Doehle Bread

The Hunger

2011-01-17T20:30:00.001-08:00

I don’t know what started it, or where it began—this deep, gnawing in my heart of hearts for family and togetherness. I grew up in a feast of family, raised by an army of mothers and fathers, daughters and sons. Not always functional or healthy or saying the right thing, but every fat man knows that any almost any food eaten in enough quantity will make you full.

I grew up fat—fat with family, fat with love, fat with dysfunction and plenty of painful memories sure, but full. My own family was almost always wonderful. Mom had a way of constantly guarding our hearts—protecting us and calling us great, making home the ultimate safe place— and Dad consistently knew how to say the right thing, calming any storm.

We were encased in this womb of greater community, and at any moment I knew I could go to my Alabama mommy for decorating advice or “What’s the best china?” or the best banana bread this side of the Mississippi; there was strong mommy who was solid and safe and steady, whose house was everybody’s home—I would go to her for relationship advice, questions about how to deal with difficult people, and “What do I do in this weird situation?” Uncle Troy who called me “Lady Jessica” and always teased me about marrying a man shorter than me, and Mommy Gail who gave the best hugs and left the best voicemails and was never, ever unkind…

So you see, I grew up in wealth. And one day, whether very suddenly or very slowly I can’t say, it all changed.

I can’t remember specifically the moment, the hour, the day, when I all of a sudden felt alone, but I know that it was jarring. I know that I was in LA, and I was probably in my car, either driving home after school or Bible study or sitting parked outside my apartment building, when I realized… I’m lonely. It was such a foreign feeling, such an utterly obscene concept to my consistently well-nourished soul, that I must have almost questioned its appearance. “Lonely, you say? Who are you?” But it was true. I was lonely. I had plenty of friends, my social circle was growing every day, but something about it was different, something in me had changed… My soul was alone.

You see, after I moved away from home to go to school, everything about home changed. Mom died: immediate family demolished. Or at least, severely damaged. Church falls apart: my safety net, my resting place, my greater womb of family, disintegrated. It was all gone. And all that was left in its place were little jagged fragments—tiny blocks of ice to cling to, all drifting away from a center where the solid iceberg used to be. Home was gone.

And that’s when Lonely came.

I don’t pretend to think I’m the only person in the world who feels this way, and I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I’m the only 20-something who’s moved away from home and feels alone in the world, but often I think of my friends who are married, or married with children, or people who still live in the small, tight-knit towns that birthed them… I wonder, do they feel the same kind of stark aloneness that I feel? When these women my age fall into bed at night, warmed by their husbands beside them, do their hearts feel as clanging and tinny as mine does as I turn out the light? Or have they simply gone from one meal to the next? Nourished by one family, and on to another of their own making.

If this is so, then I am utterly and insanely jealous.

But if it’s not, then good God what is this? And how do we make it stop?

Recently I moved to what I have now come to believe is the greatest city in the world. I live a life deemed glamorous by some—I work in a high rise on a famous street at a great job, I live in a beautiful apartment I love… What could I possibly need? Please understand, I am so unbelievably blessed and thankful to live where I do and work where I am, but underneath it all there is this vacuum of desire for family, for home. And no amount of fabulous dates or high heels from Bloomingdales or dinners at the Plaza will ever be able to ease it. I just want… home. And some day, God willing, I’ll get it back.

City Soul

2010-08-23T20:14:00.000-07:00

There’s something about New York that still feels like a dream to me. Not a fuzzy, warm romantic fantasy, all hazy at the edges and softly swaying to Frank Sinatra music… But a weird, disorienting, unreal yet happy existence that can’t possibly be true. There is nothing about this life that my soul can grasp, that my whiplashed mind can wrap itself around. Occasionally I’ll be walking through the streets, plodding along between tall concrete buildings that look like nothing I’ve ever existed with before, and it’s like my mind has to separate in two—one half gripping the other by the shoulders, shaking firmly as it says, “This is real. This is REAL. This is New York, and you live here.”

I don’t know what to say about New York that hasn’t been said before. Any attempt at originality would be a regurgitation of songs and literature, stories and poetry and slogans I’ve ingested over the years about this myth of a city in which I now reside. I have nothing new to add to a dialogue about this strange and weird and wonderful and unreal metropolis that I now call my home. It is what everyone says it is. Everything you have heard of New York City, every whisper, every anecdote, every limerick and lyric… everything is true. And yet somehow, it’s still a mystery, still a complex Rubik’s cube of experience and transportation and love. This city has a soul that is infinitely explorable.

The things I’ve learned are small—seemingly insignificant when faced with the task of conquering this mountain of a city. But they serve as touchstones, little pieces that make this Xanadu world seem real… Never forgetting one’s umbrella, walking with purpose and economy, knowing when to flash a warm smile at the man behind the counter at the corner market and when to set your face like flint when the woman behind a table on the street calls out to sell a handbag… These are things, however small, that make up a life in New York.

However cold and unwelcoming the city may seem, my experience has proved just the opposite. Beside every crass construction worker cat-calling and sneering as you walk to work, there is a sweet old Italian man who shouts, “Good morning!” as he leans from his second-story window. There is the sweet woman at the flea market who wants to know your name and tucks an extra pair of vintage earrings in your bag because they looked “just divine” on you. Amidst all the awkward shuffling and purposeful avoiding of eye contact on the commuter train, there are the moments you lock eyes with the person across from you when something funny or weird or awful happens and you smile together.

This is what I know New York to be. It’s not that the city is cold, she’s just not easily won over. And I can respect that.

