Mourning, recession style.

I'm going to a little soiree this evening and needed to pick up a gift. I gladly made a stop at my favorite local shop. It's special. Huge gourmet foods section with nuts, dried fruits, syrups, chutneys, fancy cured meats, etc. Great gluten-free selection for the seven months of torture I experienced. The Mario Batali kitchen line, copper cookware, and a swanky selection of spa items. And a special Christmas room, where on December 23rd I found the most adorable cloth napkins with which to dab our mouths after eating (er, inhaling) our holiday stollen. 

When I walked in and saw towers of boxes and hand-written closeout signs, my heart sank to my stomach. 

Noooooooo!!!!!

Even though I scored a gorgeous Emile Henry platter, train station and fire station cookie cutter sets, Meyer home cleaning supplies, Allan's favorite shave kit, gourmet sea salts, and an assortment of chocolate covered delights for 50-80% off, I didn't find much happiness in doing so. I found so much joy and fulfillment in perusing that store. The owner always smothered Jack with lots of attention and free watermelon candy sticks. And I was always on the lookout for a special treat for Allan to make up for the needless niceties I had just picked up for myself. It was my kind of place.

On the short drive home I drowned my sorrows in dark chocolate covered pineapple bites. And then promised myself to go buy some more tomorrow.

Shopping, recession style.

Thanks to J. Crew's horrible showing last quarter, they are having a smokin' final sale right now. Apparently no one in Fresno is aware that there is even a J. Crew, because the selection in our store was astounding. I bought ten items--$680 worth of clothing. After all the discounts and a $100 gift card from my parents, I walked out of the store spending $50 even. I got over 90% off. Or 78% off if you refuse to count the gift card. I am proud to report that none of the items I purchased were impulse buys or boy-it's-easy-to-see-why-that-was-on-sale items. 

Then I headed over to Banana Republic and picked up a brown and cream silk dress skirt for $15. 

Best shopping day ever. 

(Now, pleeeeease don't shut down our J. Crew. It just barely opened. I promise to buy some full-priced items soon to make up for today. Maybe a headband. Or some socks.)

This is how a three-year-old parties down.

A three-year-old must have balloons. Balloons that cost $15 and 30 minutes of waiting while the new balloon girl tries to figure out how to work the helium tanks.

A third birthday is a good time to be introduced to root beer. And what better place to do so than at In-N-Out? This three-year-old declared the root beer to be "spicy," but drank it all nonetheless.


Three-year-olds like the zoo. Or at least their parents assume they like the zoo. This three-year-old apparently visits the zoo too often. Right after this picture was taken he declared the zoo lame, and asked to go home to have birthday cake and play with his balloons.

Three-year-olds like extreme sports. Like monkey bars...


And rock climbing...

This three-year-old demanded "strawberry cake with blueberry ice cream." Since Mom didn't want to scour the entire Valley for blueberry ice cream, she switched it up and served blueberry cake with strawberry ice cream...

This three-year-old declared Mom's brilliant change-up a success...




















And now he keeps asking when he can turn four.

January 19th is always a good day.

Dear Jack,

It has been three years, and I still feel this way about you. Every day.

Love always,

Mom

Today I miss Indianapolis

Today I miss Indy. And not because the forcasted high is a mere three degrees farenheit. Though I frequently find myself longing for the YMCA with its friendly staff and conscientious patrons who always wipe down their machines, that isn't what I'm missing today. It's not Peyton Manning either (Even though I had what now counts as my sixth dream about him just last night. This time we were attending drama camp together. I made fun of him for attending drama camp. It hurt his feelings.).

Yesterday, while studiously putting in my time on the elliptical machine at my new, lesser gym, I caught a glimpse of my former fair city on CNN. The story was the weather, which always seems to be the top story in Indianapolis. When CNN turned some time over to its Indy affiliate, I saw her--Julie Pursley. My AM news gal. What a gem. A vision, always reporting from the side of a busy freeway, bundled up, facing the elements. Then my mind wandered to the other illustrious faces of the Indy news stations.

Paul Poteet. Oh, how I miss Paul--with his pliable Mr. Bean face and his raising the bar on weatherman wit. He was every local thinking woman's crush (if you thought much about the weather, that is). Chris Wright always seemed the most trustworthy in the middle of a threatening tornado. Parella Lewis, whose appearance screamed "successful volleyball career at a Big 10 school!" was so dang likeable. Angela Buchman. She made me feel insecure. Through all her talk of high pressures and cold fronts I could only hear her trying to seduce her male viewers into buying the issue of Indianapolis Men's Magazine with her on the cover. No self-respecting meteorologist would ever pose for the cover of a regional men's magazine. She may as well get her name legally changed to Stormy Winters. Hmph.

Perhaps Fresno's lack of a dazzling weather team has much to do with our predictably undazzling weather patterns. No matter how skilled you are reporting that Fresno got 0.001" of rain, it is just not that exciting. 

Stay warm today, my dear Midwestern friends.

