with silver bells & habanero peppers, part 3

This garden post is late, mostly because I was hoping for a miraculous rebirth from some of my plants. I am finally ready to admit that this garden experiment was not the 100% success rate that I was hoping for. But! I am happy that I have taken pictures to remind me that I did make some yummy things. Including 2/3rds of a killer caprese salad.

Sadly, at some point after that picture, my tomato plants threw in the towel. I am not sure what happened - but they now look all brown and gross. There are a few buds still hanging on and every now and then I get a tomato to stick in my lunchtime salad, but for mysterious reasons, the bountiful, tomatoful August I was hoping for, will not be. 

Also, this lobelia is so dead. It's deader than Jnco jeans. I tried some plant CPR over the weekend but she's a goner. I'm mad at her too. Stupid plant. 

The other front deck flowers seem to be doing okay. I haven't had a dahlia bloom in awhile, but there is some new bright-green growth that is getting me pumped for one more bloom or two.

My lavender summer daisy had all the blossoms for a hot second which was great until I forgot to take a picture. And two of my KKP plants continue to bloom sporadically and make me smile so.big every time. When I die, I want everyone to plant lovely things to remind them of me.

My cuke plant was a total bust. Lesson learned. Thanks for this weirdo, cuke plant.

I'm giving him another day or two to grow then I am throwing him in pickle juice. 

Speaking of pickle juice! My habanero and banana peppers have done amazingly well! I cut 'em all up and threw them in these jars with this recipe for juice (or an approximation of it that didn't require a trip to the grocery store). Today I bit into one and I am so happy! They taste great and will taste even better when I put them on a pizza with pineapple and sausage. Get out of my dreams and into my belly.

Since I'm realistic about just how many more peppers I am going to get this summer, I went the fridge pickling route, using old (clean) jars and I am super happy with the result. Plus I made old things useful again.

But just a warning: you will get habanero pepper juice on your face and you will die.

My bell peppers have been MIA all summer and the strawberries haven't been around for about a month. I keep seeing buds on both plants though, so I'm remaining optimistic.

I know I probably only have a few more weeks of this experiment since everyone keeps saying its going to be an "early fall," (uh, okay, Farmer Brown, if you say so). But maybe we'll get a final victory lap with some of these guys.

Maybe? Right? Maybe? Probably?

That's the thing about this gardening crap. You have to stay so goddamned positive about it. You're taking your Horseshoe Casino money and turning it into a big gamble over life and death. 

Unless you go with basil. It's always a sure bet. I edited all these photos with Over, which was a good idea.

 

Bike bits: change in the air

On Saturday, I managed to give my bike a flat tire about three miles from my house. It was so lame, mostly because I knew I still needed the exercise after eating my birthweight in guacamole, so I hoofed it home.

During this seemingly endless walk from Lakeview to Andersonville I had lots of time to think about life and the future. Naturally, this was a disaster. But I did determine that I would change this bike tire all by myself.

Bike maintaince is Boyfriend's wheel house, but in my quest to be a well-rounded, capable lady I knew I had to go it alone, at least once, so I could say I could. 

I found these two videos superduper helpful:

Some notes:

-you will get messy.

-you will get frustrated.

-it is harder than it looks.

-sometimes your brakes don't have a quick release, try not to panic.

-how much air pressure you are supposed to have in your tires is written on your tires.

-do not give yourself a time limit the first, second, ninth time you change a tire. Deadlines are jerks.

-the sense of accomplishment is worth a broken nail and a dirty tee-shirt.

Movie Review: Austenland

Sometimes I think the Internet is a place where we can share stories, not to bring us together in some dumb, kumbaya way but more in a "I'm going to do this, and tell you about it, so you don't have to do it yourself."

Guys. I saw Austenland for you last night. You're welcome. You can cross it off your list and get on with other things. 

Here's the thing: it wasn't terrible. It also wasn't good. It just was. It just kind of just sat there. With its boobs pushed all the way up to its chin. 

Another, perhaps more appropriate name for the movie would have been, Watch Jennifer Coolidge be herself for 97 Minutes or maybe Try to Figure out Where you Know that Guy From (Hint: It's Flight of the Concords).

There were very funny parts to this movie. Literally, every third time Jennifer Coolidge opened her mouth, I laughed. She is a funny person and this movie would have just sunk without her energy.

And that, my friends, is my problem with Keri Russell. She has no energy. She just was kind of on screen, saying lines, being pretty and everyone crossed their fingers that that would be enough. It totally was not, for me anyway. 

It was a cute movie with a dumb-but-fun premise - and with many another actress in that lead part, it would have been worth renting on RedBox (do people still do that?)

At the end, there was this funny-enough credits bit that, in theory, was hilarious, but in actuality, was Keri Russell looking very hard like she was trying to have fun and be relaxed. And that was kind of the whole movie. It's like she wasn't really in on the joke that this movie was dumb and everyone was just having a stupid fun time. 

That being said: Jennifer Coolidge killed it. The blonde girl doing Regency Prancercise killed it. Jane Seymour's taxidermined lamb was totally underutilized. 

It was worth the price of admission ($0). It totally belongs in the canon of movies you Netflix on Sunday morning because you are too hungover to get off the couch. 

Also, one million Internet points to someone who can get me one of those "I Love Mr. Darcy" bags that she carries.

TYOE: San Francisco, part 1.

So, on the last day of this trip - I got offered my current job, which promptly threw my life into a tailspin. And then there was the fact that we did so.much during this trip that I was overwhelmed about trying to blog about it. But I figured it all out. A post for San Fran food and then an extra bonus post for all the things we did including off-site field trips.

Cool? Cool.

Guys. First things first.

HOW COME NO ONE TOLD ME SAN FRANCISCO HAS SO MANY HILLS?!

Seriously. I feel like everyone just assumed that I would know this. Why would I know this? Ya jerks. Needless to say, I was bummed, and so were my calves. I'm sure when you live there you get used to it, but nothing like walking around all day, only to be faced with gd. Mount Everest to get home.