Heat

2010-08-10T18:38:00.001-07:00

I’ve lived in California my whole life. I thought I knew what summer was like… I considered myself an expert on warm, sunny, flip-flop weather. Bathing suit weather. Air conditioning weather.

But I was not prepared for summer in New York.

The air is thick with sweat. Dense and still, it presses in all around you as soon as you step outside. A thick hot mist envelops with every step you take to the train station and back again. Descending into the dungeon-like, fiery, still heat of the subway station is even worse. You stand waiting—praying—for that long golden light to come plunging from the darkness, for the cool silver bullet to open its doors and whisk you away from this hell-like hotness.

Beads of salty perspiration make their way in rivulets down your back, neck, legs… Puddling against your neckline, waistline, back of your knees. You are sweating. But so is the ground you walk on, the buildings you cross between, the air you breathe in and out. The city sweats too. Everything seems damp with this omnipresent, all-encompassing Heat. And when it rains, it’s as if the sky itself is weeping from the smoldering sun, spontaneously bursting into fat, lukewarm tears that rain down, dampening already damp bodies. Even rain does nothing to cool the swelter.

Last week I was walking home from work, crossing the final blocks until I reached the solace of my cool room and my cool bed, where I was planning on dropping everything I was carrying, peeling off every layer of clothing, and laying scantily clad beneath my beautiful, gorgeous, magnificent, wonderful, holy air conditioner, when I saw two children standing behind a table on the sidewalk. The air was thick with 6 o’clock heat, and I wondered what two adorable kids in a rich neighborhood were doing standing outside voluntarily. I had to see.

So I crossed over to the side of the narrow, tree-lined road and saw that they had tall, icy pitchers of lemonade and iced tea and were pouring them into little clear plastic cups. Now, I am a firm believer that children should never stop selling lemonade, and will consider it a great societal grievance if young ones ever lose the entrepreneurial ambition to pander watered down beverages to passers-by, so a smile began to play on the edge of my lips when I saw them there.

As I approached the little propped up table I saw a hand-crafted sign, as child-run lemonade stands are wont to have. Except this one said, “Free Lemonade and Iced Tea.” …What? No quarter? No dollar? You don’t want any money for video games or comic books or Frappuccinos? You’re standing out here in this heat, pouring iced tea for strangers, and you don’t want anything for it?

I walked up to the little boy, his blonde hair swooping across his forehead, blue eyes lowered shyly to the ground, and asked for, “Lemonade and iced tea together—half and half. Is that okay?” He nodded his head and poured me my special Arnold Palmer. I asked, “Is it really free? …What are you doing this for?” Still avoiding my gaze he shuffled and said, “It’s for the church. We know it’s hot and we want people to be cooler.” I looked back at the “Free Lemonade” sign and saw that at the very bottom was scrawled, “Donations accepted,” and my gaze traveled up to see a little blonde girl come tumbling out of two wide wooden doors. Church doors. I hadn’t noticed until just right now that we were standing in front of a church.

I pulled out the biggest bill I could find, and handed it, folded, to the boy. “Thank you very much,” I said. His eyes still fixed on the ground he shuffled his feet and smiled softly, “Thank you.”

As I continued my walk home, only two blocks more at this point, I sipped from my sidewalk purchase and thought, “I’m happy to be in New York in the summer."

"Home"

2010-08-01T21:04:00.001-07:00

So here I am. I’m really here and it’s already been a week.

It’s hard to shake the illusion that this is just a trip—only a few more days and I’ll be home again with the California sun on my shoulders, driving my convertible through traffic on the freeway, falling asleep beneath the soft whirs of the fan above my bed. But it’s not true. My car is sold, my bed is filled, and here I am sending off the sun. …It’ll take a few hours for it to get to you.

I’m in New York.

I’m in.... New York.

Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll sink in to my jet-lagged brain that yes, I really did move across the country in a week. And yes, I really am living in the most beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen. And yes, I did go from working as a hostess at a restaurant where I had to wear pants that smelled like meat and orthopedic shoes to an office on Wall Street where I wore a red dress and four inch heels two days ago. It really is… real.

Last night I climbed the steps of my five-story walk-up to rest on the beautiful roof-deck atop my building. The cool summer breeze whipped around my shoulders as I turned to gaze at the Empire State Building in all its lit-up, regal glory, and I thought, “It’s good to be here.” Yes, it still feels like I’m on a trip, and yes, I still miss California and my friends and my car and the weather (!) and the beach… And Home. But for now, I’m here. I'm "home."

The night I moved in, I took a tiny calendar from the top of one of my boxes and flipped it to the date. Each day on this calendar has a little saying or inspirational phrase, and it always makes me smile. And last Saturday, July 24^th, my move-to-New-York day, it read:

So be truly glad! There is wonderful Joy ahead.
1 Peter 1:6

Lord, let it be true.

These are the days

2009-09-25T01:11:00.001-07:00

These are the days. These are the days that rattle in my chest against the clanging of my tinny heartbeat. Soft thuds beating mercilessly against the cage of rib bone.

This is when every breath hurts. Every sigh feels full of the dust of broken glass. This is when every moment, every movement, feels false and numb. Dumb and lifeless. I want to run away, busy myself into a frantic tizzy to match the torrents swirling inside, but my body, my legs, my back, are made of hard cement and I can’t seem to go anywhere.

So please, let’s walk and get frozen yogurt. Let’s go to the beach and lay against the silky sand, bodies stretched beneath the fading sun. Let’s curl up on the sofa, you and I, and fall asleep heads and arms and hands tangled and intertwined. Let’s let the love soak in until I’m drunk and it’s dry.