Warning: Embarrassing noises may come out of your mouth

I have to admit to possessing feelings of total superiority over anyone who says they have a "weakness" for chocolate. I have no such weakness. Present me with a piece of dark chocolate and I am iron woman. "No, thank you," I think, "I crave the natural things...you know, all that comes out of the ground whole, just as God intended it."

Ppppbbbbbth!

Anyone who has seen me in the same room as a dark chocolate marzipan Rittersport bar or Breyer's Triple Chocolate ice cream knows that is malarkey. Pure lies.

That being said, I don't really bake. For many reasons. I do LOVE to cook, however. I love chopping, braising, mincing, pureeing, tasting for seasoning, etc. Mostly because cooking allows for a lot of improvisation, and culinary improvisation is something I actually have a knack for (the only kind of improvisation I'm good at. trust me.). Baking does not allow for much improvisation. Improvise a loaf of bread and you are likely to produce a doorstop. On the rare occasions that I do bake I become super-focused, super-stressed, and super-impatient. I pull out my food scale, my fancy tools, my baking reference guides, my laptop for access to additional reference guides, and about three kitchen timers so as to ensure perfection. The results are usually okay, but never worth the emotional wringer I've put myself through.


I tend to go a bit overboard in life, I know.


However, back in '07 this recipe in Gourmet called out to me: "Buffy! Buffy! I'm so easy! And I'm made of PEANUT BUTTER AND CHOCOLATE!" Not even needing a special occasion as an excuse, I made these on a Sunday afternoon. They were amazing. Easy, yet sophisticated. Not your run-of-the-mill humble bar cookie (and don't go thinking I'm bashing bar cookies. I've been known to eat an entire pan--or "one big bar" as I preferred to call it.).


Shortly after I made these I saw that my favorite food blogger gave them a go. Then I saw that one of my loveliest friends and fellow lover of gastronomy put them up on her food blog. Out of the mouth of three witnesses, people. THESE ARE GOOD.

Partake:


Peanut Butter Brownies
From Gourmet
Adapted from Butterwood Desserts

For Brownies:
2 sticks unsalted butter, softened*
1 3/4 c sugar
1 c creamy peanut butter**
2 large eggs plus 1 large yolk
2 t pure vanilla extract
2 c all-purpose flour
1 1/2 c semisweet chocolate chips (9 oz)

For Ganache:
1 1/2 c semisweet chocolate chips (9 oz)
1/2 c heavy cream
1 T unsalted butter, softened

Preheat oven to 350 degrees with rack in the middle. Butter a 9x13 baking dish and line the bottom with parchment paper. Butter parchment.

Beat together butter and sugar with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until mixture is light and fluffy (usually around 4-5 minutes with my Kitchenaid. Other brands may vary), then add peanut butter and beat until incorporated. Beat in whole eggs, egg yolk, and vanilla. Reduce mixer speed to low, then mix in flour until just combined. Stir in chocolate chips (1 1/2 c), then spread batter in baking pan, smoothing top.

Bake until brownies are deep golden, puffed on top, 40-45 minutes.

Cool completely in pan on rack.

Make the ganache by putting chocolate chips in a heat-safe bowl. Boil cream then pour over the chocolate chips and let stand for 1 minute. Gently whisk in butter until a smooth mixture forms. Spread ganache on cooled brownies and let stand until set (about 15 minutes).

* Go unsalted, definitely. Gives you more control over the flavor. Since sodium content in different peanut butters vary, you'll want to check the batter to make sure it tastes okay. Mine needed a pinch.

**I used natural, unsweetened peanut butter and it was perfect.


Yes, I totally let my child consume raw dough. Go ahead and call the authorities. He's shirtless too. You may want to bring that up as well.

Sisterhood of the barren.

I had lunch with three friends this week. Three of the four of us have spent years trying to conceive. I was the newbie of the group, having only spent the last two years seeking professional help. 

All three of us know the cycle of frustration. Weeks--sometimes months--pass where we feel fine with this trial, content to bear it. Then suddenly we are lambasted by an upheaval of  emotions--unprompted and unwelcome--and we feel unable to bear the pain for one more day. 

All three of us understand the strange feeling that we are going through this alone, thinking that no one else could possibly understand. But then there are other days where we feel a sense of community and closeness when we talk about our struggles with trusted friends and family. 

All three of us understand the fear that "please bless our family with a baby" has turned into a vain repetition, and perhaps we had better reword our desires because it feels as if He has stopped listening. And we all know the feeling that peeks through in unexpected hours: that the Savior truly understands, as He has suffered before us, and He yearns for us to let Him carry us through the emptiness.

All three of us had something else in common. One child conceived without difficulty, a blessing we did not quite grasp the moment it happened those years ago. We realize now that those three children are miracles.

This week brought much news from others on the fertility front. I experienced gut-wrenching sorrow for some, and joy as I saw the news of a dear friend who after praying and suffering for four years finally got to hold her new baby boy in her arms. And I often thought of my other friends who are still waiting....waiting. 

Then there are my friends who have not experienced these same trials. They are often the shoulder I need to lean on most. They give me hope.  But what touches me most is that I know they have ached for me. They show pure compassion as they seek to understand my feelings, and desperately try to find words of comfort. I also know the prayerful consideration they give when sharing with me glorious baby news in their own lives.  I will never forget it.