I'm a lazy girl, but I tried to be real cool about it. Except I complained all the time. But just to Boyfriend, who is contractually obligated to love me anyway.

This trip, because it had so many parts and pieces that we had to do, it required an excel spreadsheet. No joke. We are such nerds.

Where We Ate (at least most of the places):
Chowder Hut Grill. This was literally the first thing we did after we dropped off our luggage. There are a million spots to grab a bread bowl right on the wharf, but we went to the one that seemed to be the most reasonably priced with a decent amount of seating. It did not disappoint. I wanted to eat about 400 billion bread bowls full of crab chowder. My heart. Oh. Its been 10 weeks, I still want it all the time, just propped up on my big old belly (that is full of previously slurped chowder).

Pat's Cafe. The first time we tried to go to Mama's the line was dumb. It was raining, it was 10:00 a.m. and it was the stupidest line I have ever seen. So we went to Pat's. It was good. Really, it is much harder to ruin eggs and avocado than it is to make yummy and delicious. Way to not screw up, Pats.

Jaspers. This place was recommended by a friend and it was pretty delicious. It was so hipster-y (I guess the best restaurants are these days) but the marmalade on my cheese burger made up for all the plaid button-downs.

Great Eastern. Boyfriend was apparently terrified of Dim Sum (as I am sure many folks from Indiana are) and so we got just regular chinese food. He experienced his first moo shoo pork and I regaled him with the story of how Buttmunch and I used to just eat the pancakes with white rice and plum sauce. This is to say, this food was totally fine chinese food. Probably better than I am used to, but  not so authentic that I was nervous.

Mama's. This place had a line around the corner at 8:00 a.m. on a Monday in the middle of May. I was expecting to have the most amazeballs, game changing brunch of my life. And I was? Satiated, but not blown away. I mean, yeah - that was a decent crab benedict and Boyfriend's cranberry-orange french toast was good, but...citizens of San Francisco there is so much else out there in the world of Brunch. Come to Chicago, we shall rock your world.

Lou's Fish Shack. We had a Groupon, which was good because this was so overpriced and touristy. But it was also kind of perfect for our epic post-bike ride meal. We were exhausted and did not want to have to think or plan anything. So to have a reservation somewhere just blocks from our hotel that served totally adequate sea food that filled us up. We were happy, touristy campers.

Zushi Puzzle. In an attempt to be true San Franciscans rather than tourists for a night, we tracked down a regular old sushi joint in the middle of nowhere. It tasted pretty much exactly like any decent sushi place in Chicago, which was a relief.

Ghiradelli's. Boyfriend remembers coming here with his family and I am a total sucker for nostalgia and ice cream. The wait is dumb, the portions are huge, but you have to do it. So do it.

If nothing else, all this traveling we have done has made us incredibly grateful that we live in Chicago which, to us, feels like one of the best foodie cities in the universe. And not only is the food in Chicago amazing, it is accessible. Sure we're home to Alinea, but we're also home to Kuma's Corner, and the Bongo Room. Amazing food in Chicago is not super expensive and not too hard to find, and maybe it's because we're living in tourist land when we travel, but we have struggled to find any city that matches it.

That being said - none of the food in San Fran disappointed. You cannot go wrong with fresh fish or sourdough bread and they worked that angle so hard. Well done, hipsters. Well done.

Eventually, I'll get around to talking about all the super fun things we did.

TYOE: 24 Hours in Nantucket

The human body really needs five days on Nantucket a year to function at its highest level. This year I only got four, and two of them were rainy - so I'm pretty much going to be draggin' ass for the next 12 months. Sorry Universe.

Back when I was a barefooted, dirty kid running rampant on the streets of Siasconset in search of a snickers bar before 9 a.m. there were rules about who came to Nantucket. Namely - you came with your family. End of rules. But recently the rules have been changed. I think because I'm getting to the age where I should be bringing the next generation of the family line buuuuut, instead I'm bringing my 20-something friends.

It's cool, Granny would much rather have drunken young professionals than great-grandchildren sleeping in her house. Everyone knows that.

Not everyone recognizes the five day rule, so I've managed to come up with the perfect 24 hours in Nantucket. When I am talking perfect, I am talking both controlable and non-controlable elements. Sometimes it rains. You will not have the perfect day - but you also probably won't get sand in your bathing suit. There is always a silver lining.

Here's how you do it right.

Get off the boat. Make sure your dumb friends who are meeting you don't drink too much the night before and forget how time works because the best thing about arriving on Nantucket is being waved at when the ferry is docking.

Eat some breakfast. I recommend Black-Eyed Susan's. If your human form does not allow for 45 minute waits for breakfast, I recommend Queequegs. If you're one of those "I'll just have coffee," people, head to The Bean.

Look at things in town. Some things you can look at include: stores, people, restaurant menus, fancy boats, water, bicyclists failing at cobblestones, fancy houses, the Brant Point light house, rich kids trying to sell you lemonade, aaaand all the crap in the Hospital Thrift Shop.

Get your Provisions sandwich. I don't recommend getting anything that is going to be made gross by spending a few hours in your backpack. Don't get the lobster roll. You will be the saddest.

Be up at the Visitor Center by 11:30 am so you can get that first shuttle to the brewery. If island boozing is not your thing than you can hike to Alter Rock with the rest of the 9 year olds. The Brewery is a great place to get boozy but its also just an awesme place to sit and eat a sandwich. I'm sure they have juice. Rainy day alternatives: read a book, the Whaling Museum, ice skating, taking an all-day nap.

Cisco Brewers has gotten a little high falutin' recently. But if you get there around noon, you should miss most of that. Enjoy as much brewery as you like and then take the most BOGUS EXPENSIVE CAB RIDE OF ALL TIME from the brewery to Cisco Beach. Cabs on Nantucket are proof that nothing can ever really be perfect.

$20 of bullshit later, sit on the beach, play in the ocean, take the always delightful beach nap.  Maybe you brought yourself a six pack, because you're a genius planner. Maybe you're trying to sober up a little bit because you're not 22 anymore. Whatever it is - have some perfect beach time.

