegraph Hill neighborhoods "looked like broccolis" according to Masana. (I think that was a compliment.) I spied a few palm trees in the Montgomery Financial district, and these beauties on the left were growing amongst the rubble in Alcatraz.

3. Tartine Bakery in the Mission district is the best bakery in the city. And I wish there had been enough time to sample everything in sight. One morning, the four of us jumped into a cab and headed to Tartine for a light breakfast. While we weren't rolling out the door with engorged bellies, the warm morning buns, croissants, and shortbreads could hardly qualify as light. But, oh, so worth it.

4. The San Francisco Giants may replace my son's beloved Yankees as the most entertaining team in baseball. Brian Wilson: as my Mom used to say, you are really something. I mean something!

5. AT&T Park has a heated second tier, also known as the club level. So if you get cold, you can simply hang out indoors. And that guy with with gas tank attached to his back? Full of Ghiradelli hot chocolate goodness. Possibly my favorite ballpark ever.

6. Alexander Book Company may not have a cafe, but its customers are encouraged to lounge as they please. One rainy morning, we found ourselves hanging out for a protracted amount of time among the travel and children's books with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Mack pulled out AWhole Nother Story by Dr. Cuthbert Soup from a shelf, sat on the floor, and began reading it. The proprietor (who's name escapes me) saw him and asked both Mack and Masana what they liked to read. After listening to the titles of the various books they rattled off, she made quite a few suggestions and excitedly summarized the plots of each book. Her excitement was contagious and we walked out with two new books. And at our hotel, our kids read each night before bedtime. How awesome is that?

7. There are hotel concierges, and then there are members of Les Clefs d'Or USA. Daniel Paz, the concierge extraordinaire at the Ritz Carlton, is a member and he will always hold a special place in our hearts. He planned my entire birthday dinner. I told him what I wanted and he researched restaurants for two hours. He then chose a restaurant, made our dinner reservation, wrote up an itinerary, and sent it to our room along with a copy of the menu. It was a night to remember. And my lamb tenderloins were fantastic! So when you are talking to a hotel concierge, look for the golden keys the members of the Les Clefs d'Or wear on their lapel. And if you stay at the Ritz in Frisco, tell Daniel that Richela sent ya.

8. Mama's On Washington Square serves the best breakfast in the city. The baked treats melted in our mouths, especially the crumb cakes (and though I couldn't find it on their online menu, we had the chocolate, raspberry, and plain crumb cakes). The breakfast "M'omlettes" were fluffy and moist, and the chocolate cinnamon French toast had the right amounts of chocolate and cinnamon so it didn't make us sick to our stomachs when we ate the whole thing. Which we simply had to do. And the homemade Olallieberry jam on the table was incredible. I never tasted anything like it. The only complaint was the latte. Not their thing. I should have just ordered a regular cup o' Joe.

9. True to its name the Curiosity Shoppe in the Mission district had some things that made us curious. A card catalog with prices on the front of each drawer compelled me to open each one like a little kid. A peanut shaped eraser priced at 50 cents found its way into Mack's hands, which is ironic since he is deathly allergic to the real thing. I was drawn to a letterpress origami rabbit ($8). As nice as the store is, the offerings were a bit on the paltry side compared to what they offer online. This is great for me since I don't live in San Francisco and can still peruse their offerings from the comfort of my home in New York. But how disappointing for us as a family of four that waited thirty minutes for the store to open.

10. If you find yourself at the Ferry Building on a Thursday or Saturday before 2pm, head over to the 4505 Meats stand. We ate smoky bacon hot dogs that I can still smell in my dreams. The menu changes regularly, so I can't promise anyone that they will have the pleasure of eating a smoky bacon hot dog. But the menu is creative and it would be a crime to shy away from the more daring offerings. On the day we found ourselves on the queue, cheeseburgers and fried chicken were on the menu, but so were a beer sausage and something called a Gigante which was a pork sausage with jalapeno peppers and cheddar cheese. Guess which ones I had?

So that's it for today. I'll post the next 10 observations in a couple of days.

Eating My Way Through San Francisco

2011-04-17T21:11:00.000-04:00

If I were smarter than I am, then there would be photos to this post.

This is just a quick not to anyone who may be wondering what happened to me and my whole countdown to the number 40. My husband Dave took me and our two kids to San Francisco, California to celebrate my birthday. I barely had time to pack and didn't bring my computer.

I decided that this was going to be an epicurean exploration and that my children were old enough to wait on long lines and battle sharp elbows at crowded tables for the "good stuff." And while I did bring my camera, I can't upload them to my blog until I return.

So on the 21st I'll have a full description of every mouth-watering dish I ate.

Until then. xxoxR

5 Days 'Til 40 (White Chocolate Bread)

2011-04-11T21:29:00.003-04:00

So I have this cyber pal named Tammy (aka Tamdoll) and she's quite the baker. After following her blog for more than a year now, I had gotten ballsy enough to say, "Hey, Tammy! Let's make beautiful bread together." And guess what? She thought it was a fantastic idea.

I suggested the white chocolate bread that I fell in love with during my recent winter vacation at the Sandpiper Bay Club Med in Port St. Lucie, Florida. If you've ever been to any of the Club Meds in the Dominican Republic or Mexico, you know exactly what I'm talking about. It's a baguette type loaf with white chocolate chips, the crust a bit caramelized bubbled over chips, and the inside surprisingly spongy and airy. I ate it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When the host of the marketplace saw me leave with pieces precariously stuffed in a napkin, he drolly asked if I wanted the recipe. "Yes!" I barked at him with a bite of white chocolate bread still in my mouth. But what he gave me was the strangest collection of ingredients and measurements. I think it was made for an industrial baker, one who needed to output 50 loaves in an afternoon. I had no use for it so I chucked it in the trash, knowing that there was always Google to give me answers.

But the recipes I found were different, and the comments/ratings for each recipe rang with disappointment. I briefly wrote my pal Tammy a note about this mythical white chocolate bread and we decided to make it together based it on a recipe we found on The Fresh Loaf website.

Or sort of together. She made it last week and her loaf looked amazing. She wrote on her blog that she didn't use gluten flour. Now I made it yesterday and did use gluten flour, but I didn't have sour dough starter. Mine came out dense, but incredibly tasty. Though I will admit that maybe I should not have used an entire 10 ounce bag of white chocolate chips, that maybe half of the bag would have sufficed. And I followed the advice of a commenter named Christopher who suggested spritzing the loaf with water before baking it and also the preheat the oven with a pan of water in it.

Hmm. I'll try to make this again, but with sour dough starter. I really miss that spongy texture of the Club Med white chocolate bread.

I would hate to travel all the way to a Club Med just to have this delicious bread. But, hey, a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do to get herself some good white chocolate bread, right?

6 & 7 Days 'Til 40 (I Came, I Ate, I Swapped)

2011-04-10T20:47:00.001-04:00

Today I attended my very first BK Swapper's Event. After reading about this food swap gathering in a New York Times article back in March, I became obsessed with the notion of participating. And why? Because I love to bake--and bake with lots of butter, cheese, and milk, which are things that my dairy-allergic son Mack shouldn't have. A food swapping event would provide an excuse to make as many unsanctioned baked goods as I could in a weekend for the mere sake of barter. And, oh, did I barter!

Mango chutney, curry mix, strawberry rhubarb jam, strawberry chipotle jam, Meyer lemon and vanilla bean marmalade, spicy caramel corn, and (my favorite!) rainbow cookies. Sadly, I missed out on the Jalapeno infused vodka, marsh mellows, and sausages. And there were other lovely treats that went so fast that I barely had a chance to write down what they were.

There were some who clearly cooked for a living, like Alejandra Ramos of Always Order Dessert. Her offerings were packaged beautifully (I'm such a sucker for a pretty label) and included my much beloved rainbow cookies. And there were some who simply loved showcasing their passion. Claudia (last name unknown) made these self-described "SICK!" jams and attached tags on each jar with delicate line drawings to help identify the fruit. After tasting the strawberry rhubarb, I completely agreed with not only the use of all caps but the exclamation point as well. Claudia, your jams are SICK!

A quick note about the rock star known as Jane Lerner. She along with Meg Paska founded BK Swappers. Jane had her appendix removed only two days ago and yet she attended today's swap. Had I been the one playing appendectomy victim instead of Jane, you can bet your sweet bippy that I would have skipped this event. But Jane? Nah. She was all warm smiles and easy conversation. She and Meg made me and all the other first time swappers feel right at home.

So you might be wondering what I brought to the swap.

White chocolate bread (recipe tk tomorrow):

Mini chocolate babkas and mini cheese babkas:

And a bacon gruyere quiche for the potluck:

I had a fantastic time and will definitely try to attend the next swap. (I say "try" because this most recent swap sold out in twenty minutes. Holy cow!) Jane and Meg: thank you for everything! You've made me a fan for life.

8 Days 'Til 40 (Becoming My Mother)

2011-04-08T23:26:00.004-04:00

I'm writing this post while waiting for my daughter Masana to return home from a friend's house. This is a new experience for me, this whole waiting-on-the-couch-until-one-of-my-children-walks-through-the-front-door-at-night thing. I'm tired and ready to sleep, yet ever so mindful of the ticking minutes until the time she promised to be home has arrived.

How did I become my mother so quickly?

When I began documenting the 40 days before my 40th birthday, I knew it was possible to make a few superficial comparisons between my own Mom and me. She was thirty two years old when she had me, her youngest child. I was thirty two when I had my youngest child, Mack. She was a great cook and pretty darn crafty. I aspire to be a decent cook and have appropriated the word crafty.

There could even be a few sports references. In 1979, the year my Mom turned 40, the Pittsburgh Steelers won the Super Bowl and Don Mattingly was drafted by the New York Yankees. I turn 40 this year, and do you know what happened so far? Though they lost to the Green Bay Packers, the Steelers made it to the Super Bowl, and Donnie Baseball made his debut as the manager of the L.A. Dodgers. Coincidence? I think not.

Let's not forget literary comparisons. In 1979, Joan Didion's The White Album was published by Simon & Schuster. Later this year, Knopf will publish Blue Nights, her follow up to The Year of Magical Thinking.

And what about pop culture? In 1979, Aerosmith was all but dead. Steven Tyler was heavily into drugs and Joe Perry started another band that year. And in 2011, much to Joe Perry's dismay, Steven Tyler became a judge on American Idol. But Aerosmith is still very much alive.

Okay, I think that I need to stop with the comparisons. An unquiet mind can sometimes go overboard with themes.

It's only few minutes past the agreed upon time and while I am not quite worried I do wonder if she is having any difficulty getting home. Should I call her friend's house and see if I should pick her up? Or do I wait a bit longer and see if her ride pans out? I begin to let old memories seep in, like the time I was 8 or 9 years old and hanging out at my neighbor's house. I, uh, forgot to let my Mom know where I was. She became hysterical when she couldn't find me in the house or the yard, and nearly yanked my arm out of the socket when she found me playing dolls with Chrissy Pye by the light of the dusk hour in her backyard. Why didn't I let my Mom know where I was? And will my own daughter have the common sense to call me if she's running late?

5 minutes later...

Masana walked through the door and I tried to act nonchalant. Who, me worry? Nah. But God help the girl if she forgets to call me when running a little late or doesn't let me know where she is at all times. And if she makes me lose my mind any more than I have, ooooh, I'll yank that arm so hard...

I've become my mother. And I guess that comes with turning 40. Oh, boy.

9 Days 'Til 40 (Duct Tape Is The Answer)

2011-04-07T23:14:00.001-04:00

This morning I wanted to throw Kenmore across the room. His gears were jamming up, the thread kept breaking, and I had to take him apart. The paper quilt project was nearly complete and Kenmore decided to throw a tantrum at the 11th hour. Not even a tall nonfat latte could make things right with this tempestuous piece of machinery.

Oh, Kenmore. Why has thou forsaken me?

In the end, I decided to glue the final bits together and use duct tape for the backing. Since Kenmore was having a diva moment, I had to find other ways to get this thing done. Duct tape has always proven to be the answer to most of my little problems, and today was no different.

And by 10:45 am I was sitting in front of my daughter's classroom, waiting for the kids to return from an assembly. I was trying to stand thing up for a glamour shot when I heard the gasps of delight from a few of the kids.

This was an incredible project and I'll post the instructions for it later this month.

This paper quilt will be hanging in the window of REcologie in Larchmont, NY on Earth Day, April 22. Please come by and see it!

10 & 11 Days 'Til 40 (Saying Goodbye)

2011-04-06T21:57:00.001-04:00

I'm almost done with the paper quilt project! Tomorrow morning I'll put on the final touches and deliver it to my daughter's 4th grade class.

Whenever I look at it, tears well up in my eyes. I'm such a sentimental fool, I know. But whenever I reach the end of a group project, I get a little sad.