These are the days when I can’t believe that I can’t believe she’s gone. And it’s the moments when I wish I didn’t still miss her, that I miss her most of all.

I Don't Know

2009-08-03T21:39:00.000-07:00

I don’t care if you have a Ph.D you earned at Yale or in Scotland. Just stand in front of the mirror, all alone, nobody around, shrug, and say “I don’t know…I really don’t know.” You can add, “I can’t tell you why that happened. I don’t know.”

The great news is that God never shrugs. He never says that. With acute perception He says, “I know exactly why this happened. I know the way you take. I know why. I know how long you’ll be there and I know what will be the end result.”

Shrugging and deity are incompatible.

While you’re shrugging in genuine humility, saying “I don’t know,” He’s saying, “Good for you. Rely on me in the mystery. Trust me.” God never promised He would inform us ahead of time all about His plan. He’s just promised He has one. Ultimately, it’s for our good and His glory. He knows- we don’t. That’s why we shrug and admit, “I don’t know."

But I do know this: The death of His Son was not in vain. And I do know this: Christ died for you. And I do know this: If you believe in Him, He will forgive your sins and you will go to live with Him forever. You’ll have heaven and all the blessings of it, I do know that. It’s a tough journey, getting there. Full of a lot of confusion, a lot of struggle, a lot of shrugs followed by a lot of “I don’t knows.” But when the heavens open and we’re there, hey, there will be no more shrugs.

“Now I know.”

-Job: A Man of Heroic Endurance, Charles Swindoll

Julie and Julia

2009-07-18T00:00:00.000-07:00

Are you ready for another big announcement? Because brace yourself-- this one's pretty big.

On Monday (as in two days from now), this here humble little blog will be the featured "Blog of the Day" on the website for the amazing, gorgeous, hilarious movie Julie and Julia.

*cue adolescent girl scream*

You can watch the trailer here:

I have been so excited to see this movie ever since I heard about it coming out, so needless to say I was pretty thrilled when I was contacted to be featured on their website this month!

On Monday if you go to their website, it'll be my name in the cute little box on the bottom right corner where it says "Featured Blog."

*cue adolescent girl scream*

Sorry. I couldn't help myself.

I mean, we all know I love to cook. And I'm already about to pee my pants thinking about Meryl Streep's face being next to my name. (It's a stretch I know, but just work with me here.) It's just so COOL!

Okay that's it. Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!

The Princess

2009-06-26T00:51:00.001-07:00

The Princess of the Castle / La Princesa del Castillo by Barandalla (via Flickr)

Sometimes I think about princesses. The ones in fairy tales that scores of princes came to prove their valor for. I think about how a princess must have grown up, always knowing that someday this test would be placed before the men of lands near and far because her hand wasn't just any hand-- it was worth fighting for. I think about what it must have felt like to stand at the window and see them all parading up to the castle door, seeing what each one brought, what tools or props were packed to aid in the test before them.

I wonder if the princess ever picked a favorite, ever had one she was really rooting for. I'm sure it must have gotten tiring watching them all come, and how she must have secretly hoped for some of them to fail. But I wonder if any of them ever caught her eye. I wonder if there was ever something about the way one of them looked at her, or the way one bowed before her father, or a certain something in the way another one stood that captured her attention. How her heart may have started to race with the idea, the thought, the hope and the anticipation that finally-- finally!-- this could be the one! This could be the one brave enough and strong enough and smart enough to tear down the castle walls that kept her royal prisoner.

...And how it must have felt to see them fail. To see them drop in the middle of a race or tap out in the middle of a fight. The grief and shame they felt were probably no match for the flood of lonely disappointment that must have filled the chambers of her heart.

Oh the pain. To know one's worth and know no one worthy enough to own it. Is there anything more wounding to the heart?

Spin

2009-06-22T12:45:00.000-07:00

So I just got back from my first spin class. I've been trying to be more physically active lately (blah de blah... white noise... aren't we all...?), and when I heard about a free spin class being given by a friend of mine who's a personal trainer, I decided to gather my nonexistent cajones and give it a shot. I had only ever heard painful, torturous things about spin class, but looking for a new way to boost my booty, I figured 45 minutes sweating my brains out in a dark room for free would at least be educational.

Here are my thoughts.

1. I didn’t know it was possible for a human to sweat out their body weight in 45 minutes. Much less did I think it was possible for ME to sweat out my body weight in 45 minutes. But it is. Apparently. (I mean, my WRISTS were sweaty… What?!)

2. There was a point about 2/3 of the way through the class when the searing pain was not in my thighs, calves, arms, or abs… But a VERY centralized location where I didn’t realize numbness could be so scandalously painful. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

3. I was, by far, the youngest person in the room. And I was also, by far, the slowest.

4. If we are, on any level, friends, I’m really glad you weren’t there. I hit a point, trudging up that imaginary hill listening to Freddie Mercury sing about my "bottom", that brought out some very animalistic qualities… Let’s just say there was some grunting and snarling.