Also, get in the Atlantic. It's cold, but so is your mom. Do it.

Then, get yourself back to 'Sconset. If you're super lucky, you have an amazing family who will drop everything to squire your friends around the island. If you don't have this, take anothe bogus cab ride. Sit in the back of that cab and think about capitalism.

If you're feeling like you need a Nantucket history lesson, take Polpis Road and peep Sankety light house. Make sure someone tells you about it.

Change yo' clothes (a day on Nantucket requires three outfits or you're not doing it right). Get boozy on the porch. Peep the ocean. Feel real rich. Ignore the mold. Tolerate Granecdotes* because they are the reason for the season.

Head back into town for dinner. The options change from year to year, but you cannot go wrong with Slip 14, 12 degrees East, Straight Wharf, or Cru. If you're a baller shotcaller - head to Boarding House, The Lobster Trap, or Company of the Caldron. And if you're on a budget - The Tavern, Sea Dog Brew Pub, or The Brotherhood of Thieves will feed you.

And now its time to wander around the town of Nantucket at night, stopping in bars (I'm not going to list them all, throw a stone and you'll eventually run into somewhere to serve you booze), stumbling over cobblestones, taking a trek down to Children's Beach to put your drunk toes in the water.

When you've had quite enough to drink, you finish the night with ice cream (from the Juice Bar - get a waffle cone, or you're a terrorist, btw) or pizza (from Steamboat Wharf Pizza) or both (if you're awesome). Get in one more dumb cab and stumble up the step stairs of your fishing shack. Pass out.

Wake up for a stroll to the 'Sconset Market for a pastry and a cup of coffee. Make sure you bring extra pastries for your hostess and whomever has been helping you out. No one doesn't like a 'Sconset Market blueberry muffin.

Eat breakfast on the porch. Enjoy all the people walking by who are jealous, both of your house and your pastry. Instruct them that the beach is to the right and the bluff walk is to the left.

Head back into town one last time. If you have some free minutes, you can spend them climbing the stairs of the First Congregational Church, picking up some Portugese bread from The Nantucket Bake Shop (I've already discussed my stance on this matter), get a Henry Jr's sandwich for the ride home (get it on the homemade roll, vacation is not the time or the place for whole wheat bread).

Get on the boat. Realize that you should have spent way more time on Nantucket because there was so much you didn't do! You didn't go see the airport from Wings, or rent bikes, or go to Madaket Millies for scallop quesadillas. LUCKILY, you're with a seasoned veteran, who will hand you a penny and instruct you to throw it into the harbor, just as the ferry rounds the Brant Point Lighthouse - and then you'll get to come back.

*Granecdotes are the new terminology for the amazingly hilarious, occasionally offensive, totally bizarre things that my Granny says and does. I love her so much, and without her house these 24 trips would not be possible, but she is legit old-lady-crazy.

TYOE: Boston

Boston has always been a stepping stone to the final destination. I'm there because I am trying to get somewhere else. Once, when NeedyT was coming out to visit me during my residency on Nantucket, I came for a little over 24 hours just to buy underwear and eat fast food. Ridiculous, but necessary. It was 104 degrees in the shade those entire 24 hours, making it ridiculous, necessary and pretty miserable. Boston was the elephant graveyard, Simba.

Last year, after a trip up to visit Buttmunch, I found myself with almost a full day here since that fateful trip that lodged Boston in my head as the bad place. In the ten hours I spent here with Cinderella last year, I ate proscutto, drank free beer and devoured a game changing lobster roll. This brought Boston up significantly in the rankings, but it still remained a city of being almost-there. 

This year, Boyfriend's job has dangled the possibility of a Beantown relocation in front of him like a scrawny, still dirty carrot. We figured before we completely shot the idea down, we would spend a few full days in the B.

The trip was made even sweeter by a few days on Nantucket on the front end, and an overdose of snuggles with one my new favorite humans. But ultimately, when we left we knew, it was not the city for us. What it has in being ocean-side and precariously closer to my East Coast family and friends does not really make up for it's over-priced real estate, lack of gridded street, and just "meh"-ness.

We'll go back to visit though, if only because we dropped the ball so hard on the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (GUYS! That sweetpiece of architecture is closed on Tuesdays, do not drop the ball like your ball dropping friend, me). 

What we did:

Freedom Trail. Hey, are you interested in 10 or so buildings that are all kind of the same, with the same back story, and a couple of old-ass graveyards tossed in? Sah-weet. Get your ass on that little red line that through Boston. Real talk: Boston is full of game changing history. Literally. The Freedom Trail takes about two hours and you should do it. BUT! You should do it NOT on a Monday for the very simple reason that the USS Constitution is closed. Bogus.

Also if you're looking to really reevaulate your own personal level of physical fitness: climb the stairs of the Bunker Hill Monument, get lapped by a woman wearing a tennis skirt, hate everyone in the universe and then and cry into a bowl of clam chowder. 

The Boston Tea Party Museum. It is absolutely the most over priced thing I've ever been a part of, but there is something very satisfying about throwing tea into the river. In fact, if it was an hour of tea throwing, it might have been totally worth it, but there was way more listening to creepy anamatronics and LARPers teaching me about history than I would have preferred. Also, there is something oddly strange about playing pretend and yelling about throwing over our oppressors when we're the ones who do most of the oppressing now. But, you get a feather?! So there's that?!

Walked all the places. We pretty much ate all there was to eat for seven days straight and with the promise of a homemade lobster roll on the horizon, we felt as though we had to do something to earn it. So we walked from our hotel in the Chinatown-y/Financial District-y/How is there always a traffic jam-y neighborhood out to Somerville (nearish to the Porter Square red line stop, for those of you playing along at home). All told it was about 4 miles of walking through Boston Common, along the Charles River, through the faux-suburbia of Cambridge. In addition we walked Back Bay to Fenway which is not nearly impressive, but - I have to say, Boston is a totally walkable city. Its mostly flat, and pedestrian friendly. I dig that about you, Boston.