My son Mack was a little sad today, too. His friend Jameson is moving to London for a few years, and the emotional implications were only realized today--- despite knowing about his imminent departure for at least a month.

I thought that it would be nice to make Jameson a book that documented their friendship. But the more I talked about it, the more withdrawn Mack became. When I started putting the book together, he left the room and went up to his bedroom. I found him there angrily throwing paper airplanes at his wall. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me that he was just in a bad mood and didn't know why. So I left him alone and returned to my work room where I finished making a simple blank book.

After dinner, I asked Dave to talk to Mack and see if he could cheer him up. Dave let Mack know that it's okay to miss his friend, and that London is not on another planet. He also reminded him that we were there just last year, and, hey, wouldn't it be nice to share what he knows about London with his friend? So this is what Mack wrote in the book:

"To Jameson,

These are the things you should remember:

The potato chips taste like meat.

Everybody has an accent.

If you find a green house with four windows that is the hotel I stayed in.

From Mack."

And then he included his snail mail address, his email address (yes, I know he's only 7 years old), and his skype address. Oh, and a photo of him hanging from a beam in our living room with the caption that reads, "Hang in there!"

Oh, Jameson. I think you have a friend for life. Please come back soon!

12 Days 'Til 40 (Keep Calm And Carry On)

2011-04-04T21:28:00.004-04:00

This morning I decided to chuck all my meds into the trash. And you know what? I feel SO much better. The drug-induced fog that permeated my brain has disappeared. My head is clear, and I feel more in control of my body and my time.

So I went for a drive.

(If you want full disclosure here, I should also let you know that my mother-in-law is staying with us for a few days. And with the kids in school and Dave at work, I NEEDED to get out of the house. By myself. For at least two hours.)

So I hopped into my car and drove to AI Friedman in Port Chester, NY. And while I was perusing the aisles for a tube of this and a stack of that, the London poster to the right caught my eye. Maybe it's the fact that I'm obsessed with British tabloids like Hello! and OK!, but anything that has to do with jolly ol' England makes me stop in my tracks. This particular poster is full of primary colors and British royals. It's busy and loud and crammed with pretty type. My immediate crafty thought was, "I can make a book out of this." So I picked it up.

As I placed it in my shopping cart, I saw a phrase at the bottom of the poster: "Keep calm and carry on." At first, I felt ridiculous and a little indignant. Keep calm? Really, me? I've had this cough that's made me so crazy I went to my doctor and practically begged for sleeping pills. (No, she did not give them to me. A total bummer.)

But then I had a zen moment. It was the realization that in all my hysteria, I found that I could carry on. Or maybe that life simply goes on. And because of that basic truth, I should stop questioning the reason for this darn cough and just accept it.

Keep calm and carry on. It's become my mantra. I cut this part of the poster out and it now hangs in my work room.

Keep calm and carry on. I'm turning forty in 12 freakin' days!

Keep calm and carry on. My mother-in-law won't stop talking!

Keep calm and carry on and on and on...

13 & 14 Days 'Til 40 (Babka To The Rescue!)

2011-04-03T21:15:00.003-04:00

I woke up this weekend feeling as if my left rib cage was used as a punching bag. Is it possible to crack a rib from coughing in the middle of the night? Ouchy. When my daughter Masana tried to hug me, I yelped like a kicked chihuahua and practically crawled away in pain. She thought that she hurt me, so I tried to assure her that she was not responsible for my abused animal impersonation. But I started to cough and couldn't get the words "not your fault" out of my mouth. She stood there unsure of what to do, so I slowly motioned for her to leave with my hand. Clearly relieved, she quickly left and I coughed and coughed until I was too exhausted to continue.

Just when I thought things could not get any worse, I had to give up my ticket to see "Book of Mormon" on Broadway. Why? Because I realized after my broken rib cage/coughing fit that sitting quietly and cough-free in a dark theatre for 2 plus hours was impossible. I essentially flushed $150 down the toilet. Thank you, broken rib cage.

To make myself feel a little better, I started making this starburst pendant lamp project that I spied on one of my favorite blogs All Things Paper. But I ran out of paper. So what was supposed to look like this:

...ended up like this:

Instead of a starburst, I had a chin beard. My son Mack thought that it looked like a squid.

It should not come as a surprise that I was desperate to change my luck. And when it doubt, I always turn to baking.

I made babka this morning and used the chocolate babka recipe from Epicurious.com.

A few friends came over this afternoon to help me eat my babka (I also made a cheese version which is my own recipe---I will post it one of these days). And for a few glorious hours I forgot that my rib cage hurt and that there was a squid lamp sadly hanging in my work room. Good friends and babka---this combination never fails.

15 & 16 Days 'Til 40 ("It's Just Like Driving A Go Cart")

2011-04-01T10:29:00.004-04:00

So how do you get ten year old boys on the cusp of solidifying their gender stereotypes to use a sewing machine?

You lie.

Yesterday was my second classroom visit and I brought along Kenmore. In the previous visit, I mentioned that Kenmore, my powder blue sewing machine, was a boy. And not only was he a boy, Kenmore was a tough-talking piece of machinery that could pierce through chip board and cork. So when I actually pulled Kenmore out of my bag and set him up on a table, there were more than a handful of boys that gravitated toward us.

"What's that?" asked a bushy-haired kid dressed from head to toe in NY Giants colors, pointing to the pedal attached to Kenmore.

I immediately responded,"that's the gas pedal." And as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I realized that using a sewing machine was sort of like driving. So I looked at this kid in the eye and leaned in as if I were revealing a secret. "Ever drive a go cart?" I asked. The boy nodded furiously. "Well," I continued, "using Kenmore is just like driving a go cart. You have your gas pedal and you need two hands to steer."

And with those words, I had almost every boy in that class clamoring to sew their paper square. Ah, success!

The paper quilt project is almost done. I go back on Tuesday for my final classroom visit and we'll sew the squares together. Here is a sneak peak of the paper quilt.

When I assembled the squares this morning to assess the work that still needed to be done, I started to cry. Silly, I know. It's not that I doubted the abilities of these wonderful fourth grade kids. But to see what they've done with a few brown grocery bags and a stack of magazines is simply amazing. This is what art and craft is about, and I couldn't be more proud of these kids.

17 Days 'Til 40 (Enter The Butcher Stage Right)

2011-03-30T23:16:00.004-04:00

Before.

Ever since I switched to a digital camera, my photos have become unmanageable. Because storing the photos is quick and cheap, the urge to discard questionable shots has disappeared. I hoard every picture. Suddenly there's potential in even the least polished-looking shot. I have some crazy idea that one day I'll look through my trove, pick out the best images, and fiddle with them using Photoshop.

But I never do. I just archive and forget.

After.

To identify that one has a problem is the first step to recovery. So let me introduce myself: Hello, my name is Richela M. and I am a digital photo hoarder.

Today my tech-savvy nephew came over to help me. We began with a single folder of images that I took 4 months ago, cataloging the progress of a pop up book that remains unfinished. (Wouldn't you know it---I'm also a chronic procrastinator.) After deleting what seemed like 50 shots of the same image, he chose the best one and made some adjustments in Photoshop.

Take a look at the magic he worked on the image above. The changes are subtle yet the image is a thousand percent better. What exactly did he do? Good question. When I asked him, he said something with a lasso, something with a filter, something with scissor thingies, and...and...and then my brain started to flatline, so I left the room to get a cup of coffee.

All I know is that my nephew going to trim the fat off my photo archive and then give each remaining contestant a face lift. I'm beginning to imagine a future of better-looking photos in my portfolio.

Wait a minute. I don't have a portfolio. Hmmm. Maybe the butcher can help me with that, too?

18 Days 'Til 40 (Pushing A Little Too Hard...Cough, Cough)

2011-03-29T22:21:00.004-04:00

I got to my classroom visit a little late today, mostly due to my inability to run up flights of stairs as quickly as I used to. The stairs at the kids' school are small and I can usually take two or three steps in one stride. But after trying to conquer the first set at my normal pace, an itchy cough began to rise from my lungs and up through my mouth. Blech. I had to pause and compose myself, and waited for the scratchy feeling to die down. Deep breaths, eyes closed, my right hand clutched the bannister.

Right then an image of my grandfather flashed in my head. He was a heavy smoker who developed emphysema when I was about 7 years old, and often had coughing fits while walking up a flight of stairs. Despite the fact that I do not smoke, my coughing fit made me feel like I was going to die. I dramatically thought to myself, "I am my grandfather; it has come full circle," and raised my chin to acknowledge my fate. But then the coughing fit stopped and I opened my eyes, only to realize that a few teacher's aids had peeked out of the copy room nearby and witnessed my ancestral channeling. I felt silly and started to walk up the second set of stairs s-l-o-w-l-y.

When I finally got to Masana's classroom, the kids were quietly waiting for me and probably heard the coughing from all the way down the hall. But despite the need to take another moment and calm down, I took off my coat and immediately started my presentation. Masana, slightly embarrassed at the sight of her wheezing, manic mother, stayed in the back of the room and out of eyesight.

But I didn't embarrass her. In fact, by the end of the hour Masana was beaming. While I do care if the other children are engaged and focused, I truly measure the success of my classroom visits by the reaction of my own kids. And seeing Masana smile proudly made me feel like I conquered Mt. Everest.

I go back this Thursday and next Tuesday to finish the paper quilt. And I'm bring my sewing machine Kenmore with me. Oh, Kenmore. Behave!

19 & 20 Days 'Til 40 (The Truth And An Earth Day Project)

2011-03-28T23:58:00.002-04:00

Okay, I haven't been completely honest with everyone: I've been really sick these past 5 days and finally saw my doctor last Friday. As a result, I'm on antibiotics and a steroid nasal spray. Yes, I admit to feeling a thousand times better now that I'm medicated, but I really thought that I could avoid the prescription drug route. I truly believed that my own body could find a way to heal itself.
You bet that I'm more than a little disappointed to discover that I can't avoid a bad cold every winter no matter how many times I wear those extra layers of clothing, don a hat and scarf indoors, wash my hands every chance I get, and consume gobs of vitamin C. This October, before the first chilly night can make my nose cold, I'm going straight to my doctor and demand drugs--lots and lots of drugs. Because catching a cold during the winter is INEVITABLE and I just have to accept it.

Boo, reality.

Because I was in and out of consciousness for most of the weekend, I didn't post the usual daily nattering on my blog. I also left a HUGE mess in my work room that was initially and vociferously credited to my children. When I realized that I was the offending party responsible for the mounds of thread balls all over the floor and the dog eared magazines strewn across the table and chair, Masana and Mack stood tall and indignant. Today I put extra ginger cookies in their lunch boxes as a mea culpa. Let's hope they don't hold grudges for much longer.

Life goes on. I have lots to do this week, and hopefully it doesn't include baking more cookies to bribe my kids into forgiving me.

Tomorrow I will start an Earth Day paper quilt project with Masana's fourth grade class. The design for the quilt is an easy one, and if you're interested in using it, please be my guest. I drew a globe, scanned it, and then imported it into an Adobe InDesign document that measured 48 inches wide by 40 inches high. I then divided the document into 8-inch squares that will be copied onto tracing paper.

Each child will be given an 8-inch square cut from a brown paper bag. They will also be assigned one square of the design and transfer their part of the design onto the brown paper bag. Using magazines, newspapers, and other printed paper bound for the recycle bin, they will cut out colors that we will assign the picture and glue it in the appropriate places: blue for the ocean, green and brown for the land masses, yellow and white for the "R" words, dark green and black for "Earth Day," green for the recycle symbol, and red for the background. I'll go back on Thursday to help them embroider and sew the paper squares together, add a border, and put a backing. Yikes, it sounds complicated, doesn't it? But I promise that it really isn't.

I'll put more photos up tomorrow so you can see the progress of our paper quilt.

21 & 22 Days 'Til 40 (Why We Should Listen To 10 Year Old Girls)

2011-03-26T15:26:00.002-04:00

While I love ETSY, I don't know if I'm very good at maintaining my own little virtual storefront. It's not that I'm lazy. I'm simply a horrible salesperson. I'm better at giving my stuff away. As in "for free" or "gratis." The mere idea that someone likes it---I mean, really, really likes it rather than politely says, "oh, that's nice"---makes me happy. And that is reward enough for me. But of course there is still this little part of me that wishes I could actually sell some things, especially when the inventory starts to overwhelm the small space that is my work room.

There's this wonderful store in my village called REcologie that describes itself as an "eco-forward lifestyle boutique." It's a lovely shop filled with handmade goods, from clutch handbags made of film strips to origami folded wallets made of printed tyvek. They recently expanded and now offer home furnishings like patio furniture made from discarded golf clubs and snowboards. And while I've quietly entertained the idea of talking to the proprietor Maria Cisceros about carrying some of my books and wallets, I've never quite worked up the nerve to say anything to her except pleasantries about the weather.

That is, until a few weeks ago.