5. I stink. I mean, I really stink. But I guess that’s a repeat of #1.

Currently I’m curled up trying to move as little as possible. My body feels like an abused refugee. I could hardly walk out to the car, let alone climb the steps to my apartment. But if it doesn’t kill me, I’ll be back on Friday. Let's do this.

q&a

2009-06-11T00:18:00.000-07:00

The incredibly talented Tracy at shutterbean posted this lovely little q&a yesterday and I was so inspired by her answers I had to respond to her open invitation to fill it out for myself. Let's go!

what is your current obsession?
-Mediterranean food and pictures from the graduation fiesta I went to on Saturday night. Ole!

what is your weirdest obsession?
- Cereal

what are you wearing today?
-Black yoga pants, gray deep-v, and my yellow wrap/ hoodie/ sweater

what’s for dinner?
-Trader Joe's pizza, split with Zo. Extra Tapatio please.

what would you eat for your last meal?
-Chocolate cake. Extra frosting.

what’s the last thing you bought?
-A slip. Yep, like the ones your grandma wears.

what are you listening to right now?
-The new Hillsong CD. And the fan softly whirring above my head.

what’s your favorite ice cream flavor?
-Brown Butter Brickle from Scoops in Los Feliz. You have no idea...

if you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would it be?
- A big, beautiful, sweeping plantation-style house Savannah, Georgia with a wrap-around porch and a hammock and a big beautiful kitchen with lots of windows. Or just a fatty mansion on Lake Como, right next to George's house.

if you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour where would you go?
-The beach on the north shore of Kauai, belly full of fish tacos I just ate with my dad.

what language do you want to learn?

- Love and grace.

What’s your favorite fruit?
-Apples. Chilled please.

what is one of your favorite daily/weekly rituals?
- Making breakfast.

if you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?
-New sneakers. Embarrassing.

Do you admire anyone’s style?
-Whenever I'm stuck trying to decide whether or not to buy something, if I'm really honest I always think, "Would Marilyn Monroe wear this?" If she wouldn't, I don't.

Describe your personal style?
-Relaxed, easy glamour. I never want to look like I'm trying too hard, or like there's been too much effort put into what I'm wearing--not too "done"-- but I like looking put-together and a little romantic. Feminine. Relaxed. Glamorous. An outfit has to have that magic. I want you to think *I'm* beautiful, not what I'm wearing.

What are your fave films?
-Gladiator and Pride and Prejudice are tied for first. But more recently, I just watched Tootsie and it rocked my world.

What inspires you?
-Romance. Seeing people's hearts peek out in unexpected ways.

Cobbled Together

2009-06-05T18:18:00.000-07:00

This was a hard week. A really hard week. Things were said, things were not said... And I wasn't prepared for any of it.

But then all of a sudden something broke. Or rather, something broken was suddenly reset and stitched together again. And then everything felt (mostly) all right.

My friends Sean and Melissa (yep, the same ones) are leaving for several months. After spending a large portion of this painful week at their house, I am even more sad to see them go. Tonight some of us are getting together for games, togetherness, and a whole lot of laughter, and I've made this Strawberry Graham Cobbler to add a little sugar to the festivities.

It's warm and oozing with sugary strawberry goop, and topped with a brown sugar and graham cracker crumb topping that's really more of a streusel than anything else. I hope it adds some sweetness to our time together tonight.

Strawberry Graham Crumble

Filling:

32 ounces frozen strawberries

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon salt

3 tablespoon flour

Topping:

1 cup brown sugar

1 cup flour

1/2 cup graham cracker crumbs

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 cup (1 stick) butter, chilled and cut into small cubes

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Combine filling ingredients in baking dish, stirring until the strawberries are fully coated with the sugar/ flour mixture.

In a separate bowl, combine all the dry ingredients for the topping. Then add the cubes of chilled butter and integrate into dry ingredients using a pastry cutter, fork, or your fingertips, until the butter is thoroughly mixed throughout and feels like damp sand. There should still be small clumps of butter, about the size of a pea.

Spoon the topping onto the strawberries and bake for 35-45 minutes, until the strawberries are bubbling and the top is golden brown. Allow to cool for at least 20 minutes before serving.

Learning to Stand

2009-05-28T00:54:00.000-07:00

Photo via Mario Mitsis

They were kissing. Put like that, and you could be forgiven for presuming that this was a normal kiss, all lips and skin and possibly even a little tongue. You’d miss how he smiled, how his eyes glowed. And then, after the kiss was done, how he stood, like a man who had just discovered the art of standing and had figured out how to do it better than anyone else who would ever come along. Neil Gaiman

This is so beautiful... I can't stop re-reading.

Come Fly With Me

2009-05-26T12:56:00.000-07:00

We went flying...

(For the full experience, go here first.)

We started here. (No, not the RV... Thankfully.)

I feel like something out of Casablanca. Jarrett feels like something out of Borat. ("Verrry niiice!")

Amping up.

Here we go.

"Does it always make that sound?"

Griffith Observatory.

You've never seen LA like this.

Vampire Baker

2009-05-19T11:04:00.000-07:00

"You are a vampire baker. You come out at night." -Andrea

When I heard my friend Sean's birthday was coming up, I knew no ordinary cake would do. He and his wife Melissa are some of the new friends I've made at church, and while Sean may not be the first guy you notice when you walk in a room, his wisdom and kindness are coupled with a wicked sense of humor and killer skills on the dance floor. (No joke. Here's a video of the HILARIOUS first dance at their wedding.)

I've loved getting to know him and his wife because it's been like finding a $20 bill in your jacket pocket-- an unexpected treat. So when I was talking to Melissa and asking about his favorite dessert and she mentioned his penchant for pizookies-- those giant warm, oozing cookies baked a pizza pan and covered in melting ice cream-- I knew I had found my inspiration.

Instead of making a giant cookie and topping it with ice cream, I decided to make five giant cookies and pile each high with whipped cream cheese frosting. The components are simple-- chocolate chip cookies and cream cheese frosting lightened with a bit of whipped cream-- but add them together, turn up the volume a bit, and you've got one show-stopping celebratory confection.