Upon casting Adam and Eve out of the garden, God said unto Eve, "I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children..."  There is sorrow for both--for those who can and those who cannot conceive. It is part of the plan. 

This is why I am thankful that God has blessed me with loved ones who help me bear it. 

My fruit bowls overfloweth, and I knoweth not what to do.

Thanks to a generous client of Allan's, my CSA basket (just making sure you're still jealous), and me unwisely perusing the produce section accompanied by a growling stomach, this is sitting on my counter right now:


That is only one-third of what we have right now. The other two-thirds I've packed in the fridge with a prayer that it lasts at least two more weeks.

Is it wrong to force-feed your child tangerines? How about nightly making a bowlful of guacamole, handing your husband an entire bag of tortilla chips and ordering him to "Go crazy."

Desperate times call for unwise behavior.

Hairconomics.

Every girl (and Allan) knows that one of the most anxiety-inducing aspects of a relocation is finding a new hairstylist. Not only do the nominees have to be on top of trends for twenty-something stay-at-home wannabe hot moms, but they also must be able to converse with me about more than Dancing with the Stars or Angelina's latest pregnancy. And above all, they must be able to turn my vague descriptions into something worth the money I am paying them. No easy task, for I am oh-so-very vague.

I'm a lucky girl. I found her on my first try. Check out this work.

This is one of about five pictures my father took of my hair, unbeknownst to me. I can only explain this as hair envy.

Lest you think I am tooting my own horn, I am not. I am tooting Jillian's horn (Renaissance Salon. Visalia, CA. 559-627-1174.). She managed to weave magic into my hair. Dark blonde magic, which I NEVER thought possible.

Jillian also happens to be a very informative stylist. I asked her to clear up a question that I've been pondering for nearly a decade now (one of those very important questions). Are salon brand shampoos really that much better than my drugstore brand? On the occasions I have forked over $35 for a shampoo conditioner duo, I fully admit I did it with the attitude that I was buying perfume for my hair. She launched into a fifteen minute explanation as to why over time she has come to realize that a minority of them are in fact worth the money. Most of her informative lecture I've forgotten since, but I do remember her saying this: A little goes a looooong way.

So, Santa gave me special products for Christmas. Tucked in my stocking were litres (must spell this way when we're talking luxury) of shampoo and conditioner, a deep conditioning mask, and some smoothing balm. Since I'm a sucker for figuring out cost per serving/wear/use/whatever, I decided to compare the drugstore brand to the salon brand using a cost per pump approach.

I know you are all on the edge of your seats....

Drugstore brand took six pumps to get a satisfactory lather after two days of not washing (I'm not disgusting, just blessed with a drier scalp). The salon brand took two pumps to get a beyond-satisfactory lather. In the end, the salon brand ends up costing almost exactly the same (a wee bit more), but the olfactory experience plus the improved softness more than make up for the additional pennies.

I'm assuming most people did not know this little secret. But now I do. And I will never again feel guilty paying three times more for the better stuff.

And the January selection for the Buffy Book Club will be...

Don't get any false impressions. My book club is small. It's just me. I could join another book club (you know, I've totally received an invite, it's not like people don't like me), but the thought of reading and discussing To Kill a Mockingbird again is...well, not horrible by any means, but just unexciting. Truth be told, I'm waiting for an opening in the book club I really want to join (you hear that Molly? You've got to PRESSURE this bookclub gatekeeper who wants to keep it so "small and intimate." I can be small and intimate! And I will totally make a killer spread the month I host. KILLER.)

I guess I shouldn't say that I'm the only member of my bookclub. Allan often suffers the consequences, which I suppose makes him an unwitting member of my bookclub. When I'm engrossed in a novel, be it light and potato-chippy or dense like stollen (mmmm...stollen), I tend to be, well, completely useless. Reading is dangerous for me. So dangerous that I liken it to 16-year-old boys and their X-Boxes. Or Wiis. Or online gaming. Or whatever. Thus, you see, my reading selections have to be enriching, inspiring, and make me feel like I'm in school again. Otherwise, it is not worth my obsessing.

Without further rambling ado, I present January's selection:
Errr, wait. That's the movie. *nervous laughter* Here:


You have early 20th century England (CHECK). A family described as "new money" struggling with their tenuous status (CHECK), and a love polygon (CHECKMATE!). It's actually three separate novels, but I found all three bound together. I have 800 pages of upper-crust British goodness awaiting me. Squeeee!

Oh, and did you catch my hint that there is a companion mini-series? Anytime I can attach a lush, highly-acclaimed mini-series to a book I'm reading is time well worth avoiding my daily domestic duties.

Speaking of which, you all caught part one of Masterpiece's Tess of the D'Urbevilles last night, didn't you? Allan can attest to the pained, tortured expression marring my otherwise pleasant face during the final thirty minutes. Despite a somewhat rocky first thirty minutes where I questioned the wisdom of my staying up past 9:00, it soon became what I too often describe as "totally worth my time."

A three-year-old's introduction to moral relativism.

Jack: Mom? Is Robin Hood a good guy or a bad guy?