Ever since it opened, I've had friends walk into REcologie and advocate on my behalf. I would get a report every so often, something that went along the lines of "oh, and then I went to REcologie and talked to Maria about that bag you made! You know, you should go there because she's really interested in you." I would nod and smile, agree that I really should, and quickly change the subject without being too obvious. Just talking about the prospect of selling my things made me uneasy.

But how do you change the subject when speaking to a 10 year old girl without the capacity for bs?

My daughter Masana has friend named Sasha who also happens to be one of my crafty girls. And she loves to shop at REcologie. On a recent excursion to her favorite shop, Sasha was showing off something she made during one of our crafting classes and struck up a conversation with Maria. She somehow squeezed me into her talk. A few days later, she came over my house after school to do homework with Masana and another friend. As soon as the girls burst through the front door, Sasha excitedly recounted the events of her shopping trip and urged me to go to REcologie with a bag full of my things.

"Right this very second?" I joked.

Sasha responded matter-of-factly, "Sure. We don't need you to watch us." Uh, oh.

Of course, I tried to change the subject, and even went as far as offering the girl candy to distract her. But then Sasha did something ballsy: she gave me an ultimatum. I had to go speak with Maria before she went back there, which she said would be in a few days. She wouldn't leave me alone until I promised her I would go. Which I did. Oh, I would have said anything to be released from that girl's laser focus. I would have cried "uncle" at the top of my lungs. Uncle!

True to my word, I went to REcologie. And as I walked in, I wasn't thinking about me or my aversion to the sales pitch. I was thinking about how I couldn't disappoint a 10 year old girl. And that helped me tremendously.

REcologie is now going to carry my books and wallets, and who knows what else. And who do I have to thank?

So if anyone else out there needs their ass kicked in the right direction, I wholly recommend my young crafty friend Sasha.

Oh, Sasha! I think you are the coolest. Thank you so, so very much.

23 Days 'Til 40 (Brooklyn Brewery!)

2011-03-24T22:57:00.007-04:00

Aren't they pretty?

Brooklyn Brewery beer holds a special place in my heart. Yes, I'm aware of it's uber status among the self-entitled hipsters that have overrun the borough, but a good brew in a pretty package transcends my disdain for these modern day carpetbaggers. (Why can't they just stick to Pabst Blue Ribbon?)

In addition to saving Brooklyn Brewery bottle caps with that seductive cursive B, I also like to keep the cartons. And when I look at my substantial stash, my sense memory takes over. The six pack of lager? Consumed with tostadas served with fresh guacamole. The IPA? Had that while watching a month's worth 30 Rock episodes one night. The chocolate stout? I had a hankering for a vanilla ice cream float avec biere.

Today I made a book using the lager carton. I had to cut out the logo in the circle, rotate it 90 degrees, and sew it back on. It's constructed the same way as the Miller High Life book I made yesterday. I think it turned out well.

Of course when I look at this book, I can almost taste the meal I ate with the lager. It was a chicken cutlet with marinated artichoke hearts and parmesan cheese shavings, served on a warm baguette. Mmm.

24 Days 'Til 40 (The Beer Must Pour On)

2011-03-23T22:39:00.002-04:00

Okay, the title of this post is a bit misleading. I didn't drink any beer today.

But I was feeling a little better this afternoon and decided to get off the couch. You know the situation is veering on the desperate side when the cushions have memorized the shape of your backside.

Once in the upright position, I was able to evaluate the cough/headache. Hmmm. Not dizzy. No sudden urge to hack up a lung. Was I feeling...better? I gingerly puttered around the kitchen to find some food and discovered the cupboards were slightly barren. And I really, really, REALLY wanted a bowl of cereal. My stomach growled in protest.

But I had Dave. He stayed home from work, an attempt to help me combat this dang cold. Picking up the kids, running to the grocery store--he was my guy. However, being a guy, he went to the grocery store and came home with beer.

What?? Where's the milk I asked for?

My temperature began to rise again. Beer. But then I took a closer look: a twelve pack of the Champagne of Beers, aka Miller High Life. (And, yes, a carton of milk hidden deep in the bag. Thank you, Dave.) While I am not a big fan of the beer itself, I do like the carton. It's printed on the outside as well as the inside, and guess which side I prefer? Yep. The inside. Something about that singular red color over the brown cardboard side gets me every time. It's also jam packed with illustrations of cowboy boots, guitars, trucker hats, quilted vests and the Miller High Life logo. How cool is that?

After Dave put away the beer, I fished the carton out of the recycle bin and headed into my work room. I was about to get my craft on.

Double-sided mylar.

The first thing I did was draw and cut out a stencil of a Miller High Life bottle. And then I cut out two rectangles from the carton measuring 5 1/4 inches wide x 8 1/2 inches high. I have a stash of pre-cut chipboard that have the same measurements, so with the help of my trusty sewing machine Kenmore I adhered the carton rectangles onto the chipboard.

(Oh, and did I also mention that I have a stash of book blocks for easy book making? I make at least 4 at a time and store them between two pieces of plywood and a C-clamp. This keeps the book blocks tightly pressed together so they do not lose their shape.)

And I made a book. It may not be the prettiest book in my collection, but I'm proud of it. I made a book! Woohoo!

While I'm not completely back to my normal, non-coughing self, at least I know that my hands still work.

25 Days 'Til 40 (An N.C. Wyeth Dream)

2011-03-22T22:23:00.001-04:00

A shot of icy cherry goodness. Let the dreams commence.

Aches and chills and a really bad headache. That's what has come over me. I covered the couch with my body for most of the day, limbs splayed and head buried in the corner. I cough, therefore I am. Or I am the cough. La toux m'est.

In and out of consciousness, under the influence of Nyquil. But in my distorted daydreams, I was in an N.C. Wyeth painting, riding in the back of a red truck and looking out towards cotton candy clouds against a brilliant blue sky. Red truck. Mmmmm.

The painting on the label only looks like it could be an N.C. Wyeth
painting. But it's not, so don't go telling people that I said
Red Truck has one of his paintings on the label.

Ever have the stuff? Great table red. Around $10 a bottle. Dependable. They make a cabernet and a pinot noir.

But I digress. I need rest. See you tomorrow.

26 Days 'Til 40 (Power Of The Banana Bread)

2011-03-21T20:29:00.005-04:00

Spring officially started last night at 7pm. And thirteen hours later, my kids and I were dodging snow flurries while running from the front door of our house to the garage. Spring has sprung?? I think not.

This morning I woke up early and instinctively made banana bread. From the kitchen window I could see the heavy rain outside and watched it turn into...snow? Again? Did I need to find the shovels and rock salt? I just kept mixing the ingredients and hoping that I didn't have to dig our way out of the house in a few hours. Luckily, the snow did not accumulate by the time the kids and I left the house. And the temperature outside was warm enough to turn the snow back into rain before noon.

It was the power of the banana bread that prevented the snow from accumulating. I'm no scientist, but I'm pretty sure that is what happened. Power to the banana bread.

This recipe is part of me now, as I've refined it over the years to its current state and committed it to more than just my memory. It's something that defines me, like "infectious laugh" or "drawn to stinky cheeses." So when someone asks about me, inquires what I am like, a likely response is "well, she makes this really great banana bread!" (And yes, the exclamation point at the end of that sentence is necessary.)

Ingredients

½ cup unsalted butter

1 cup granulated sugar

2 very ripe bananas

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 eggs

½ teaspoon sea salt

½ teaspoon baking soda

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 ¾ cups all purpose flour

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a loaf pan. Set aside. In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter, sugar, and bananas. Beat in the vanilla extract and eggs. In a separate bowl, mix the sea salt, baking soda, and baking powder. Add this dry mixture to the banana mixture. Then add the flour. Do not over mix. Pour batter into the baking pan. Place in the oven and bake for 50 minutes.

27 & 28 Days 'Til 40 (Weekend Affirmations)

2011-03-20T21:20:00.003-04:00

I've been sick all weekend. And there's nothing more to say, really. Well, except...
that NOT being well can affect everything around you, especially when you can't sleep. The cough medications I've taken make me drowsy, but I wake up every two hours. I'm on the same sleep schedule as a newborn. If I had the same responsibilities as a newborn, then this wouldn't be a problem. And when I can't perform even the menial tasks around the house, I begin to doubt my place in the world.

Woe is me, for my name is woe. I'm throwing a pity party and you're invited.

Last week my friend gave me a small packet of handmade compliments. Yes, this is not an ordinary gift, but then my friend is no ordinary person. She happens to be a very talented, creative, smart, and funny person: the amazing illustrator and writer Charise Harper. And while I was wasting away in my bed this morning, I spotted the packet on the edge of the chair beside me. I read through the six compliments over and over again, admiring not only the pretty design but the phrases she chose. Here they are with my inner monologue:

You Are Thoughtful! (Okay, I think so, too.)

You Are Amazing! (Really??)

You Are Wonderful! (Aw, shucks.)

You Are Lovely! (What a nice thing to say!)

You Are A Good Friend! (And so are you!)

You Have Good Ideas! (I'm going to tell Dave that you think I have good ideas. He never believes me...)

Charise: thank you for my compliments. They made me feel like Stuart Smalley, the Saturday Night Live sketch character created by Al Franken back in the early 90's.

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it! People like me.

29 Days 'Til 40 (Elle's Rosemary Chicken)

2011-03-18T20:52:00.001-04:00

This will be the second time I'm posting this recipe. The original one was on my old blog, an ugly and disorganized collection of my various aspirations and ambitions. About a year ago, I left it for the user-friendly world of Blogger and never looked back.

I've made this chicken hundreds of times because it's easy and offers something for everyone in my family. But I named it after my sister Elle because she requested it for a family Sunday dinner many moons ago. And in my book, if you ask me to make you something and describe it in detail with a reverent tone in your voice, then of course I'll make it. Heck, I'll even name it after you.

Today was another one spent with a sick kid. Masana nearly cried when I told her she had to stay home from school, but after a visit to the doctor revealed an ear infection and an eye infection she had no other choice. I opened the windows in her room to let in some fresh air, but all she did was close them when I walked away. Friggin' kids...

Let's hope the weekend provides a respite from these monotonous, sickly days.

Ingredients:

1 whole roasting chicken, about 5 lbs

1 cup sea salt, whole crystals

1 cup olive oil

1 bottle of stout beer

5 cloves of garlic, crushed

4 stalks of fresh rosemary

1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves

1 tablespoon fresh sage leaves

1 teaspoon ground black pepper

1 teaspoon sea salt, fine crystals

3 russet potatoes

2 sweet potatoes

2 cups of chicken broth or water

Directions:

1. Remove giblets from inside the chicken. Rinse chicken while rubbing skin and inner cavity with sea salt (whole crystals). Place chicken in a large colander to drain excess water.

2. Place chicken on a cutting board and carefully remove the backbone. With a sharp knife, crack the breastplate so that the chicken lies flat on the cutting board. Set aside.

3. In a large re-sealable plastic gallon bag, place the olive oil, beer, garlic, rosemary, thyme, sage, black pepper, and sea salt. Place the chicken in the bag and seal it. Be sure to remove as much air as possible in the bag. Gently shake the bag to mix all the ingredients. Place the bag inside the fridge over night, or at least 7 hours.

4. When you are ready to cook the chicken, take it out of the fridge 1 hour before putting it in the oven. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Wash and cut the russet and sweet potatoes, then scatter them at the bottom of a roasting pan. Remove chicken from the bag and place in a colander in the sink to drain excess liquid. Set aside liquid inside the bag.

5. Place the chicken on top of the potatoes with the sides opened. The inner cavity should touch the top of the potatoes. Take the liquid in the bag and pour it over the potatoes and chicken. Pour the 2 cups of chicken broth over the potatoes along the outer edges. Place in the oven for 1 1/2 hours.

6. Increase the temperature in the oven to 450 degrees and cook for 5 more minutes, or until you get a nice crunchy brown top on the potatoes and chicken skin. Remove from the oven, place a piece of foil on top, and let it stand for ten minutes before serving.

30 Days Til 40 (Trader Joes Brownie Mix Saves The Day!)

2011-03-17T22:45:00.006-04:00

St. Patrick's Day, Dyker Heights, Brooklyn, and Catholic school. Yep, if you put them all together you get Irish Americans. Of course there were Italian Americans living in Dyker Heights and attending Catholic school, too, but the Irish get special props on day we honor their patron saint. And growing up where I did and how I did, everyone became Irish on St. Patrick's Day.

When I was a kid, I would attach an "O" or "Mc" in front of my surname, thus becoming Irish for the day in spite of my perpetual tan and oriental features. It puzzled my Filipina mother to see me so enthusiastic about the color green. And, oh, sure, I never got excited about going to Church, but St. Paddy's Day? To me it was the best day of the Catholic school year. I remember making green Jell-O at home and drinking some fizzy green soda at a friend's house. Ah, good times.