It just seemed like the right thing to do.

The night before the party I flicked on the kitchen lights around 9 and set to work creaming the butter and sugar, shaping the dough into five 9" discs (a process made infinitely easier by using a the ring of a springform pan as a mold, natch), whipping the cream... And by about 2am I had finally assembled it all into one colossal tower of simple nostalgia. It's like your favorite after-school snack stacked into the perfect birthday treat.

Happy birthday, Sean.

Like a giant cookie cutter.

Homemade whipped cream, step 1.

Cool Whip? What's that?

Assembly station.

Layer 1.

Looking good.

And then there were two!

It's like magic.

Oh momma.

Now we're getting somewhere.

Vampire baker.

We've arrived.

Do yourself a favor: make this cake as soon as possible.

Giant Cookie Cake

(Adapted from a recipe by Martha Stewart)

4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
1 1/2 cups packed light brown sugar
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 large eggs, plus 2 egg yolks
3/4 cup heavy cream
2 cups milk chocolate chips

1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Whisk flour, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl. Put butter and brown and granulated sugars into mixer bowl; mix on medium until pale and fluffy. Mix in vanilla, eggs, and yolks. Reduce speed to low. Add flour mixture in 2 batches, alternating with the cream. Stir in chocolate chips.

For each of the 5 layers, drop 1 level cup batter onto center of a greased baking sheet. Using the ring of a 9" springform pan, press dough down into an even disc. Remove springform ring and bake until edges are pale golden brown, about 15 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool for 5-10 minutes before transferring to a wire rack.

Frosting

1 1/4 cups heavy cream

2 (8 oz.) packages cream cheese, softened

1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, softened

2 tsp. vanilla

16 oz. powdered sugar

Whip heavy cream until soft peaks form. Set aside. Beat cream cheese and butter together, then slowly add vanilla and powdered sugar. Fold whipped cream into cream cheese mixture in 3 parts until fully incorporated.

Assembly

When cookies are fully cooled, spread a small amount of frosting in the middle of a cake plate. Place a cookie on top and spread with about 1 cup of frosting. Use a long spatula to create an even layer of frosting before topping with another cookie. Repeat for the next three layers, and then top with the final cookie.

Cover and chill until ready to serve. Can be stored in the refrigerator for 3-4 days.

(Note: I refrigerated mine overnight before serving to allow the frosting to soften the cookies a little bit so they were easier to slice. I recommend you do the same.)

It's That Day in May

2009-05-08T12:49:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother's Day.

Rundown

2009-05-03T23:09:00.001-07:00

Currently loving:

Soft and stolen v-neck tees.

"Strawberry Swing" by Coldplay.
Carrots and hummus for dinner. (Followed by cookies and milk. Obviously.)
Smooth and silky summer legs.
My new snakeskin sandals.
How shiny and whole and wonderful the world looks after I talk to my best friend.

[This new smile.]

Never stood a chance:

Stirring the oil into the peanut butter.
How long my hair is getting. ("WHAT is touching my NECK?!")
The Check Engine light in my car.
Standing in the middle of Trader Joe's and having no idea what I want to eat for the rest of the week but Caramel Nut Brownie LUNA bars and Ranchero Egg White Salad.
Being out of flour and sugar. Sad story.

Honey, I'm Home!

2009-04-23T18:54:00.000-07:00

ne·glect (nĭ-glěkt')
1. to pay no attention or too little attention to; disregard or slight
2. to be remiss in the care or treatment of
3. to omit, through indifference or carelessness
4. to fail to carry out or perform (orders, duties, etc.)
5. to fail to take or use

So, um, yeah. Sorry about that.

Things have been a little crazy around here lately. Crazy wonderful and just crazy crazy... Sweet new friends who make life a whole lot sweeter, late night dinner dates, long afternoon hikes, banana pancakes, car mechanic wrangling, ruthless job searching... There's been a lot going on.

You may have noticed that the "Latest Celebrity Sighting" feature on the right side toolbar has been replaced with a slideshow/ link to my Tumblr profile. I've been giving that little extra attention-- it's where I'll upload a picture I think is pretty, or jot out a thought or quote that's been circulating in my head all day. Much more spontaneous and rapid-fire than this here blog which actually requires coherent thought... Check it out every once in a while for a little tidbit of what's going on in my brain that day.

But now that we've got that covered, let's get down to business. I baked you cupcakes. What can I say? I'm sorry it's been so long. And I'm here to woo you back with frilly, festive, frothy cupcakes. Pink and blue, purple and yellow... Sprinkles and swirls of homemade buttercream sit atop moist vanilla cake.

I'm glad you're here. I'm sorry I was gone so long. Please stay.

Perfect Spring Cupcakes

The best cupcakes I've ever had or made. A tight, moist crumb with just the right amount of sweetness, topped with a creamy twist on traditional buttercream. This is a recipe I go back to time and again, and am never, ever disappointed.

Cake

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

2 cups sugar

4 eggs

1 cup milk

1 tsp. vanilla

2 3/4 cups flour

2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line two 12-cup muffin tins with paper liners.

In a stand mixer, beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, making sure they become fully incorporated. Then add the dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, salt) in three parts, alternating with the milk and vanilla. With each addition, beat until the ingredients are incorporated but do not overbeat.

Fill muffin cups 1/2 to 2/3 full and bake for 20-25 minutes.