What We Ate:

Homemade Lobstah rolls. Not only did my friend make one of the cutest babies in the universe, she married a dude who makes his own lobster rolls. Winner, winner Lobstah Dinnah. I never feel quite so high on the food chain then when watching a lobster become my meal. Sorry you are so delicious, lobster.

Boston Commons Coffee Company. We ended up having breakfast here both days. Both days it was totally packed. On the second day, they had run out of bacon...it was not even 9 a.m. Were breakfast not such a highly charged, emotionally meal for me on a daily basis - we would have walked out then and there. But Boston does not have much going for it in the weekday breakfast scene. So I made it through. Their coffee was mega delicious though. And the food was good, except for the bacon foul up.

Warren Tavern. There is no official oldey-timey tavern of the Freedom Trail, but if Warren Tavern wanted to dub themselves that - they totally could. Located just far enough away from Bunker Hill's stairway of fat kid shaming to feel like you totally earned that secound beer, but close enough that you can get there without actually passing out on the incredibly narrow sidewalk. Its got that dark-wood-rafter-low-ceilinged-lots-tarnished-gold look of pretending that you're plotting the overthrow of the government. Also, the clam chowder has All.The.Clams. Oh man! Guys, seafood on the east coast is serious business. And I love that about the East Coast. Also, they know their way around a crabcake BLT which they should since they're the oldest tavern ever in the history of their internet website.

Mike's Pastry. The answer is Mike's Pastry. The question does not matter. hashtag cannolis. 

Corner Tavern. We wanted to check out the Back Bay to see how the real Brahmains live it up. Apparently the upper class likes their service bad, their grilled cheese delicious and their bar food reasonably priced. 

Flour. After we worked up a tea-throwing sweat, we went to the restaurant ranked #13 in the city. And, I'm not gonna lie - as sandwiches and whoopie pies go, it was pretty satisfying. I would absolutely tell you to go there post tea-throwing. But, if this is your 13th best restaurant, either everyone on Trip Advisor has terribly low standards or you have no good eating in your whole city.

Wagamama. GUYS. One time, I went to London and I visited myotherhalfRacheltwin and it was awesome and we ate at Wagamama, which was also awesome, and that trip happened six years ago, which is CRAZY. Anyway, while we were there, we went to this amazing little noodle shop near the Globe theater. Then every time someone would post facebook pictures, I would always see it. It is the go-to for all your noodle needs in Foggy London Towne. When we walked past the one in Quincy Market, I was at like a 40 on a scale of one to pants-peeing excitement. What a random find! Naturally, I demanded it as our final Boston meal, to be stuffed in a backpack, x-rayed by TSA and then enjoyed on the plane to the jealousy of all our sucker planemates.

Boston. I do not miss you. However, we have one more date so I can peep this sweet, sweet architectural treasure - so man up before I get there. More London chain restaurants and babies, please.

For what it's worth.

We race through Logan Airport.

We trip old folks that walk too slow.

(we hastily apologize to said old folks)

We work two back-to-back 12 hour days without complaint.

We pack until 1:00 and then get up at 5:00 and race the sun to Midway.

We get on flying death tubes, and irrationally cold buses.

We eat questionable sandwiches and ration warm, stale water like we're stranded in the Sahara.

(the second bit wouldn't be as necessary if someone could manage to remember her water bottle. whoops).

We do whatever it takes, and it has never not been worth it.

I'm coming for you 02564. 

Shiny happy people.

Today, I #treatyoself-ed to the extreme.

I bought a brand new laptop.

I spent way too much on it. Although, not as much as I could have - because sometimes knowing everyone pays off in the best ways.

And I wish I wasn't as excited as I am. But it is literally perfect. Its light and fast and oh-so-shiny.

I've loved the almost-seven years I've had with Bunny the original verybest Macbook but she now is on her very last legs and so, like the terrible person I am - I put her out to pasture. She'll live on my desk and be useful for when I need to look at old pictures or find old documents or do other old things. Sorry, old girl, you're old.

The past few months have been chock-full of new things. New wallet. New dresses. New yoga. New babies. I'm trying really hard to enjoy new things and not feel bad about enjoying them. I deserve nice things and I'm going to work really hard for them.

Starting with this sweet, sweet baby who is in desperate need of a name.

TYOE: New Orleans

All of my previous New Orleans experiences involved my numba one stunna T-Bone. She drove me around, introduced me to all the best food and people, didn't get to mad when I straight up stole said peoples' mardi gras beads in a drunken, kleptomania-fit.

Boyfriend and I have spent a lot of time sharing cities with each other this year. Except mostly, he's been sharing the cities of his childhood vacations with me - and now it was my turn to do some sharing. The problem was, I had had so much fun (read: to drink) and T had been such an amazing hostess, I could barely remember where things were or what they were called.

Luckily, she was able to drop the perfect amount of knowledge for a quick weekend trip.

If you're going to go to New Orleans and not have a car, you either have to resign yourself to many expensive cab rides, looooong trips on the trolley (and buses), tons of walking, or just staying right where you are (wherever that might be, which is probably the french quarter). Our trip included all of the above. We probably would have done a ton more walking, but late June in New Orleans is decidedly not walking weather.

Actually, to be totally honest, June in New Orleans is kind of miserable all around. I'm sure its better than August in New Orleans, but we spent most of the time feeling dizzy - unable to imbibe liquids in the quantity that we were sweating them out. I knew what the weather would be like going in, but it is made much worse by the lack of car. You find yourself outdoors much more often when you have to wait for cabs and buses. Lesson learned.

We did have fun. And we did exactly what we said we were going to - which was eat, drink, and relax without feeling the need to do anything.

What we did:

Walked around the important cemetary. For about 30 seconds. The dead were probably sweating too, and we didn't want to be around when their sweat mixed with our sweat and they reanimated.