You would think that with such a fondness for this holiday I would circle it on the calendar months in advance. And, yeah, I did. But being a little under the weather this week, my neat and orderly life went kaput. I woke up this morning in a panic because I forgot to make St. Patrick's Day cupcakes for Mack. Unlike his mother, he has Irish blood coursing through his veins and has a right to bear green. And his name--I mean, c'mon! Mackinley Burke Morgan? This boy is Irish with or without the O' or the Mc. He needed that cupcake. I needed to make it for him.

When I opened the cupboard doors, the most beautiful brown bag greeted me with trumpets blaring. [Insert trumpets blaring here.] Oh, Trader Joes, you and your brownie baking fix have never failed me. How pretty are the bags, right?

I made brownie cupcakes and the kids decorated them, creating shamrocks with green icing and green Skittles. And Mack left the house wearing the ugliest green sweatpants I've ever laid eyes on, happy as a clam, and looking forward to all the St. Patrick's Day activities in his class. I have to say that this holiday has changed for me, because I do have children who can rightly claim it as theirs. I feel less like an interloper.

By the way, that brownie mix bag? Eye candy. I buy the mix not because I can't figure out how to make brownies from scratch. I just like the design and the printing. Of course I have a stack of saved TJ brownie mix bags in my work room. After all, they make lovely wallets.

I guess you can say that today was a good day. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

31 Days 'Til 40 (Cheap Kits and Cake Box Books)

2011-03-16T21:56:00.006-04:00

The kids were home with me today. School was closed because of a teachers' conference in the district. I thought that an upside down tomato kit bought on a whim from the Christmas Tree Shop would keep them occupied and out of trouble. And it did for about 10 seconds. The kids' happy chatter about fresh tomatoes on their pizzas was cut short when we realized that the kit turned out to be just a plastic pot with a lid, some dirt disks, and seeds--the teeniest seeds I've ever seen. The seeds were so small that when I opened the foil package, I thought it was empty. I ran my finger along the inside of the packaging and felt what I initially thought was lint. But of course they were seeds. Hmm. I know the kit was only $6.99, but was I wrong to be so optimistic? I guess we'll find out in a few weeks.

Speaking of optimism, I guess you can say hoarders are the most optimistic people on the face of the earth. They save and save and save, constantly thinking that they can reuse something at a later time. While I am not a full blown hoarder, I do have hoarding tendencies. (Now why does that sentence sound dirty?)

I've been saving cake mix boxes for about a year now, which is not as horrible as it sounds. The truth is that I don't really use cake mix because I like to bake from scratch. But did I mention how I am a crackhead addicted to pretty packaging? The Duncan Hines cake mix box is an iconic design that I just can't resist. So every now and then, I buy it just so I can have the box. And a year's worth for me only yielded six boxes.

I made six books today with these cake mix boxes, chip board, and brown matte kraft paper. I felt productive and, more importantly, I finally got rid of those cake boxes. Now what to do with all those beer cartons I have. And let me tell you, a year's worth of beer cartons for me is NOT something to sneeze at!

32 Days 'Til 40 (Getting Existential With Pop Rocks)

2011-03-15T20:43:00.004-04:00

Get ready for the drama.

Today I succumbed to the illness that has overtaken my home. Like my two kids and husband, I am struggling with the most painful sinus headache I have ever experienced. But unlike every other Morgan under my roof, I don't have a cough nor is my nose drippy. I appear "normal." So when I walked the kids to and from school, I may have seemed a little more irritated than usual, a tad more haggard than most days when I haven't bothered to shower or brush my hair before leaving the house, but I did not exhibit the telltale signs of a bad cold to earn anyone's sympathy. To compensate for such a "normal" facade, I purposely gave a look.

What did that look say? It said this: "I am precariously teetering on the brink of insanity." Or "I haven't bathed in days so don't get too close." Either way, the street traffic parted like the Red Sea and I had a clear walking path down the avenue.

After unsuccessful attempts to rest and regain my will to live, I dragged my kids to the pharmacy and grocery store. It was time to load up on over the counter drugs and junk food. Just kidding. Well, sort of. I needed to get a nasal decongestant and hamburger buns for dinner. Wait, the nasal decongestant was for me and I wasn't going to serve it with dinner. Just the hamburger buns. With hamburgers, of course. Which I already had at home. (This headache is really getting to me...)

Shopping with my two kids is fun because they love EVERYTHING. This afternoon's offerings included cheap plastic wind chimes, mini donuts with powdered sugar, a glue gun, some sparkly gadget no one could figure out, a gi-normous bag of cheddar cheese goldfish, and a set of steak knives with a cartoon on the handle. I never get angry or impatient; I'm usually amused to see what catches their eye. But I do say, "No, baby. Not today." And in return my kids never get angry because they understand that shopping is an adventure. And sometimes I actually do say yes.

Pop Rocks. Today, my daughter Masana wanted Pop Rocks and I said yes. Here eyes widened and those apple cheeks got brighter when I greenlit her object of desire. After we got home and put away our things, I sat and watched Masana eat her candy. And I started to wax philosophical.

Life is like Pop Rocks. It's shiny, happy, bright-colored packaging on the outside, a promise of fun and excitement. But do the contents live up to the hype?

Nearing the middle of my life, has there been an explosion of flavor or just a lot of noisy distractions?

I think that my headache is now turning me into an existentialist. Or I'm just getting closer to 40. Crisis shall commence in a little over a month, and I'll be eating Pop Rocks in my shiny new sports car...

33 Days 'Til 40 (Toolin' Around and Circus Talk)

2011-03-14T20:25:00.000-04:00

Well, I started to play around with my solder gun today, only to burn my finger. (Ouch.) Soldering bottle caps together is not easy and I have no idea why I though it would be. But I'll keep at it until the smell of my own flesh burning is but a distant memory.

How fitting that I burned my middle finger.

Kenmore enjoying a nonfat latte.
He, too, loves the old Starbucks logo.

I love my tools, but there is always a probation period where we (that is, the tool and I) are not quite sure if things will work out. Sorta like dating. Will you be there for me? Can I depend on you to do what I want you to do? Will you treat me right? I go through this each and every time a new tool makes its way into my work room. Last year I had to work out the kinks in my relationship with the new sewing machine. And though he (yes, the machine is a male named Kenmore) acts up every now and then, I find him to be the most dependable piece of machinery I've ever had.

My favorite tool is an awl. I use every day, from big jobs to small fix-its. It can pierce through binders boards when I'm bookmaking or delicately undo knots when I'm embroidering. In the case of the Eiffel Tower journal I made a few years ago, my awl performed both tasks.

Okay, now about this past weekend: I took my two kids to the circus. Last Saturday, I met up with my two sisters and their families to see the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus at the Izod Center in East Rutherford, NJ. They presented a themed show called "Fully Charged." There was a lot of energy in the arena, but at times all the simultaneous activity (three rings with three acts going almost nonstop) made me anxiously look around for a coffee vendor. I felt myself nodding off when I should have been, well, fully charged. I started to think that the promoter of this event was in a sarcastic mood when he (or, to be fair, she) came up with the title of the show.

There were some acts that stood out amongst the usual animal cruelty displays. I didn't get a chance to get a program, so the captions that I wrote may not be entirely accurate. My apologies in advance.

These two brawny men are from Uzbekistan? Kazakhstan? It was a 'stan country for sure... anyway they were not only the proverbial strongmen of the circus, but they also proved to be agile and flexible. They used each other to stand on, jump off of, and twirl around like a baton.

The high wire act. This daring group of men and women (siblings? married couples plus one?) jumped rope, leaped over one another, rode bicycles, and did splits. As a person who cannot stand on a step ladder more than 3 steps from the ground, I am always impressed by a high wire act.

The best part of the show was the human crossbow, but not because I enjoy seeing a man being set on fire and shot across the arena.

The highlight of my evening was the 5 frantic seconds that occurred after I stopped shooting this video. What you didn't hear is my sister yelling, "Put him out! Put him out! For God's sake, PUT HIM OUT!!"

Fully charged, indeed.

34/35 Days 'Til 40 (In The 'Mood')

2011-03-13T16:17:00.000-04:00

My weekend began with an impromptu Saturday morning trip into the city for some supplies. I hit two stores in the Fashion District: Mood for a few yards of black corduroy and Toho Shoji for clasps, earring findings, and jump rings. For anyone who watches Project Runway on television, Mood is the singular fabric store the contestants are allowed to shop in and it can be surprising to see how calm the place really is.
The frenzied montages that you see on the show, of stressed out contestants jogging down the aisles with furled up brocades or cotton jerseys on their shoulders, were conspicuously absent. There was just a handful of shoppers, each thoughtfully taking a corner and rubbing the woven fibers between the thumb and and index finger. After taking a self guided tour of the facility, I concluded that I knew absolutely nothing about fabric. What I thought was faux suede turned out to be corduroy. And that roll of stuff that looked like tyvek? Rip cord nylon. Don't even ask me what I thought the faux fur was. I kept my epiphanies to myself, hoisted a roll of my desired fabric over one shoulder, took confident strides to the cutting table, and betrayed nothing of my fashion ignorance.

A quick note on Toho Shoji: this place rocks if you're looking for jewelry making supplies. But then again, there are other shops within a block radius that are also amazing. One that may be a little more well-known is M&J Trimming, located one block north of Toho Shoji on 6th Avenue. You can spend hours in this part of town if you like to make stuff.

I know that I mentioned tools in my last blog post, but it's the weekend and I have a lot to say about tools. So I'll save that for tomorrow when I'm more in the mood.

36 Days 'Til 40 (The Beauty of Graphic Design)

2011-03-11T20:33:00.002-05:00

I am an addict of pretty graphics, a crackhead easily swayed by eye candy designed and produced by other, more talented people. I clip advertisements that are crammed with vivid color and imagery. I ooh and aah over magazines like WIRED where the inventive illustrations and font usage get more attention than the ads. I thumb through the weekend newspaper anticipating the front cover art for each section, usually oversized and brilliantly juxtaposed with carefully phrased headlines.

There are times when I get caught up with one particular graphic and must have multiples of it. One of the reasons I drink Brooklyn Brewery beer is because I really like the bottle caps. Between the summer of 2008 and the summer of 2009, I solely drank Harpoon beer for the same reason. I suppose this makes me a sucker for any metal bottle cap with singular letter on it. My bottle cap collection is full of shiny, pretty things that make me smile whenever I look at it. Sometimes I make buttons out of them, but for the most part they are waiting for some divine inspiration.

My latest obsession is the old Starbucks logo on a coffee cup holder. When I found out that the logo was changing, I asked all my coffee-drinking friends to please (please!) save their coffee cup holders for me until the old logo was completely phased out. I can't stand the new logo. Am I alone in this? Does anyone else think the new logo is an abomination? Maybe it looks better on a cup or a bag, but not the cup holder. I liked the mermaid framed inside a solid circular line because it looked like a stamp of approval. And she was like Gaia bestowing coffee goodness to us poor retched souls. Now she's homeless, wandering about, and the new logo resembles a missing person's headshot.

Well, you can see where this is going. I verge on being that person, that hoarder who cannot part with a ridiculous piece of refuse because she sees beauty where another (more sane) person sees garbage. All I can say is thank goodness I've got some skills. (Or as we say in the 'hood, I've got skillz...) And tools--let's not forget about tools. I'll write about that tomorrow.

Thanks for letting me share.

37 Days 'Til 40 (Little Notes)

2011-03-10T23:30:00.007-05:00

My daughter Masana is fond of leaving me little notes. The one to the left was scribbled on a page from her dictionary. Masana wanted to point out the second word "retch" which she felt described her brother Mack, his strong gag reflex, and his bad sense of timing. (The words on the left side read "Mack = retch.")

Mack has a slight problem swallowing pool water, so we normally cannot swim for more than 20 minutes at a time or else he vomits. During a recent trip to Florida, Mack threw up in the hotel pool an hour before we had to check out, which made Masana incredibly mad. In her opinion, Mack once again spoiled everyone's good time. I don't think she's forgiven him, and I get the feeling that she has cataloged every instance of Mack throwing up in a pool and us making a premature exit.

When I first discovered the note, it was 7:00 am and I was in full get-the-kids-to-school mode. I briefly read it and erroneously concluded that Masana felt her brother was retarded. (The words on the top read "look what I found" with an arrow pointing to the definition of retarded.) It wasn't until I confronted her at the end of the day that I realized my mistake, which came somewhat as a relief. Masana calling her little brother retarded in such a clinical way seemed cold. It's one thing to name-call to his face, but it's another thing to find the definition in print, rip it out of the dictionary, annotate it, and then submit it to your mother as evidence.

But Masana felt the need to show me the word retch--and to equate it with Mack. She must feel overshadowed by the spectacle that often surrounds Mack when he tosses his cookies (and hamburger and fries), how Dave and I rush around to help him and clean up the mess.