Frosting

1 1/2 sticks (12 oz.) unsalted butter, softened

1 pkg. (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened

1 box (16 oz.) powdered sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

liquid or gel food coloring (optional)

Using an electric mixer, beat butter and cream cheese together until combined. Slowly add the powdered sugar until fully absorbed, then add vanilla.

Frost cupcakes when fully cooled and decorate with the cutest sprinkles you can find.

** For colored frosting: separate frosting into small bowls and stir in a few drops of the food coloring of your choice. Have fun and go slowly-- you can always add more. But don't be afraid of color either!

Here and There

2009-04-10T12:55:00.001-07:00

I've been busy.

Gone Too Long

2009-04-02T00:34:00.000-07:00

Justwokeupfromanapface.

This just about how I feel every day. Happysweetsmileypeacefulrested. Be back soon.

New Friends

2009-03-19T20:07:00.001-07:00

I've made some new friends lately. And they're incredible. Seriously, legitimately awesome. They welcomed me instantly and wholeheartedly... And they're freaking COOL! None of this weird/ tentative/ "I'm going to be nice to you and we'll talk awkwardly in public settings, and then wave from across the room the next time I see you" crap. We were basically family from day one. And I like it.

This is Daniela.

She's got a gorgeous smile and I told her the minute we met. Which, incidentally, was on a Sunday. By a stroke of fate, I ended up at her small group on Tuesday, and by Saturday night I was singing "Happy Birthday" at her party as she blew out her candles. She's just that awesome. (Oh, and did I mention she's married?! I LOVE married people!)

Speaking of birthdays and awesome, Daniela shares a b-day with her best friend Tiffany whom I have come to love and adore.

She's smart, beautiful, and wise with this incredibly big heart that cares deeply without a hint of mush. In other words, a badass.

Tiffany and Daniela on their birthday trip to Disneyland.

I don't know when or where this is, but they look hot.

(Sidenote: most of these pictures are from Tiffany's rad blog. Yup. Rad. I don't even say that word.)

Next, I'd like to introduce Zoë. She's incredible and incandescent, fun, HILARIOUS and has a big beautiful heart. Oh, and she's six feet tall, British/ South African, gorgeous, and used to model. No big deal.

We go on hikes and get banana pancakes and generally can't stop yammering each others' ears off. I really, really love her.

Yup, all three amazing, Jesus-loving hotties were at the Bible study I stopped in on with a friend just a few Tuesdays ago.

It's led by Evan:

Whom I've actually known for a little bit, and who is also, for the record, actually as tall as this picture makes him out to be: 6'7, or as he is fond of saying, 5'19. He does a seriously awesome job.

I wish I had more pictures of the rest of the crew: Josie and Peter, Melissa and Sean... Some incredible people are in this Bible study, and I'm so glad I know them.

Blog roundup!

Daniela: All I'm Sayin' Is...

Zoë: Confessions of a Wanderholic

And Tiffany: DailyJunkLA

... ie: my latest obsession, ie: I really love it, ie: I check it multiple times every day and have created a bookmark on my homepage because I love seeing what sassy little tidbits she posts throughout the day. It's fine.

Ten

2009-03-11T01:13:00.000-07:00

If you had logged onto Facebook a few weeks ago, you wouldn't have been able to escape the news of everybody and their Aunt Berta (literally) posting a list of "25 Random Things About Me" (er, Them). I was tagged repeatedly but never acquiesced. Until now.

But instead of bombarding you with 25 I've narrowed it down to a classy, even 10.

Because that's how I roll.

1. I love seeing men walking with flowers in hand. It makes me feel like there's still romance in the world.

2. Whole Foods is my Starbucks. I realized one night while trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep that I'm probably in here 5 out of 7 days a week. (And by "here" I really do mean here... I'm sitting in a Whole Foods cafe as I type this)

3. Sometimes I think about how much I love my best friend, and how thankful I am for her and our amazing friendship, and my heart gets so full it feels like it could literally burst. After my last trip to visit her, I was left with this feeling like my whole body had been filled with warm milk-- all full and peaceful and satisfied.

4. When I was young and homeschooled we only had one car that my dad would take to work every day. My mom would occasionally get so stir-crazy that she would take us on walks to the 7-11 at the corner just to get out of the house. We were each allowed to get a treat. Lisa (my best friend at the time who was homeschooled with me) and James always got Slurpees, but I shunned them for a little package of Reese's peanut butter cups. We'd squat on the curb outside eating our goodies, James and Lisa sipping away and me letting the sun melt the chocolate on the Reese's cups until they were soft and barely oozing, before devouring in small, careful bites. Then we'd walk home and steal daffodils from people's yards along the way.

5. I would like to marry someone who has big hands.

6. If I could, every day I would eat a thick slab of homemade whole grain bread, toasted, and slathered with a warm, oozing layer of Jif Extra Chunky peanut butter. Trans fats be damned.

7. There is something so EPIC to me about Jay-Z's music. The Black Album? Please. I could listen to that for the rest of my life and continuously be floored by the nuanced cries for help I hear.

8. A pickup line that still tickles me: "Are those your real eyes?" No, the right one's glass, sir. ...Yes, they're my "real" eyes. What does that even mean?

9. After my mom died it took a long time for me to be able to read books or watch movies. I just didn't have the focus or attention span to stay with one continuous plot or train of thought for more than 45 minutes. Truth be told I'm still building up my endurance, but as it stands I've got a solid 2-year block of entertainment and media that I pretty much missed out on.

10. I think my favorite feeling in the world is laying on the beach while the sun is setting, body pressed into the warm sand as a breeze picks up and it feels like a long silk sheet being drawn across your skin. I can't think of anything better.