The Nola Brewing Company all-you-can-drink-shit-show. I don't know if that's what they call it, but that is what it was. And as it happened immediately after Commander's Palace, we were a hot mess. What Nola Brewing Company Beer lacks in interesting flavor profiles it more than makes up for in giving out as much as you can drink in souvenier pint glasses.

A ghost tour. Boyfriend's one request. It was later in the evening, once the sun had set, which made it delightfully psydo-spooky and was a much cooler option than a mid-day tour of anything.

Sat by the pool. Mariott, your pool deck in New Orleans is gross. I will still sit there because I cannot resist a pool deck, dirty towels and empty beer cans be damed.

Walked around the French Quarter. Of course we did. We're tourists. We had fun buying art and trinkets but found ourselves quickly out of things to look at. You need about 2 hours to explore enough of the french quarter to feel satiated. Any more than that and you're wasting time.

What we ate:

Commanders Palace. Three martini lunch for.the.win. If you go to Commander's Palace for dinner you are doing it wrong.

Felix's. Our sweet friend Sunshine said it was one of her favorite places and it was still open at 11 p.m. and not too far from our hotel. They probably were not the best po'boys in the city, but they were exactly what we needed, which was fried food and mayonaise.

Ruby Slipper. We were in a bad way our first morning there, and Ruby Slipper made eggs, served them to us, and made us happy. It was not a game-changing brunch but it was pretty freaking amazing. And, for as close as it was to the french quarter, not too touristy (at least, I don't think so, I was hurting pretty bad and not up to my usual quota of people watching).

Central Grocery. Touristy? Sorry. I am Not Sorry. I would eat a muffaleta from here every day if I could get away with it. Gimme all your olive tapenade. Now.

Boucherie. TBone took me here the last time I visited her and I was itching to go back. We messed up on getting a reservation and terrified that they might not seat us, I made Boyfriend get there half an hour early to make sure we were the first people in the door. He was not happy about this, because it required us standing outside with no greater purpose than looking pathetic so we would be allowed in to eat. Consider it worth it. We tried to eat outside our comfort zone, which was fun and delicious. But really, the reason for the season was the Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding. I wanted six orders for me. And then I wanted to eat the rest of Boyfriend's order.

Cochon Butcher. We got these sandwiches and then walked around in the hot, hot nola sun for another three hours before we ate them and they were still crazy delicious. I can only imagine how amazing they would be if they didn't have to swelter before being eaten.

New Orleans Original Daquiris. Okay, not food, but so delicious and untouristy. Worth venturing beyond the french quarter if you are feeling so bold.

Creole Creamery. Dear New Orleans: it should not take a trolley, a bus and a 10 minute walk to find some ice cream. Seriously, you are a million degrees at 9:30 at night. There should be ice cream on every street corner. Work on this. That being said - if this is going to be your only ice cream, way to knock it out of the park. A perfect cold good-bye to a hot, hot weekend.

with silver bells & habanero peppers, part 2

I still have a garden! I will make it through the summer or die trying.

The good news!

We have...

For the record: I way over-edited the images from the last garden post. And immediately I decided I hated them (but had done too much work to re-do the post) - so these are completely unedited, with the exception of the captions (which I did on Over). My strawberries are that gorgeous.

The bad news!

I'm struggling with the rest of my flowers. My lobelia, once a gorgeous globe of blue & white, is now just brown. Perhaps its because I didn't de-bud it fast enough and now I cannot catch up. Or can I? If I were to take off all the dried out buds, would it stand a chance? Because I'll do it. I have some free time.

My gorgeous dahlia that has already had it's own blog post and half a dozen photo shoots seems to be fresh out of buds. sadtrombooooone. I keep watering in the hopes that it'll bloom again, but it is making no promises.

My bell peppers are either the slowest maturing plants ever, or they are not going to make peppers. I cannot tell. I'm not giving up on them yet. But their buds are small and they don't seem particularly interested in blooming.

Things I'm learning!

Stop being so gee.dee impatient with the strawberries, son. They have to be total ripe before they taste like anything but sour death fruit.

This Chicago summer has been brutal. My once-a-day watering might not be cutting it. I'm going to kick it up to two days while I can but I'm nervous about how the plants going to fair while we're out of town.

Cucumbers were a bad choice. They need to be able to run free and cannot be contained by a window box. I'm getting these tee-tiny baby cukes, which are worth the cost of the plant in adorableness but I'm nervous that they are not going to get much bigger before they die.

Basil goes in EVERYTHING! And if you can't figure out how to get basil involved, make pesto! And if you're bored with pesto, add an avocado and make creamy pesto! But you will always have more basil and it will never ever die.

Banana peppers don't taste how you think they taste until you pickle them. So, get on that! Pickle some peppers, peter piper. (I am so scared of canning that even though I've bought the cans, they might never come out of the box. Luckily, the internet has some fridge canning options that I'm going to try out with this first batch).

Also this!
Years ago my friend told me that when a woman turns 30 she has a baby, buys a dog, or starts a garden. I'm noticing a lot more veggie-pics these days. -- (posted by a friend on facebook.)

The babes of summer.

I really, really like babies. Always have. It comes from having lady parts, being the oldest of a whole gaggle of cousins, and general enjoyment found in nurturing and small victories (please note: any one of these qualities individually or all three together do not necessarily make a lover of the babies. I'm just saying it worked out with my particular chromosomal make-up).

Before this year, babies were something that grown-ups had: my aunts, my parents' friends, my very, very old and mature older cousin. The people who were my age who had babies were so far removed from my day to day life that they felt like foreigners that I just observed through the window of facebook.

During my recent sojourn into unemployment I got hooked up with some amazing baby-sitting jobs. Truly, the kids I spent time with were some of the best companions I could have asked for during this very strange and out-of-character time in my life. Not only did they provide moments of humor and pride, they also gave me a peek into what parenthood might be like (obviously, not completely as their parents always, thankfully, came home, but like a tee-tiny peek). For some reason baby-sitting at the age of 28 made parenting seem like a much more real concept (rather than something that people have done when they have given up on their own lives and so need something to occupy their time).