Mack has also been to the emergency room about 7 times in his young life for various illnesses, most of which are related to his food allergies or asthma. There was a time when he looked sick for an entire year, and to conjure up the image of my poor little guy with scabs all over his bony frame gets me choked up. So when he vomits, I can't help but react as if he's sick. He may not really be sick, but I can't tell the difference immediately.

How unfair that Masana must suffer the trials and tribulations of being the healthy one in the family. I often take for granted that she's never sick.

Masana left me these other notes:

I love you, too, Masana. More than a DS!

38 Days 'Til 40 (I Am Appreciated!)

2011-03-09T17:20:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, my son Mack came home with a special surprise for me in his backpack. It was a book filled with thank you notes from every student in his class, full of happy exclamation points and doodles in the margin. I have never seen a more beautiful and satisfying book in my life. Let me explain why.

Back in January, I originally approached Mack's teacher about doing a craft in her class. But she wanted me to talk about writing. But not just any old type of writing. She wanted me to talk to second graders about how to write a non fiction book, specifically a "how-to." My immediate reaction was one of skepticism and a little eyebrow raising, but she won me over with her incredible enthusiasm. It turns out that Mack's teacher has a copy of my book BABY BY THE NUMBERS, so she knew who I was before the school year began. And after giving me numerous compliments and pumping up my ego, I agreed to her plan. She made me feel so wonderful that I would have given her my social security number, mother's maiden name, and childhood pet if she asked me. I was putty in her hands.

I'm no stranger to an elementary school classroom, but I normally teach crafts: junk art, paper-making, cardboard dreidels, and accordion books are some of the projects that I've done. We get messy and loud, and by the end of our time together each kid has something to show for the effort. But talking about how to write, or how I write? That's just blowing hot air into a room. I may know lots of things, but to impart my way of doing something so personal--and in such an official capacity--is sheer hubris. I truly consider myself a maker/crafter first and then a writer, despite the fact that on my tax return my accountant insists on calling me as such. When I tried to change it, good ole Alan (that's his name) asked me if the checks that I've received were for teaching crafts. I said no, that they were for books and articles that I've written. And then he silently waited until I concluded that being paid for a job makes me that person.

Sheesh. Accountants and their need for neat labels. Baby was being put into a corner.

I presented my whole "Look at me, I'm a writer and here's what you do" spiel to Mack's class last Thursday. It went smoothly as far as I could tell, but there was this lingering doubt. When considering the same event, an adult's perspective can be very different from a child's. His teacher sent me a wonderful thank you email that evening, and Mack even tried his hand at positive spinning. "No, Mommy," he said in a comforting tone. "No one thought you were boring."

But this book that I received from Mack and his classmates makes me believe that I do know what the heck I'm doing, whether it's teaching a craft or revealing my writing process to 7 year old kids--such as it is.

Thank you, Mack and Mrs. Stacy Howryletz's second grade class. Now enough of this writing business and let's make something already. It's time to get our craft on!

39 Days 'Til 40 (Suicidal Tendencies At Bay)

2011-03-08T17:42:00.001-05:00

Some good stuff today.

The Solder Gun Saga
I finally opened the box to my new soldering gun. It's a Weller WLC 100 model, which (according to Amazon.com) is for crafters and hobbyists. At $40, the price was right, and I was excited when the box arrived last week. But the fear of getting burned prevented me from actually opening the box. Well, molten metal be damned! The box is open and I have a coil of solder sitting on my work table. Let the good times commence.

Now where is my bottle cap collection? I've been collecting the bottle caps from Brooklyn Brewery for a few months now, ever since my local Trader Joe's started selling beer. Between my love of all things Brooklyn (the land of my youth) and, well, beer, the mound of colorful "B" metals caps has swelled past the rim of little basket that held it. (And for the record, I would like to mention that I was not alone in drinking these numerous bottles. I do not need an intervention!)

ETSY Treasures
Another exciting bit of news: my coffee holder books on ETSY made it on two treasury lists. So despite some discouraging words from an anonymous source about listing items here, I found some unexpected positive feedback from complete strangers. Take a peak at these two lists by dustyatticantiques and Denise62863. To these generous ETSY members: thank you so much!

Victory Over Winter Colds
Every winter for the past six years, I've been felled by the worst of colds. It's never a full blown flu, just the nagging drag-it-out-for-weeks-and-weeks type of cough and congestion that slowly can drain a sane person of their will to live. But this year I am the last healthy person standing in the house--well, so far. But with the first day of Spring only a few weeks away, I can smell victory.

To help cure my brood of what ails them, I constantly made soup. The soup in the picture to the left is reminiscent of a mung bean one that my Mom used to make. It's full of garlic and ginger, with heaps of chopped spinach in a thickened broth. Instead of mung beans, I used small red beans. And where my Mom used of bits of pork, I substituted with sweet Italian sausages. Here is the recipe:

Ingredients
2 cups of dried small red beans
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 large cloves of garlic, minced
2 wedges of ginger cut 1/8-inch thick
4 links of sweet Italian sausage removed from the casing
2 cups chicken broth
2 cup water
1 cup chopped baby spinach

1 cup uncooked Jasmine rice

Directions
Soak the bean in water for at least 2 hours. Drain and set aside. In a large pot, heat the olive oil under medium heat. Add the garlic and ginger; saute for a few minutes. Add the sausage and brown it like ground beef. Add beans and cook for an additional 2 minutes. Add chicken broth and water. Bring to a boil and then lower heat. Cover pot and let it simmer for 3 hours. Check on soup every hour and stir. Add additional water if needed.

Cook the Jasmine rice while the soup is simmering. Serve soup over cooked rice.

I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings. But today I will celebrate these good surprises and small victories.

40 Days 'Til 40 (Egads)

2011-03-07T21:02:00.003-05:00

Today I am going to take a break from supplying excerpts of my more creative endeavors. I will even get a little crotchety, but not without good cause. I suppose it's because my birthday is coming up soon. I will turn 40 years old in 40 days. Not that I'm counting or anything, but I merely wanted to point this out if anyone was curious.

Dave says that I've been obsessed with turning 40 since I was 38. It was the point when I couldn't say I was in my mid 30s, that I was in my late 30s, which can only lead to 40. (Oh, dear God. 40!) And these past 3 months have been especially hard on poor Dave since I flip-flop on the issue of celebrating this momentous occasion. One day I want to rent a huge estate in the Tuscan countryside for all my family and friends, and the next day I want to crawl into a hole wearing a black hoodie and sunglasses. Today I decided that I would usher in a new decade with a lonely spa day and then drink myself silly.

My daughter Masana, who is 9 years old, was an emotional wreck last night. She realized that she was getting older and that she would enter the realm of double digits--10--gasp!--in less than six months. Between breathy sobs she explained that she didn't want to get older, that she liked being 9.

Well, join the club, little girl. I don't want to get older either. And with my 40th birthday looming ahead, I have absolutely no sympathy.

Okay, I take that back. How can even the blackest of hearts not soften at the sight of my soon to be 10 year old?

I think that I'm getting hot flashes. Maybe that's the reason for my unstable rants. Or that I simply will not go gently into the night.

Sparkle and Shine: Cleaning Tricky Household Surfaces

2011-03-02T14:57:00.001-05:00

When my husband and I bought our home a few years ago, I first experienced “old wood floor” heaven. Beneath the previous owner’s horribly nondescript grey-blue carpets were the original oak planks of our Tudor revival house, built in the 1920s. As soon as the ink dried on the contract, we removed the carpeting and had those gorgeous floors sanded, stained a warm shade of walnut, and sealed with a polyurethane satin varnish.

Read more: http://www.divinecaroline.com/22156/85355-sparkle-shine-cleaning-tricky-household#ixzz1FTS3jTke

Kid-Speak and Dining Out

2011-02-27T14:55:00.001-05:00

Masana and Mack at Peter Lugars.

Here are some random experiences of mine regarding kids and dining out.

Placing an Order
Dining outside of our home has given my rather diminutive daughter Masana some unexpected self-confidence. Her voice--otherwise a cross between a mumble and a mousey murmur--suddenly becomes audible and her diction succinct when a waitperson asks for her order.

At Club Med, the kids are allowed to order (non-alcoholic) drinks directly from the bar. To the burly, nearly seven foot tall bartender who thought he had to bend down to take her drink order, Masana barked in a slow, booming alto, "May I please have a Miami Vice*?" The giant barkeep took a step backward in surprise and then smiled at her before serving up one very tall and pink drink. She then took one look at her drink and said with a rather disappointed tone,"You forgot my straw."

------

My son Mack, on the other hand, still has to master the art of polite ordering. A few months ago we were at a luncheonette for breakfast. After reading the menu, an impatient Mack said to the waitress taking our order, "I'll have 'two eggs any style' please."

The waitress looked up from her pad. Confused, she asked, "But how do you want it?"

After a huff and a near eyeball roll, Mack retorted, "I don't care. I'm just hungry."

Dining Words

For my kids, food words are mysteries to be solved. For instance, some that sound alike can be similar in meaning, like "sate" and "satiate." But other same-sounding words can be worlds apart in definition. Before dinner I once declared that I was ready for a cocktail, which made Mack look at me funny.

"Why do you want a bird?" he inquired.

I started to laugh, which made Mack a little angry. "No, no, I'm not making fun of you, " I explained. "'Cocktail' sounds like a bird, you're right. Like 'cocateau.' But it's another word for a drink."

He was then thoughtful and tried to come up with other words that sounded like birds.

Bobbin. Smidgeon.

------

There are words that our kids see on almost every menu, but they still get them wrong. We were walking to Mack's favorite neighborhood restaurant when he eagerly asked us, "When we get there, can we order advertisements?"

Dave stopped walking. "Advertisements? Can you explain what you mean?"

Almost jumping up and down with excitement, Mack answered, "You know, advertisements. Fried calamari, onion rings...advertisements!"

Dave laughed and shook his head, "Mack, you mean appetizers."

Epicurean Critique
Masana has been the kid who tries to describe her food. Some of her table proclamations are: bubbly drinks are "spicy," chicken curry is "like fire," and porterhouse steak is "chewy like bad gum."Recently, she announced that any type of bean somehow tasted "itchy" (though, thank goodness, not allergy related itchy) and okra was "furry."

So I was expecting more when she finally had raw fish at a Japanese restaurant. After eating her first piece of sushi, Masana smacked her lips, turned to her brother, and said, "Mack! It's so good, you won't believe your mouth!"

Sometimes I can't believe my ears.

*strawberry daiquiri and pina colada mixed together

Back From a Club Med Vacation

2011-02-24T15:48:00.007-05:00

Photo by Masana.

This will be a quick post since we just returned from our family vacation and I still have sand in my hair.

Let me start by saying that our family vacations are usually anything but relaxing. Dave and I have always taken the kids on adventures rather than vacations. We map out a course whether by car, plane, foot, or a combination of all three, and soak in the local surroundings. Our first real vacation with the kids took us on a plane to San Diego, CA, where we rented a car and drove over 1,000 miles along Pacific Highway One.
We slept in a yurt, ate on the beach, went for hikes, and hugged redwood trees. When we finally got home after 10 days of nonstop action, I was in dire need of a vacation from my vacation. Between 2007 and 2008 we drove to Baltimore, Philadelphia, Washington, and the Outer Banks on separate road trips. We took the kids to see shows, visited museums and aquariums, and ate a LOT of food. In 2009, we drove out to Chicago from New York. On the way we stopped by Toledo and Cleveland, Ohio to watch the Mud Hens and the Indians play baseball. The kids discovered Arby's, Dairy Queen, and the fact that Pennsylvania is one boring state to drive through (my apologies to the state of Pennsylvania). Last year we took the kids to London. We rented a flat in the Southwark section, walked everywhere, ate everything, and collapsed every night with full bellies and tired feet.

This year I demanded a real do-nothing (or die trying) vacation. So despite Dave's pleas for Ireland or Scotland, I firmly planted my foot down and said NO. My only requirements were: 1) warm weather and 2) that we not leave the country. So Dave booked a Club Med vacation in Florida.

At first I was skeptical because the website for the Club Med Sandpiper Bay resort didn't have any real photos at the time Dave booked our vacation. It was undergoing extensive renovations and had these strange computer generated* images. And for someone with a fairly active imagination, that part of my creative brain couldn't grasp that I could be just like the happy and brightly colored avatar in virtual Club Med world. *(Their website has been updated with actual photos, though they are still building their wellness center.)

But I'm quite happy to report that our family vacation was a complete success.

The view from my covered beach bed. I saw lots of jumping fish,
birds that I think were pelicans, and dolphins. (Yes, I said dolphins.)

The boys abandoned their shoes at the beginning of every day.

Sand art?

One of the many sand castles we built.

New sea legs created by my daughter.

I'll try to write more about the experience later on. There is a lot to say about this place that may be of some use to another do-nothing vacation seeking family. But right now I'm just going to bask in the glow of our first REAL family vacation.