Water in the Basement

2009-03-04T22:45:00.000-08:00

It's a rainy day here in LA, and I'm cooped up inside listening to music with my phone turned off. I just cancelled my cable and don't know whether I regret it. My hair is getting really long.

Just yesterday it hit me how hard the last several years have been. First Mom got sick, then was gone, and after that the only church I had ever known shattered and home base was obliterated. I graduated from college and spent long, lonely days alone in my apartment, searching for my life's purpose or something, anything, to set my hands to.

Talk about a one, two (three) punch.

It's been harder than I realized. I miss my mom now in a deep, low way that I spend most days trying to ignore or stuff away... But it never really works. There are long stretches of numb, almost-happiness mingled with real, genuine good times that are so good I want to grab life like a bottle with both fists, turning it upside down and drink drink drink until it's dripping dry. But then it crashes down and I find myself crying in church, gaze locked on a woman who has hands like my mom's.

I'm tired of saying it's hard. I'm tired of fighting the same old battles with the same old rusty armor. My sword has lost its shine in my weary hand on my weary arm, the onslaught is subsiding but never ceasing. I just want it to go away. I want to be the bright and shiny, happy girl that people want to see. Oh to be lighthearted! I've gotten pretty good at smiling again, inviting people in to see my sparkling new floors and pretty drywall, but this house still has water in the basement.

The thing the Lord spoke to me about this time is that it's my "under pressure" season-- like I'm in a slow-cooker, steeping not stagnant. I am still because deep work is going on in my heart, and the reward is a richness, a depth, a spectrum, encyclopaedia, and library of heart-knowledge that couldn't be acquired any other way. And I'm okay with that. Lord, please let me be okay with that.

I just want to know Him.

KC

2009-02-20T00:23:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I spent my Valentine's with some true sweets indeed: my best friend Catherine, her husband Mark, and their baby who we all affectionately refer to as Bubbie. (Or Bubs, or Bubbkins, or Bubbsie...)

Spaghetti night.

I had planned to fly home Monday afternoon after my extended weekend stay, but when I found myself wretching on the floor of their bathroom Sunday night, body wracked with the effects of food poisoning, so my extended stay got a little more extended!

Checkin' out the pedi.

Lashes

We played Monopoly, watched movies, and basically just played with the baby all day. In other words, it was heaven.

By the way, have I ever mentioned how I have the BEST best friend on the PLANET?

Because I do. Even if she does live in Kansas City.

Single Lady

2009-02-09T13:09:00.000-08:00

Sunday night. Just a single girl folding a little laundry.

Coming Soon...

2009-02-04T00:50:00.000-08:00

This may or may not be the trailer for the second season of the INCREDIBLE web series called Dorm Life, which may or may not be making its debut on March 2nd. Also, you may or may not see a tall blonde girl that you may or may not know in a few episodes at the end of the season. Maybe.

Black and White

2009-01-25T18:48:00.000-08:00

My friend Daniella took some pictures of me last week when we were out to lunch after church. She used an old Canon SLR her mom bought her dad when they were engaged and developed them in the film lab at her school. I don't mean to be narcissistic, but I can't stop staring.

(At her talent- not mine)

The Hippie

2009-01-23T17:57:00.000-08:00

I saw him from across the street, standing waiting for red to become green, the sunshine warming his face and his white linen pants pooling quietly around the leather sandals on his feet. "Hippie," like a wasp flew from one side of my brain to the other, and then it was gone as I turned my attention to the basket full of kitchen supplies the lady in front of me wanted to buy. A few minutes later I looked up from my task and saw him standing there, his long dark hair pulled into a soft ponytail that lay against his back, looking expectantly at me with his soft brown eyes. There was something elegant about him, a sort of refined peacefulness. He asked if we sold barbecue skewers.

When we found them he seemed satisfied and took them to the front to pay where he glanced at the back of the package. Suddenly his face clouded over and he set them down. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't realize..." He pointed to three little silver letters: Made in China.

First I thought, How dumb. What's wrong with you, just get them you stupid tree-hugger! But then the thought rushed in, No, he's right. He's a man taking a stand for his convictions. That's honorable.

"It's all right. I understand." I replied.

"It's just that, with all you hear about unsafe products coming from China these days..."

"And all the things you hear about child labor... I understand."

He looked at me with this pure look of peace and understanding. Admiration, even. "Thank you, my lady."

There was something about the way he said "my lady" that instantly brought my focus. I don't know when I've ever seen kinder eyes. Soft and warm, like spicy tea or the fur on a chocolate lab's tummy. Looking into those eyes was like taking a breath of warm, rich air-- there was something deeply satisfying about them.

He left and I watched him stride back across the street, linen tunic billowing in the breeze, golden skin illuminated by the sun. "He called me 'my lady'," I thought. And I felt better for having known him.

You've sure got powerful thumbs!

2009-01-15T23:51:00.000-08:00

This made me laugh until I drooled while I was sick. Seriously.

New Year, New Recipe

2009-01-01T21:30:00.001-08:00

I wish I could say I spent this glorious new day of 2009 frolicking in the Los Angeles sun, but alas I've been cooped up all day with a pounding sinus headache, running to the bathroom every 15 minutes to blow my nose over the sink. Happy new year, indeed!

It's moments like these as I sit with nary a coherent thought, that the prospect of writing an interesting, intriguing, fun-filled recount of my Christmas seems a bit daunting. Thus, I'm going to give you a recipe for the KILLER breakfast I made on Christmas morning. Every year for as long as I can remember my mom had cinnamon rolls baking as we opened our presents each December 25th. I've taken the torch the last two years, but this year I felt emboldened to try a new recipe in the spirit of new traditions and lots and lots of butter, courtesy Paula Deen.