This experience coincided nearly perfectly with the announcement that two of my favorite humans were incubating two of the newest, greatest members of the human race right there inside them. The wait for these babies to incubate has seemed nearly endless, but now, some how, it is ending and within the next week or so these babies will be real humans, rather than just cute-in-theory parasites.

The excitement I am feeling about these two amazing events nearly makes my lungs explode. I cannot wait to be a part of these two new lives that are justabout to start. Both babes have lucked out in the amazeballs parents department but I am on the edge of my seat waiting to be a source of entertainment, love, and poop removal for these two.

This excitement-beyond-excitement has brought the real notion of parenthood into incredibly harsh perspective. With so many parts of adulthood (read: marriage) it has always felt like something that I would probably not be good at, I'm too selfish, too greedy, and lack the patience needed to read "Elmo's Big Day," four hundred times in an afternoon.

Now, I know that I could do this. I could be a parent, but the question is - do I want to? Do I want to be responsible for a real, actual human being? Would I set way to high of standards for her as person and me as a Mother? Do I want to give up a life of fancy restaurants and frolicking about the country like IDGAF?

I honestly do not know. But its something on my mind, Internet. And in this breath before the most-exciting-adventure thus-far in adulthood comes before me, I get to take a moment and be so thankful that I know two great women who are going to jump in both-feet-in-the-deep-end and tell me how the water is, before I have to make any choices.

To being a loving by-stander and hander-of-burp-clothes in this next adventure of life!

TYOE: New York

The whole time we were in New York over the weekend, there was a little voice inside my head just repeating, "this isn't your city. This isn't your city," the voice hurt my heart as I had to accept that it is telling the truth.

New York was my city. It was mine. mine. mine. for the last year of high school as I planned to make it my home, and the four years I lived inside its harsh and overwhelming boundaries, and even after I moved away for the longest time - it was the city of my soul. 

And now? It's not. It's a city I love and will always cherish as a part of my story but it is not my city anymore.

That realization was a cloud over the gorgeous sunny weekend. It was like spending the weekend with an incredible attractive ex. I spent so much time and energy picking it apart so I wouldn't feel so bad about it not being mine anymore.

That being said: we had a super fun weekend. It was a weekend of firsts for me which is always a nice surprise from somewhere you have know for so long. 

What We Ate:

'wichcraft. I am a huge fan of Tom Colicchio from his lovable but tough turn as the Tim Gunn of Top Chef. But I had never eaten any food he created (designed? managed? idk). And the results were a little disappointing. Maybe we should have gone to Colicchio and Sons and gotten the real deal - but seriously?! It's a sandwich, it should be fool proof. And it was just kind of bland. It lacked (as they say in the biz) a strong flavor profile. Would I eat it again? Sure - but only if there was some sort of apocalypse and I had no access to any other sandwich option on the island of Manhattan.

L'arte Del Gelato. Gelato on high line park. I gotta hope this is what heaven is like.

Yankee Stadium Brother Jimmy's. gimme all your fried pickles. And I will eat them. And I will be mostly content.

Nathan's. Did you know the coney dog has nothing to do with Coney Island? It's cool - you'll still be happy with your chili cheese dog. 

El Salvadorian Truck Food. The Red Hook food truck party means business. It is for the real hipster food truck snobs and it is amazing. We got a sample platter with all the sides, plantains, paposas and a tamale and it was a delight. 

Old School. Brunch is the best worst thing that ever has happened to me. Easily my favorite meal but the one that requires the most logistical planning. My hatred of waiting for food makes it such a challenge to have an enjoyable brunch experience - luckily this place had no line and no wait and that gave it enough points to make up for the fact that they didn't understand Anniebelle when she requested "toast." Seriously?! Hipsters.

Milk. The cereal milk milkshake was so strange, but I do not regret it. Two days later I still don't know how I feel except, ok.

What We Did:

High Line Park. Oh. Like when your ex gets an amazing hair cut that changes their whole face and makes them indescribably sexier. The High Line Park is the stuff of my dreams. Everything about it makes me love it a little bit more.

 

Yankees Game. My first Yankees game! It was a baseball game. Over priced everything. Hilarious people watching and some out of tune singing. And they won! Which is always a good bonus. Plus on the ride home, we were idolized by some sweet lady from back-water Texas. She was so impressed we could live in a place where we traveled underground all the time..

The Mermaid Parade. So fun. I love a good meaningless excuse for adults to dress up. 

The NDI final show. When I think about what I really, really want todo when I grow up - being a part of this organization is near the top of the list. The show was the perfect way to spend a very hungover Sunday afternoon.

I love New York so much, and I am so happy that we got to spend a great weekend. I am so thankful to sweet Anniebelle for being an amazing hostess. I cannot wait to repay the favor and show her around my new mainsqueeze - Chi-town.

Joy.

I love:

Parades.

The Blackhawks.

Chicago.

Confetti.

Summer Joy.

Dahlia, Dahlia quite fancy...

I know I wasn't going to post about gardening again until next month but check out these blooms, y'all!

They made me so happy this morning I picked them immediately and brought them to work in a juice glass. They make up for the fact that the perfect strawberry I picked earlier this week was easily the sourest thing I have ever eaten.  

For the record - this picture is totally unfiltered. They are exactly that amazing orange-pink combination. I love love love them. Also, for the record, this blog has had 3 different pictures, because I was not satisfied with them...until this one...for now.

Happy Summer! Happy Blackhawks! Happy noma' DOMA! Happy Happy!

Letter to a younger girl.

Dear 13 Year Old Rachel,

Hey! I just wanted to drop you a note and tell you during the summer before you turn 29 - things are going to be pretty great. In fact, I would almost venture to say that you got nearly everything you wanted. It looks a little different and you'll be surprised by some of the things you've found happiness in, but just go with it, because it will all start to make sense eventually.