Many thanks to the chief of the village, Lionel Pirotte, for a fantastic stay.

And, of course, thank you, Dave. Now that wasn't so terrible, was it? ;)

Bubble Chandelier and Banana Bread Pudding

2011-02-17T10:03:00.008-05:00

Let me first start with the banana bread pudding, a dessert that I made this past Sunday because I had all the right ingredients. It was truly a serendipitous moment.

My kids do not like pre-sliced bread for their sandwiches, and they do not like any other bread except challah bread. Luckily I like to shop at Trader Joe's and they have a challah loaf that fits the bill. If I slice it evenly, one loaf will yield a week's worth of lunchbox sandwiches for these unreasonably picky kids.

By week's end, I'm left with the loaf ends and I hate wasting food. So I do the responsible thing and encourage the kids or my husband Dave to eat the ends. But it's as if I'm asking them to clean the bathroom toilets or take out the garbage. Call me crazy, but I don't think that eating loaf ends should be seen as a disgusting chore.

A month ago I decided that I would save the loaf ends to make bread pudding. This was an ambitious decision because the one and only other time I made bread pudding was a disaster. Let's just say that substituting a pint of half-n-half with rice milk was not the smartest thing to do.

On Sunday, I opened up my freezer and noticed that I had enough loaf ends for bread pudding. I also had one very ripe banana and some left over dark chocolate from cookies I made a few weeks ago. Hmm, I thought to myself, would banana bread pudding with dark chocolate chips taste good?

I am happy to report that my second attempt was a successful one: the right amount of banana flavor balanced with the chocolate, the bread pudding moist yet firm. And although it didn't need any accompanying dessert, I added a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side.

Here is the recipe:

Banana Bread Pudding with Dark Chocolate Chips

Ingredients

1 large ripe banana

1/2 cup of granulated sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 cups half-n-half

3 large eggs

approximately 4 cups challah bread, toasted and cubed

1 cup of smashed dark chocolate chips*

butter

Generously grease the surface of a 8" square baking dish with butter. (You can also use a loaf pan.) Toss in the challah bread and chocolate chips. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, mash up the banana until it has the consistency of pudding. Mix in the sugar and vanilla extract. Then add the half-n-half. Beat in the eggs one at a time. Pour mixture over the challah bread/chocolate chips in the baking dish and let the pudding set for an hour.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake in the center rack for 35 minutes. Let the pudding set for an additional 15 minutes after taking it out of the oven. Serve it warm or room temperature.

(*I like to smash a bar of dark chocolate with a mallet to make the chips more shard-like. Place the chocolate in a ziplock bag and make sure let out most of the air before working the bar over with the mallet.)

Now on to my bubble chandelier.

Over eight months ago, I was perusing through an issue of ReadyMade magazine and spied a DIY bubble chandelier. I made it immediately, but I was afraid to install the darn thing in my house because, well, I'm not an electrician. So it sat in a well padded crate in the corner of my work room, collecting dust, and living through other indignities that a bubble chandelier should never experience.

After hearing me complain about my chandelier for the hundredth time, a friend of mine told me that I should just make it into a hanging light that can be plugged into an electrical socket. Can I just say that this was a divine moment for me? And a genius one for my friend?

Here is my bubble chandelier/hanging light:

Excuse the dirt on my camera lens.

I still want to install it the proper way, but the fear of electrocution runs deep in me.

At least I can use my bubble chandelier now. And every time I turn it on, I say to myself, "Let there be light!"

Zap It! Reducing the Shock of Static Electricity

2011-02-12T08:31:00.000-05:00

We’ve all felt it—that quick but painful zap of static electricity, perhaps after walking across carpeting and reaching for a doorknob, or maybe when we put our arms around a loved one...

Read more: http://www.divinecaroline.com/33669/87160-zap-it-reducing-shock-static#ixzz1CucAvDj5

More Newspaper Duct Tape Murses

2011-02-10T10:21:00.002-05:00

It's not a glamourous-sounding name, but a murse is a murse.
Though I do suspect that a guy wouldn't be caught dead sporting one across his manly chest. I think that maybe I should change the size to make it more like a camera bag. What do you think?

I'm normally not a gray duct tape kinda gal, but this illustration from last weekend's New York Times made me reconsider it. And simply put, it's a lot more manly than the sky blue duct tape I used for a friend's utility bag-- despite the fact that I mixed in some black duct tape. (Please excuse the horrible photo. It reads "STUFF" on the front with an arrow pointing to the opening of the bag.)

My daughter Masana has also been searching through the newspaper for pretty pictures, though I am not quite sure what her intentions are. Sometimes, she'll squirrel away a page with interesting type or photographic images. Other times, she'll leave a stack of her findings on my chair as an offering to the crafting gods. Last week, I found the front page of the NYT Science Times section smiling at me from my perch. Well, maybe "smiling" is the wrong word. Take a look.

I am laughing as I write this because it has now dawned on me how appropriate this nonsmiling/smiling illustration is for my lovely daughter. And if you're a mother with a girl or (heaven forbid) girls, then you'll understand that the laughter is laced with a little anger, sarcasm, and heartache.

We had a rough few days. Did I mention that she's 9 years old and testing her boundaries? And that she's got mood swings that could give a person whiplash if you tried to follow them? I won't say exactly what she did to get me going because that wouldn't be fair. So let's just say it was a public display of her dissatisfaction for something she perceived as a slight, though for the life of me I cannot figure out what it was that I did wrong. I barely said anything to her before the metaphorical daggers came out.

When my husband Dave came home, I already had relegated the offending child to her room without dinner and the non-offending child (my son Mack) was sitting obediently on the couch reading a book. The eery silence immediately set off alarms in Mr. Dave's head and he found me sipping a beer in my work room. That night, dinner and dessert for the boys were gotten outside of my usually busy and warm kitchen.

The ups and downs of the mother/daughter relationship. That was certainly a down. And today I'll be spending some one-on-one time with Masana (or, as we call her when she's exhibiting bad behavior, Boo-sana) to change the trajectory of our arc. May it swing upward today.

And thanks for letting me vent.

Wait for It: Easy Tips for Improving Slow-Cooker Meals

2011-02-04T08:30:00.000-05:00

Despite the fact that modern technology streamlines the many aspects of our daily grind, life in the twenty-first century can seem busier than ever.

Read more: http://www.divinecaroline.com/33710/93046-wait-it-easy-tips-improving#ixzz1CubHd8Xv

This Ain't High Art, Buddy

2011-02-02T21:50:00.005-05:00

Someone accused me of having a "high art" phase at the moment. To this person I say, "High art?? Really? That's what you consider a wallet made out of a Trader Joe's brownie baking mix bag?"

Here is the original packaging.

A little clear packing tape to make the surface waterproof, some sky blue Duck brand duct tape, and-- voila!--a wallet is born.

I've been trolling around my home for more Shade the Changing Man inspiration. Newspaper bin, magazine rack, the linen closet, the kitchen pantry--no place is sacred. I feel like there are so many interesting graphics out there, which really helps me since I can't draw very well.

A few months ago, I bought some pillowcases that were marked down to the "so cheap you have to buy it even though you don't need or want it" price at my local Home Goods store. And they had been sitting in my linen closet ever since. I imagined them giving me dirty looks every time I went in there to grab a clean towel. So guess what I did?

I used one of the pillowcases as the lining for this wallet. For the outside material I used black 3M duct tape.

So while it may not really be a high art phase I'm going through, I'm certainly experiencing a crafty phase. Maybe it's the crazy weather here in New York that keeps me indoors and somewhat chained to my work table, but I am churning out a lot of "stuff."

Speaking of crazy weather, today the kids stayed home from school AGAIN. I am considering home-schooling them at this point. Just kidding. That would require me to actually know math and the English language rather than simply possess opinions on these subjects.

This is the fourth snow day that the kids' school has used this calendar year. In addition to school closings, there have been two delayed openings and one early dismissal. I am sure that I am not the only mother who is feeling like her kids have suddenly regressed to the nursery school years. Back when my daughter and son were newly toilet-trained humanoids, I kept the peace in our house with oatmeal raisin cookies. And after my daughter harumphed at me for forcing her to practice the clarinet and my son rolled his eyes at me for not helping him figure out how to fix his video game, I made oatmeal raisin cookies. Because I didn't want to reach for that beer before lunchtime.

I loaded my cookies with my ultimate guilty pleasure: dark chocolate. And I made sure there was plenty to go around.

Yes, dark chocolate. It is quite possibly the answer to all my problems. So bring it on, Mother Nature!

Comic Inspired Bag and Birthday Wishes

2011-01-18T23:31:00.007-05:00

Sorry if I've been off the grid, but recovering from this past holiday season has NOT been easy. Too much food and alcohol, too many presents that weren't sanctioned by "Santa," too much time with the kids, stuck in the house with nowhere to go and nothing to do. It's enough to drive a questionably sane woman over the edge, you know?

I have also been going through a dry spell and haven't really made anything worthy of a blog post. The creative well had been dry. More than dry. It had evaporated to the point of crumbling when touched.
So I've been trolling through my iPod for inspiration and for songs from a sunnier past. Basically, I've been going back (way back) to the music of the 80's and early 90's, especially Duran Duran because, let's face it, Simon LeBon's lyrics are anything but angst-ridden. Well, that is if you can figure out what the heck he's talking about.

The iconic Nagel cover art. Uh-huh!

Yesterday, while jamming out to "Hungry Like the Wolf," I was flipping through the pages of the latest issue of WIRED magazine and came across this ad for Ray Ban sunglasses:

Spurred by this comic book style ad, I travelled back to the early 90's when I tried my hand at comic book collecting. Yes, a cute boy was involved and he worked at a comic book store near my school. I remember wandering in that first day, looking for a comic that my nephew collected, and seeing the golden aura of this boy's curly blond mane. My mouth went dry and I didn't know how to respond to the simple question he asked: "Do you need any help?"

This is Shade the Changing Man drawn by Brendan McCarthy in the 90's.

But I was rendered momentarily mute by his direct gaze, and he tried to fill the awkward silence with typical salesman's questions that I could barely hear. I happened to be standing next to the "S" section and Shade the Changing Man viciously stared at me to speak up. I leaned against the comic book rack to try to relax and cute boy's eyes lit up. He saw Shade beneath my elbow. He assumed that I was a Shade fan and launched into an enthusiastic riff on all things Vertigo and the illustrator Brendan McCarthy. I didn't understand a word he said, but that's how I wound up buying these comics that I never really read. To this day I can't remember if I even took them out of the protective cellophane bags.

And so the warm, fuzzy memory of an innocent and unrequited crush (no, I never dated him) brought me out of my post-holiday blues and I decided that the Ray Ban ad needed to be made into something. Anything. I felt like crafting. Woohoo!

In a very McGyver-esque move, I took some packing tape, duct tape and an old pillow case to make a mini messenger bag (or you can even call it a man purse, aka "murse"). With the help of my trusty Kenmore, we churned it out in less than a day:

I'm thinking that my immediate future involves the crafting of duct tape/magazine ad murses. And more Duran Duran music!

Today happens to be my Mom's birthday, which could have been disastrous had I not been in a crafty mood. After finishing my bag, I began to think about some of the happier birthdays we celebrated with Mom.

One birthday about fifteen years ago, I decided that I was going to bring home her birthday cake. Usually, one of my sisters did the honor, but that particular year I was adamant that I would get the cake. Which I did. But what happened on the way from the bakery to my parents' house was pure idiocy on my part.

In general, the month of January in New York is cold and icy. So the streets are usually treacherous if one does not wear the appropriate shoes, like I did that day. Being young and stupid, I wore pretty shoes of the ridiculous variety rather than winter boots that keep feet warm and bodies from slipping on the ice. And as I walked the single avenue and few blocks from the bakery to the house, I lost my balance at least 5 times. This meant I swung that cake box over and over again.

After dinner, my Mom opened up the cake box and this is what she saw:

Everyone was stunned and I was completely embarrassed. But after the initial shock wore off, my Mom laughed and laughed until her eyeglasses were misty from tears. The cake was still edible, so we stuck some candles on it and we all sang Happy Birthday.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love and miss you.

My Winter Song

2011-01-02T23:44:00.002-05:00

I am not a genius.

Despite my New Year's resolution to avoid snarky observations (well, at least public ones), I am on the cusp of sharing a sarcastic rant about Apple's surreptitious appropriation of the term "Genius." But don't worry, Apple (especially if you're reading this, Steve Jobs): all's well that ends well.

Last June, I was sitting at the so-called Genius Bar in the SoHo Apple store with a friend of mine. My friend's hard drive was doing suspicious things, which caused her much emotional pain and psychological damage. Apple products, after all, are made for ease of use by the lowest common denominator, right? I mean, my seven year old can navigate our iPad better than I can. So why the need to sanction a twentysomething hipster with a title of superiority to aid us less fortunate beings with disposable income?

After hours of waiting on some uncomfortable yet stylish post modern stool, our assigned Genius crinkled his brow and announced "you need to get a new computer." I saw in my friend's eyes the arc of her emotions in those few seconds before she was able to speak coherently again: surprise, helplessness, self-pity, and, finally, anger. I thought she would punch our Genius, and I had the urge to grab our Genius by the shoulders and shake him 'til he rattled. But instead, we did what any sane person would do when faced with adversity of this level: we hightailed it out of there and headed to the nearest dive bar. I bought the first round of several we had that night. Genius my ass.

So when the anonymous Genius on my iTunes suggests songs for me to purchase or mixes a playlist based on what's already in my music library, I usually ignore it. That evening in the SoHo Apple store revealed the irony behind the whole Genius label. And purchasing one Poison song certainly does not merit owning a whole album by Cutting Crew. (Apparently, iTune Geniuses are not familiar with sarcastic, nostalgic impulse buys.) But today I was intrigued by the title "Winter Song" and decided to hear a sample of it. Yeah, I wound up buying it and thus contributing to the whole Apple Genius notion, but take a listen and I'll explain more later.

Winter Song/Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson

I guess you can say that my month of December 2010 was the worst I've ever experienced. For anyone that's followed my 100 Days of Norma, you already know my story. My Mom died six months ago and since then I've been questioning many things in my life. Turning the microscope on oneself is extremely painful, especially when you discover deep holes in your being that you thought were just minor abrasions. It's one thing to know that someone you loved will never show up for another birthday or holiday. It's another to realize you were never equipped with the means to deal with such a grave and sudden loss.

So this song, provided by an unlikely source on a day fraught with reflection of the past year and expectation of the next twelve months, resonated in my heart (as corny as that may sound). Today I sat on my bed and played it over and over again until my kids couldn't stand it anymore. I played it over and over again until I could hear it without crying.

Because of this song, I finally have a goal for the new year, but for me the year ends on Father's Day, the day my Mom died. I need to find a place for the love I still have for my Mom. I still stubbornly carry it because it's all I have left. And it displaces all my other feelings and concerns. The questions of who do I love and do I still love and when can I love again are unanswered ones. And before I can answer them, I need to let go.

So this is my winter song, and I'll sing it with resolve.

If Helen Came For a Visit

2010-12-07T14:03:00.002-05:00

A few weeks ago, my friend Helen and I traded tweets (yes, I said tweets) about an imaginary trip she would take to NYC. This inspired me to write down all my favorite places and think about how much fun it would be to play tour guide.

Helen hasn't been to NYC in quite some time and I'm still exploring new/interesting places to go. This is the list that I have so far:

1. Get massages at Great Jones Spa. Hang out for a few hours at the water lounge. (Helen: bring your bathing suit...or not!)

2. Go to my favorite independent bookstore McNally Jackson. Sit in the cafe, have a cup of coffee or tea, and just hang out for a while.

3. While NYC has many great museums and galleries, one of my favorites is the Museum of Art & Design . The space is intimate yet it doesn't feel so small that you feel like you didn't get your money's worth. And the exhibitions are inspiring, especially to the crafter/artist in all of us.

4. Decibel on East 9th Street is a serious sake bar--and probably the only one in NYC. I don't remember how I got home the last time I went to Decibel's. So we'll be sure to bring cab money and our address written down on a piece of paper.

5. Shake Shack in Madison Square Park--the place where it all began. It gives new meaning to the burger-shake combination. Oooo, I love a good burger!

6. High Line and the Pace Galleries. While the High Line is still just a promise to most New Yorkers, it's worth the scant 9 block walk. The views are amazing. Start at Gansevoort and exit at West 20th Street. Walk over to the Pace Galleries. The first one is on West 22nd Street, and the other two are on West 25th Street. The exhibits never disappoint.

7. One of my favorite bars in NYC is d.b.a. in the East Village. It has something for everyone--except food. But there are several places to order in food (yes, they will deliver it to the bar) and the bartender has a binder with menus.

8. Cafe Habana on Prince Street in NoLIta. They make really awesome fish tacos.

10. Menku Tei in midtown (West 56th Street) is the perfect spot for lunch or an early dinner when exploring the touristy midtown area of NYC (think MoMA, Rockerfeller Center, shops on 5th Avenue, or even Broadway shows).

11. Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown is a place that is not too scary for tourists interested in the NYC Chinatown experience. I happen to really like the food and it's on a quiet street rather than the hustle and bustle of the main Canal Street. It's also near the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory for a little red bean ice cream cone afterwards.

12. Urban Exploring on the 6 train. This "lost" subway station is one of the few spots that many urban explorers do not need to break into (and you know who you are). Just stay on the 6 train after it's final stop at Brooklyn Bridge and be sure to be in the first train car for the best view.

13. Grimaldi's Pizza in Brooklyn (right over the Brooklyn Bridge). Brick oven pizza--probably the best in NYC, but there are so many foodies in this town with strong opinions on what their favorite pizza is. So let's just say that it's my favorite pizza--and I was born and raised in Brooklyn. So what do I know, right?

14. Brooklyn Flea is one of the most interesting and unique venues for handmade wares. Wear good shoes and be prepared to carry out a lot of goodies.

Okay, Helen. Here's your list! Happy Holidays, my English twin. I do hope you get to come play on my side of the pond sooner than later.

Much love,
Your American Twin Richela

Keeping Busy

2010-12-06T13:38:00.003-05:00

The week after Thanksgiving has been a busy one for me, Dave, and the kids. Between getting everyone back in the swing of things and planning the Christmas holiday, I can't seem to catch my breath.

But the weekend promised to be a slow and quiet one. So what did I do to relax?

I baked blueberry muffins of the gi-normous variety:

...made a pot of beef stew:

...crafted a few books from Starbucks cup holders:

...and finally started to make wallets out of the vast half gallon carton collection in my work room:

So much for relaxing! But at least my inventory is growing. I'm getting that itch to sell stuff on Etsy again.

I'm making some pop ups from beautiful photos a friend took of Coney Island (as in Brooklyn, yo). If I can get his blessing to post the pics of his appropriated images, I'll share them with you in my next post.

Until then...

On The Road Again

2010-11-24T15:03:00.001-05:00

Dave and I have taken the kids on yet another one of our road trips. This time we're heading to North Carolina to spend Thanksgiving with Grandad and Grandma Morgan in North Carolina. (Can you say barbecue ribs? Oh, yeah.)
We decided to leave our house at the crack of dawn last Tuesday, which meant skipping a much needed coffee stop at Starbucks. As we pulled out of our driveway, I could tell that this decision was a really stupid one. Skip coffee just to get a jump on the traffic? How dumb is that? We still hit traffic and my hands were shaking by the time we made our way into New Jersey.

Everywhere I turned, there were signs that my body needed caffeine.

We finally pulled off the highway and got whatever coffee we could find.

The halfway point for us is Washington, D.C. I have a soft spot for the cafeteria food at the National Museum of the American Indian (is that weird?) so we decided to stop and stretch our legs.

This is the Historical Society of Washington. I really love this building.

This is an octopus at the National Aquarium. (Note to self: the National Aquarium is not free nor worth the $30 we paid in admission fees. What a rip off.) We spent 15 minutes in this place. Tiny and horrible. I took a picture of this octopus despite the "NO PHOTOGRAPHS" sign above the tank. I needed to feel like I got my money's worth, so there!

Here's the Washington Monument, which we were unable--again, and for the 4th time--to get tickets for. Seriously, what's wrong with us? Why can't we remember to get tickets for this thing?

And the last shot we took in Washington was of my son eating a man on the horizon:

Here are a few shots taken as we traveled south on Interstate 95:

More to come...

It's Been A While

2010-11-18T10:37:00.001-05:00

I've been off the grid for a month now, trying to figure out things of the spiritual and emotional kind. My apologies for the lack of an online presence, but it was a much needed break.
But look what I found: a wooden temple in the middle of Queens (that's a borough in New York City for those of you who are not familiar with these parts of the woods).

I heard about this temple, though it seemed more urban legend than anything else. A few weeks ago, an old friend was in town and itching for a dim sum fix on Kissena Blvd in Queens. Being a daft former Brooklynite, I had no idea how close or far away this wooden temple might be to my dim sum destination, but I thought it might be fun to search for it before meeting up with my friend. After consulting an urban explorer or two about the location of the temple, I jumped into my car and headed over the Whitestone Bridge with some scribbles on a paper towel and my camera.

It's fair to say that my jaw dropped when I turned the corner of Parsons Blvd. On a tree-lined block with single family homes, there's this unfinished structure that stops you in your tracks. I stared at it for a good ten minutes for before I remembered that I had my camera with me. I could hear my smart-aleck side saying,"Take a picture, stupid. It'll last longer."

So, what else have I been up to besides driving around in my car and looking for wooden temples in New York City? Well, I started making books again. It was inspired by Esther K. Smith , a hero of mine that not only is an amazing book artist but a generous and kind soul. Three years ago, I was in a Barnes & Noble and casually browsing the craft section when I came across her first book "How To Make Books." Can I just say that my life was forever changed? And last month, I was lucky enough to visit her in her Purgatory Pie Press studio and see all her amazing work.

Esther's most recent book is "The Paper Bride." And while I am well past the blushing bride stage of my life, it did inspire me to make a book for my husband Dave for our 11th wedding anniversary. We have a habit of saving all the ticket stubs and business cards from every trip we take, so I sewed them together to make the outer case of my book.

I thought it might be nice to make a whimsical pop-up style book using many of our family photos with lift the tabs and movable pieces.

So that's what I've been up to lately. Hopefully I can get back into the swing of things and keep up my online presence.

Thanks for letting me share.

Day One Hundred: Want Versus Need

2010-10-14T16:03:00.000-04:00

I started my One Hundred Days Of Norma with this photo.

On this last day of my One Hundred Days of Norma, I would like to discuss a topic that caused a minor marital Mexican standoff.

I recently had a conversation with my sensible husband regarding something I really wanted. I won't mention the object of my desire, but let's just say that it's bigger than a pair of diamond earrings but smaller than a German sports car. Being fairly agile in the area of mental gymnastics, I thought I proved that what I wanted was something that I needed.

But my logic was skewed. Instead of displaying sharp reasoning skills, I had a Daffy Duck moment a la "Fool Coverage," producing a stampede of wild elephants--and one baby zebra-- during a hailstorm between 3:55 and 4:00 PM on the Fourth of July, just to say that I do, indeed, need this thing rather than simply want it. I should have just argued that wanting something should be reason enough to have it, and that's that.

Of course, we don't always get what we want, which means, no, I am not getting my coveted thing. Well, not now, anyway. (If you are reading this, Dave: I have no intention of letting up!)

Want versus need. It's something we always encounter in life.

When I began writing/venting after my Mom passed away, I needed to get past the grief and get on with my life. But as time went on, I realized that this need was an impossible one, that the grief never completely goes away. The hole she left will never fill up, no matter what I put in it. And I've heard it from many of my friends who have lost a loved one: you never forget or stop missing them. The hurt becomes a familiar face and you welcome it into your life. You greet it whenever it stops by for a visit, and you wave goodbye when it leaves knowing it will come back again.

So now I'm learning to want rather than need. I want to remember my Mom and all the ways she shaped and touched my life. I want to remember her kooky laugh, her silly mannerisms, the way she would tell me things with a sideways glance or slight frown, or the sounds she would make when words failed her.

I want to remember the last conversation we had and how we had the foresight of telling each other "I love you." I want to remember the way she felt when I last hugged her, and the way she smelled when I last kissed her. I want to hold on to every last memory of her as best I can and move forward.

I've reached the end of my One Hundred Days of Norma, but I'm not finished yet. I still want--I'll forever want--to share a good story about my Mom. But now I will take my time and get there when I'm ready.

This is the finish line for this self-assigned period. The next one has no ending.

Divine Caroline: Debunking Kitchen Myths

2010-10-13T15:43:00.001-04:00

Yeah, I do write for Divine Caroline from time to time. Part of my whole domestic goddess wannabe persona. Check out my article on kitchen myths.

Day Ninety Nine: The Finished Map and Stop Your Sobbing

2010-10-13T15:19:00.000-04:00

Well, it's done.
I changed it from the land of "my" youth to the land of "our" youth. I've shared this journey with so many people that it seemed fitting to include them somehow. I know it's only a possessive adjective, but can you feel the love?

Ann Martin, Tamdoll, and my English twin Helen (aka icklebabe): you have been especially supportive and helpful these past 99 days. One more day is left in my 100 days, but I'm sure our friendships via our blogs will continue past tomorrow.

So I dedicate this last song on my "mixed tape" to you three lovely women. I will stop my sobbing! (I'm laughing as I write this...hope you are, too.)

The Pretenders/Stop Your Sobbing

Day Ninety Eight: Norma Fabian, Chronic Shopper

2010-10-12T15:52:00.000-04:00

This was the last bag that my Mom ever gave me--which is not to say that I didn't recently procure a "Mom" bag.