You live in a city full of tall buildings. They aren't the tall buildings you thought you would be surrounded by, but you will come to love them as your very own. As every day goes by you will wonder if it would even be possible to walk away from them at this point.

You have a job that is hard. Its really hard. You're going to doubt yourself most of the time, but you'll also have moments of great pride in the fact that you have built the beginnings of a little career for you. And at this point, you are making it really easy to take one of seven or eight little roads in the future. Plus you make some decent dollars. Enough to splurg on absurdity like a Kate Spade wallet and a new computer.

And! You have another job that is also hard, practical and rewarding that pays some sweet dollars when you need them. And you're writing. For living. Margaret Atwood, you are not - but that college degree is offiially useful. Wow!

You own your very own cat. She is the best and so pretty. You only get a little bit mad that she refuses to poop in the litter box.

There are so many people you call your friends. There are so many smart and lovely women who act as sounding board and perennial cheerleaders. Men who prove that there are great guys out there. People who live far away, and literally one block away, who make your life richer for their experiences and beliefs. Sometimes you sit around and think about how amazing your social circle is and it makes you embarssingly emotional. You'll wonder if its weird to sit around and get teary about how lucky you are to know the people you know.

You get to call your family friends, too. You miss them all so much. You're grateful for the ones who live close and treasure the moments you get to spend with those further away.

The big dream that you have, it's still there, but its evolving to be a realistic version of it. This summer you will stand on stage and people will laugh because you do the thing that makes you the happiest. How awesome is that? You're doing it. You're finding happiness and bringing people joy. Win.

Bonus points? You can take classes at the Joffrey Ballet whenever you want. You don't, because now it's too accessible to be special, but with any luck - you'll take those new black ballet shoes for a spin sometime soon. Get it on, pretty ballerina.

Sometimes you'll forget that you actually live in your house. Its not a big game of playing house. It actually is your house. Your green dining room and yellow office. Your little garden and absurd closet. It's yours. Like a grown-up with a dream apartment.

And you get to live in it with your best friend. You will have no idea that this is coming. It will knock you sideways the summer before you turn 24. But you did and you're finding your way together. It is a constant changing experience of trying to figure out what you both need and want out of this life. Sometimes it easier. Sometimes it is the hardest thing ever. No one will believe in you more than he does - and realizing that will overwhelm you. Plus he accepts the fact that you are always gassy.

You've lived through some really terrible things. And you wish you hadn't. And sometimes you get just so. sad. But you will recognize their value as they help you recognize how important it is to be grateful for what you have been given to enjoy.

So 13 year-old Rachel, try to remember to enjoy this summer before you turn 29. Be tired sometimes because you spent too much time and too many brain cells on celebration. Save some money, but make sure you spend some on dresses and champagne. Have fun traveling, and with the new babies, and making Chicago summer memories.

Love,
Almost 29 year-old Rachel

ps - You will never get taller. Sorry.

pps - You still can't spell. Thankfully, in a couple years, there will be spellcheck on every device you use and no one will have to know.

A pickle bowl - the Target sagas.

Guys. I've talked about Target before, but seriously?! This is a problem.

I went to Target with the express purpose of getting a gift card. One gift card, go directly the lady at the cash register - do not pass the dollar deal bins, do not collect an assortment of crap. Well, clearly, this did not go as planned. Here is what I came away with:

Bananas - okay. This is something we need. We're only home for 4 days this week, so we aren't buying actual groceries, but I discovered this morning that without a banana, I am fairly useless until lunch time.

Bath Poof - again, somewhat necessary. My current one is about to become just a big old pile of unconstrained netting. And were that to happen in the midst of a morning shower, the day would be pretty much over before the sun came up.

Granola Bars - clearly, I was starving. After a weekend in New Orleans, a day of my normal "let's lose weight without working out," diet was not cutting it. By the time I got to target I was about 2000 calories in the red and I got panicky. Like there might be some sort of cataclysmic event before I could get home to my lean cuisine and I would need rations.

Baggies - all the baggies were on clearance. Why? Who knows? Is it because they all have holes in them or are full of toxic off gases? Don't care. I will buy those off-brand-red-stickered baggies and I will put left over potato salad in them because I am an American.

Pickle Bowl - guys, its no secret that I love pickles more than most human beings. And I like to serve them to guests and I don't want to take the chance that I'll put out an offering of delicious pickles and people won't know what they are or something terrible like that. Thank the Little Baby Jesus that someone at Target had the common sense to make a bowl that said pickles so that when I put pickles in it my dumbass compatriots will be like, "oh, pickles?! wuuuuurd."

??? - I literally have no idea what is in this jar. It had a pretty brown-haired lady on it, and a red sticker so it was a done deal the minute I cruised by it. I'm not sure what I am supposed to pour this into or on top of or if I'm just supposed to shoot it with a salsa chaser. I guess we'll find out. Or we'll put it in the pantry and move it into four different apartments before we just put it on eggs. Anything goes on eggs.

Gift card - Guys. Don't ever say I don't get ish done. I get it done. I get it done to the extreme. When you need something done, you call me, and I'll get it done and I'll bring my own baggies.

Okay, but seriously, stop letting me go to Target.

with silver bells & habanero peppers, part 1

It all started with a need for produce.

When I worked at the circus, I had the illest produce hook-up. It was plentiful, it was punctual and it was free (well, except for payments I made in pieces of my soul).                                   

After leaving the circus I was unable to figure out how to get my bean-and-berry hook-up. Go to the grocery store? Nope. No way dude. YOU go to the grocery store. 

After a winter of surviving on frozen, tasteless misery that was shaped like vegetables, I decided it was time to buck up and hitch my wagon to the cheapest veggie scam I could find.

Luckily, Cougs was on her way to Chicago when I got the brilliant idea to plant myself a garden and she was able to help me get through the first steps (like buying a trowel) without anyone getting hurt.

Now it's been a month - and I am so gd. impressed with myself. I made things grow! Look at me!

Let's take a garden tour! (This is more for Cougs. than anyone else - but its the internet, and I do what I want).