Back in July, I sorta "borrowed" the orange bag below:

It's a typical Mom bag because it was a freebie that came with a Lancome makeup purchase. And my Mom was a chronic shopper, her favorite store being Macy's. If I close my eyes, I can see her perusing the makeup counters just for the freebies. Oh, Mom...

She was fond of giving me bags, which I can't seem to have enough of. These are just a few that somehow found their way into my closet over the years:

Some were bags she found during her many vacations to the Philippines. The others were either gifts that she didn't want or things that she bought for no one in particular. (She did that often, buying things for the sake of a great deal or just because it was, as she put it, simply "too cute.")

I used to feel guilty about taking her bags, but then I realized that she also collected watches, hats, bracelets, and all kinds of accessories and clothing. What exactly was she doing with all of those little items? She was giving them to my sisters, of course. Or her grandchildren. Or her siblings. Or her friends. Or...It was endless.

That was my Mom. Retail therapy always made her happy.

Day Ninety Seven: The Land of My Youth

2010-10-11T20:42:00.000-04:00

The map that inspired me.

I haven't encountered a map that I didn't want to own. The Rand McNally map of Brooklyn, a foldable and laminated map that I keep as a reminder of where I came from and want to eventually return to, is my prized possession. I heart this map.

Oh, Brooklyn. How I love you.

My cork map of Brooklyn, aka the Land of My Youth, is nearly complete, but I'm in need of a table saw. Can anyone help me out with a table saw? Anyone? Anyone?

It needs some color and I've made word stencils to paint over sections. What do you think: red, yellow? Maybe orange? Is gold too gaudy?

At least I'm done with the sewing bit. That was a pain in the posterior.

Here is my painting so far:

I re-used the stencils that I made for the cork map. Don't know where this one is going. But it should be interesting. I can't draw to save my life, but I can cut very intricate stencils with a craft knife. If anyone has a bright idea that uses my blade skills, I'd love to hear from you.

Many of you might be wondering how all of this map business relate to my Mom. It seems a little...odd? But consider this: the need to recapture the land of my youth is part of the whole grieving process and I don't think this particular cork map would exist otherwise. She suffuses every line, curved or straight. The idea of my Mom has become a map of memories that I'm still trying to render with my hands rather than words.

Over the past three months, very wise and experienced friends have suggested keeping a journal with all my memories of my Mom. I have three such journals sitting on my shelf, still blank and a little dusty.

I'm not there yet. I'm still making maps. Maybe when my 100 days are over, those journals will start filling up.

Day Ninety Six: Sundays

2010-10-10T21:29:00.000-04:00

My lil peanut playing flag football.

A typical Sunday in the Morgan household revolves around sports.

If we're not rushing from one kid's game to another, then we're buying gear for upcoming events.

Trading in used equipment.

Sometimes it makes me crazy because I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of our car, watching the world go by.

Yep, that's me.

I don't think we've ever just kicked back and did absolutely nothing on Sundays. But that actually sounds a little boring to me.

It's all about rituals and expectations. These are what Sundays are like for us, what they've been for the past 4 or 5 years. In the beginning, I found them exhausting and wished for days that did not include racing around town to fit everything on our schedule. Sometimes, to make life a little more interesting, a birthday party or family dinner was thrown into the mix. And I had to prepare wardrobes for everyone--occasionally, Dave included--ahead of time so we could jump out and then into the appropriate clothing.

To use (how appropo, I know) a sports metaphor, life has thrown me a couple of curve balls this summer, and my sense of what is normal has been sadistically skewed. I've questioned the meaning of family for months now.

This evening I made a chocolate cake for dessert.

This is what Sunday is all about. The chocolate cake at the end of the day. We run around like maniacs, hoping for a sweet reward when all is said and done.

I've made this cake a thousands times before, and I'll gladly make it a thousand times again, if it means enjoying our Sunday rituals together.

Day Ninety Five: Her Hats

2010-10-09T17:27:00.001-04:00

My Mom had quite the hat collection.

I really don't like to wear hats, but I am hoping that one day I'll wake up and discover my hat-wearing gene has gone dominant on me. I have four of my Mom's hats: the one above and the three below.

The main reason why I don't wear hats is because I think my head is misshapen, though my husband says I'm crazy. Honestly, he says that about a lot of things that I say, so I mostly ignore his grand conclusions of my premature dementia.

Well, I know for certain that my skull is quite flat in the back, which makes ponytail- and headband-wearing almost impossible. But I suspect my left side is not as rounded as my right side. The only way I can verify this is to make a plaster cast of my skull and that would require shaving off my hair. Which I won't do. Because that's crazy!

Back to my Mom's hats. She wore a hat every day for many reasons, one being her short, thin hair. But her hat collection was part of the accessories she amassed once she retired: scarves, necklaces, watches, and unnecessary bling. It made her happy to have a closet full of pretty things because most of her life she didn't have much. And, boy, did my Mom deserve it!

I'm hoping one day I can wear these hats with big Jackie O. sunglasses and a silk scarf around my neck. But I don't feel sophisticated to pull off that look. So for the time being, I'll play dress up with my daughter and we'll use them to accessorize our chic outfits.

Maybe one day I'll grow up and feel like I deserve to wear them, misshapen head and all.

Day Ninety Four: Daughter

2010-10-08T21:20:00.001-04:00

Beginning to look like something.

I admit that it doesn't look like I've done too much with this whole cork map project. But did I mention that I'm simultaneously working on a painting that uses the same stencils that I've made for this thing?
I'm trying to get two projects made for the price of one. Call me frugal.

Okay, this is day 94 and I'm finally going to share a song on my mixed tape that I have a LOT of issues with. It's Pearl Jam's "Daughter."

Back in my roaring twenties, I held my Mom accountable for some stuff that really hurt me. Yes, I was angry. Very, very angry. Being a selfish young woman, I couldn't deal with her and her platitudes about forgiveness. I went through therapy only to learn the language of psycho-babble which resulted in me becoming--if it were possible--even more self-centered.

My anthem during my time of "I hate you and everything you didn't do for me" stage? Pearl Jam's "Daughter," of course.

I'm a mom now and I know that there will be a time in Masana's life when all she can focus on are the instances of disappointment rather than the moments when I was her biggest cheerleader. That's life, that's motherhood. Most importantly, that's hindsight. I'm sure when we reach that point, I'll just have to suffer through it knowing that it will eventually end. Because I'm doing my best to put Masana above all the other people that shouldn't come before her. I know in my heart that I will never consciously let her down.

And I know that my Mom really did try her best with me. Our house and the (many) people in it were not the easiest bunch of characters to deal with. I just wish that I could tell her that all is forgiven. And that I'm sorry for being so hard on her.

Pride is a stupid thing when it gets in the way of loving someone.

Pearl Jam/Daughter (live SNL rehearsal)

Day Ninety Three: Her Necklace

2010-10-07T20:14:00.000-04:00

I'm going to use the remaining days (of my 100 days) to talk about some of my Mom's things.
My Mom wore the black plastic bead necklace above, a little something pretty to dress up an otherwise plain outfit. I was told that she wore it often while on her last vacation to the Philippines, which she returned from just days before she passed away in June of this year. If I hold it up to my nose, I can still smell her--or maybe I was able to a few months ago and now it's just my imagination playing tricks on me. I found this necklace among the items returned to us by the hospital after she passed away, and I took it without thinking if anyone else wanted it. My immediate need to have something of hers was irrational and a little selfish, but I couldn't help myself.

After the funeral, I've worn her necklace every day either around my neck or wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet. If it's on my wrist, it jiggles a lot. Between typing and working with whatever tools are in my hands, I hear the happy clacking of the plastic beads and it makes me smile.

I love this necklace and consider myself lucky to have such a silly yet precious piece of jewelry from my Mom. It suits me. It's also a part of my Mom's personality that I really appreciated: the fun, stylish, and unpretentious side. And when I'm going about my daily business, it's a reminder that she is still with me.

Day Ninety Two: Smashed Chocolate Chip Cookies

2010-10-06T13:48:00.001-04:00

When in doubt, make cookies.
That broad statement can apply to so many situations.

Don't know how to cheer the kids up? Make cookies.
Need to make up with your spouse? Make cookies.
Want to impress a suitor? Make cookies.
Getting your period? Make cookies.
Lost a pet? Makes cookies.
Got up this morning feeling aimless? Make cookies.

And what is the perfect cookie for any/all of these occasions? The chocolate chip cookie. I happen to make a rockin' smashed chocolate chip cookie, and lucky for you that I feel like sharing.

Ingredients:

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

2 1/2 cups all purpose flour

2 sticks of butter
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 cup (packed) brown sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 eggs
1 pound bar of dark chocolate (I use Trader Joe's--what else, right?--1 pound bar of 72% dark chocolate)

Mix dry ingredients (salt, baking soda, flour) in a separate bowl and set aside. Place chocolate in sealable gallon plastic bag and smash into small pieces with a mallet. Set aside. Cream butter and sugars together in a large mixing bowl. Add vanilla extract and eggs one at a time. Stir in dry mixture one cup at a time. Mix cookie dough until it's a little fluffy, then gently stir in smashed chocolate chips.

IMPORTANT STEP: cover bowl with plastic wrap and place in refrigerator for at least 24 hours before making.

Once you are ready to bake, take out dough from the fridge at least an hour beforehand. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spoon dough into 1 1/2 inch round circles onto an ungreased cookie sheet, about 1 inch apart. Bake in oven for 10 minutes or until golden.

Yields about 48 cookies.

Oh, and you're welcome!

Day Ninety One: Looking Like Something

2010-10-04T21:32:00.001-04:00

Wha??

Well? Does it look like something yet?

This map is the land of my youth, the part of Brooklyn that I grew up in. I know that many of you were wondering where I was going with this...this...THING. It's weird. It's unconventional. It's a goddamn map made of cork. But it means a lot to me for many reasons.

For one thing, nostalgia is a happy place. I don't think anyone can argue with this. Even if you can realistically recall some bad moments in your history, the overall effect of perusing the yellowed photographs of yesteryear is that the past is a golden era. We bask in the warmth of the colors even if they bleed a little.

Another reason why I am hellbent on getting this thing done is closure. I need to feel like I did something with my time other than piss my family off.

The end of my 100 days will be met with a sigh of relief. But I will also feel a little lost, I think. I'm going to try to not write about sadness and grief for the next 100 days, and focus on happy memories of my Mom. And my crafting and cooking, of course.

Well, let's just get through the next 9 days and see what happens with my cork map. One step at a time.

Day Ninety: The Bridge

2010-10-04T21:11:00.000-04:00

Yesterday my daughter Masana had her "bridge" ceremony for the junior girl scouts.

For an event that she initially didn't want to attend, Masana was all smiles. In fact, she was beaming.

Ever since she was a toddler, Masana has always hovered on the periphery with hungry eyes. But whenever asked if she wanted to join in, her guard would go up and she acted aloof. Of course, this would frustrate me because I knew the truth: she's just painfully shy.

When she was 4 years old, she met a girl who was twice her size and four times her personality. She was Masana's first real friend, and they are still very close. I credit this not-so-little dynamo with helping my daughter cross her first bridge and giving her the confidence to make other friends. And when Masana was figuring out who she wanted to invite to her 9th birthday party, this particular friend was the first on her list. Masana crossed another bridge; she learned what it meant to be a loyal friend.

Bridges are everywhere in life, and watching my daughter last night cross this silly wooden one brought a tear to my eye. But not for the reasons that every other mother might have had in that room. Masana didn't shrink under the weight of everyone's gaze or the clapping and whistling that filled the room. She learned to take pride in her accomplishment.

Masana may be a little suspicious of strangers, which I take comfort in. But is she still shy? Nah. After seeing her on that bridge, I am confident that she has completely outgrown that word.

Day Eight Nine: Clown School

2010-10-03T09:11:00.001-04:00

It's been a hectic weekend.

But instead of feeling accomplished with all the "stuff" that we did, I am left feeling a little cheated. Where did the time go?

My kids have social and sports-related obligations that supersede everything else, which sometimes include sleep (my sleep, not theirs--I'm not that neglectful). So my projects that were progressing nicely during the week came to an abrupt halt early Saturday morning. And Dave and I became chaperones and chauffeurs for their various appointments. Football. Girl Scouts. Play dates. Birthday parties.

There is never enough time to do everything. Whenever the weekend sneaks up on us, I am ever hopeful that one of my kids will turn around and say, "You know what? I really don't want to go to ___'s birthday party. Can I just hang out with you, Mom?" But it never happens.

This morning over eggs and and orange juice, my son Mack asked me what college I went to. I jokingly replied, "Clown School."

Because that's what it takes to be a parent these days, to be a master juggler and all around clown, happy on the outside and a little sad right beneath the surface.