I am so amazed that everything is alive still (with the exception of one tomato plant -unpictured- which, sadly, did not stand a chance). For some reason, the knowledge that fresh things are within my grasp is enough to keep me watering and checking and miracle growing like a good little plant mom.

While I would not say that any of my fingers are green, I am, clearly, full to the brim of pride over keeping all these little guys alive. And now that they are starting to actually show the promise of being edible in the not-so-far future, I'm starting to understand why people do this.

Growing veggies is one of those things that feels very grown-up. Like having a job in a tall building and making plans more than 6 hours in advance. Like making dinner more than two nights a week and waking up before 8:00 a.m. almost every Saturday. Slowly these grown-up things seem to be taking the place of all the things that felt so normal.

In an effort to not be too practical, I also have some very lovely flowers. When they bloom I feel like a frickin' magical fairy princess. I made you bloom with my long flowing locks, my sweet disposition, and my magic. Bloom you stupid, gorgeous flowers. Bloom.

Sadly, the dahlia that should be visible in the middle picture is between blooms right now. Which is a damn shame, because it is the prettiest. See you for part 2 in July.

Nola night

I am lying on this pool deck chair. The weather is the most perfect its been these past two days. When the sun is down, New Orleans June is almost bareable.

I am full of Krispy Kreme bread pudding and cheap daquiri. I am boozy sleepy. 

And I am nearly packed to the brim with stress. Stress that I am not doing enough, that I am wasting this vacation time. We should be out drinking or walking. We are not go do see -ing anything. And this makes me anxious.

Until I remember that vacation can be this too. Vacation can be sitting quietly at night and nap taking during the day and nothingness sprinkled through. 

When did my life get like this? Is it because this is a "new" place that I feel obligated to strangle as much out of it as I can?  We now take vacations with to-do lists, saving all our idleness for the trek to Nantucket where you would be a fool to do much more than sit on the porch with a book. Why is that? 

Something to ponder while me and the rest of my white people problems fall asleep at 9:30 on a Saturday night.

The earring thing.

Today was hard. Everything about it was an uphill battle dragging 50 pounds of fear and beaurcracy behind it. Today was the first day I felt real, genuine fear that I might fail at my job. For the first time ever I might be given a task and not get it done.

And then while rushing to get to the next hard, unhappy thing I lost my earring. 

At this point I don't have any "any old jewelry," every single piece has a story and most of those stories are so recent that I can remember ever piece of them. So to lose something that not only had a wonderful story, but a story that was less than three years old, was more than my soul had the capacity to handle.

And the universe knew this. The universe knew that my heart could only handle one giant turd today - not two. Because when I retraced my hurried steps an hour later, my earring was there - at the corner of Milwaukee and Chicago. Waiting patiently for me to come back for it. 

So. That was my day. Nothing but tears and anxiety but with the smallest glimmer of hope that things will be just fine at the end of it all.

More. MORE.

Blog more, Self.

Blog instead of checking facebook, or falling asleep at 9 PM, or eating that extra scoop of ice cream.

Blog, for goodness sakes, because all the ideas you have for blogs are clogging up brain space that is desperately needed for work things, and other work things, and just general remembering how words are spelled and which day comes after Wednesday.

Self, you are being challenged. Get those blogs written. The one about San Francisco, and the one about pants, and the one about already being madly in love with people who don't exist yet*.

Blog about your adventures and your frustrations. Get it ALL out, Self. Otherwise, you will probably explode and someone will have to scrape your brain off of whatever solid surfaces you happen to be around (probably the cat).

So, Universe, I come to you. When do you write? Do you write when you are procrastinating and have run out of facebooks? Do you write when you're avoiding the scary work emails? Do you write instead of making spur-of-the-moment cake? How do you fill the internet with so many words, Universe?

*okay. Some of them exist, but in general, most of them don't yet. Intrigued? Good.

All the words

Five years ago, this August, I pretended I was a photojournalist for 4 days. I won the right-place-right-time-right-parents lottery and got to "cover" the 2008 Democratic National Convention for a regional newspaper's blog.

Those four days were some of the most overwhelming, eye opening days of my entire life.

I cried, I barely slept, I fought and lied and sweet talked.

After those four days, I was ready to hang up this particular dream. Professional photographer had always sounded ideal but when I got down to the nitty-gritty, I realized I didn't have the patience, the stamina or the raw talent to do this day in and day out.

And if anything, it made me treasure amazing photojournalism more than ever. Not all amazing photojournalism wins Pulitzers (although, seriously? THIS). Some of it is never seen beyond the circulation of people who walk out to their driveways in the morning to pick up actual-physical-make-your-fingers-grey paper. That's fine.

Stories don't need to be widely circulated, or mass produced, or bought by AP to be well told, beautiful stories. They just need to keep existing.

Which is why this news from the Chicago Sun Times (which is actually from Gawker, because Chicago Sun Times won't cover their own story) breaks my heart and fills me with rage.

This will never work. They'll think its working but the adage about photos and thousands of words is absolutely true. Everything will be fake and shallow. Newspapers are going to die way faster if they continue to punch themselves in the face.

Seriously, what kind of dbag looks John H. White in the eye and say that he's been replaced by something teenages use to take dick pics?

Thursdays Best Internet Finds: Make Me Things

I am drowning in everything right now. I just got a job, but I am also doing all the things I was doing before I had a job. So there is work-work, contract-work, babysitting-work, house-work, getting drinks with my friends-work, buying clothes-work...you get the idea.

Anyway. My gorgeous and insanely talented friend Cindy-loo just started this amazing blog:

Handmade Renegade.

Not only is Cindy-loo a french-speaking Engineer genius, she also is an amazing crafter who got her hands on a sewing machine and hasn't looked back since. Not only that: she is GROWING A HUMAN INSIDE HER. Seriously. She is incubating a person and making amazing princess tents. She can literally do everything.

Go look at all the amazing things she has made and be disappointed in your own inabilities. Then pin some stuff on your pinterest, eat a sandwich and feel better.