Imagine biting into an oozing ball of dough, still warm from the oven and dripping in buttery cinnamon sugar goo, only to find a bit of sweetened cream cheese tucked in the middle. Every bite tastes like the middle of a cinnamon roll. Yeah.

I know you're probably already feeling the squeeze as you put on your jeans in the morning, and yet ANOTHER recipe dripping with butter and brown sugar is the last thing your New Years resolutioned-self is wanting, but this is one such recipe. Deal with it.

Gorilla Bread

Adapted from Paula Deen

1/2 cup granulated sugar

3 Tablespoons cinnamon

1/2 cup (1 stick) butter

1 cup brown sugar

1 (8 oz.) package cream cheese

2 cans refrigerated buttermilk biscuits (12 oz., 10 count)

1 cup toasted pecans

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Spray a 9" round cake pan with nonstick cooking spray. Mix the granulated sugar and cinnamon and set aside. In a saucepan, melt the butter and brown sugar over low heat, stirring well; set aside. Cut the cream cheese into 20 equal cubes, and set THAT aside.

Now press the biscuits out with your fingers and sprinkle each with about 1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon sugar (no need to measure, just sprinkle a little). Place a cube of cream cheese in the center of each biscuit, wrapping and sealing the dough around the cream cheese. Now sprinkle half the pecans onto the bottom of the pan, and begin placing the prepared biscuits around the perimeter of the pan. Keep adding the balls of dough in circles until the pan is full. Place the remaining pecans in between the balls of dough. Pour the melted butter and sugar over everything, and sprinkle the remaining cinnamon sugar over that.

Bake for 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and cool for 5 minutes before inverting onto a serving plate. Eat immediately with a tall glass of milk.

See

2008-12-19T01:18:00.000-08:00

I could feel the hurt creeping in, seeping like smoke under the door and in through the cracks in the walls of my heart. I stood at work today, the sounds and smells and shiny sights of the season all around me and couldn't feel anything but numb. "How long," I wondered, "will I feel this way? How long until it's over and done with?"

How many more holidays will feel hollow and naked-- like imitations or pretend celebrations-- without her? I had gotten so content, so free, got so carried away with how happy I had been feeling, that I failed to anticipate how tinny this season seems without my momma. Then the ache came back and blinded me.

Last week I drove far up the freeway and spent a day with my friend Christmas shopping. We stopped for lunch at a restaurant I haven't been to since the summer Mom got sick-- one of those chain buffets that serves watered-down Ranch and mediocre parmesan bread, and the backdrop of countless meals growing up-- and I never could have anticipated the flood of memories that were unleashed over my heart as soon as I saw the big stack of chipping plastic trays by the front door.

Every vinyl booth, every soccer mom with her kids, every aroma of steaming soup and bland blueberry muffins seemed to awaken a fire of images, faces, conversations, and glances that hadn't been kindled in a long time. As I sat and ate the salad I always got as a girl ("Your salads are always white!" she used to say), and remembered how it never ceased to be our family joke that Dad was trying to build the 8th world wonder on his salad plate, I felt so full. So satisfied and alive. The memories didn't drain me but instead seemed to charge every electron in my heart leaving me drunk with contentment, buzzing and ready for more.

The season came alive in my heart.

But as I stood in that store tonight I could feel the thick gray smoke of grief begin seeping in slowly wrapping itself around my chest, its spindly fingers assuming their iron grip on my ribcage. It was less sharp this time than other times, less violent and violating, more like breath on a cold window- softly pervasive. Nothing felt alive but the grief.

And this is where I am.

I ache for how things used to be, and the fullness I was always blessed to associate with this season. Everything seems empty. My once brimming and happy heart, broken then seemingly healed, feels tainted again by this grief I so despise and there doesn't appear to be anything I can do about it.

I know this is the point where I should bring the hope around and talk about how it's all right and "Somehow I'll just grin and bear it..." and "It's all going to be okay." But to be honest that's just BS that you hang onto until the real good stuff kicks in. And God is way too good to me to just wax over it with a, "So here's hoping!"

To talk about the goodness of the Lord with a stiff upper lip is like trying to describe falling in love without using your hands. He is so rich, so elegant, so extravagant in his love for me- so epic in his healing, so flooding in the richness of his love, so heavy, but at the same time freeing, in his affection. I am intoxicated by his ardor, his desire, his all-encompassing passion. He is the answer to every sigh, every ache, every hungry gasp of my heart. He satisfies, fills, indulges, and quenches every desire I've ever known, but somehow this great satisfaction still busts open the seams of my soul and leaves me longing, gasping for more.

Momma isn’t here, that’s true. And it hurts. That’s true too. But what’s more true is his love for me, and how ready and able he is to fill every gaping hole in my heart, every fault line that’s weak from former brokenness. He loves me and he lays it on thick.

I am never alone, and I never have to feel afraid. I am never without love, never without care and affection, never without special gifts picked out to make my heart sing.

He is my warmth, my grace, my peace, my light and my strength.
Ah!
He is my gift, my company, my benefactor and my blessing.
This is it... This is IT!
He is my wish, my hope, my story and my song.
Suddenly the room doesn't seem so smoky, the window clear not foggy... I can see again.

He is the answer to my heart's cry. And I am full and wanting more.

Happy Thursday

2008-12-11T00:54:00.000-08:00

From the archives...

Consider this your official Thursday dance break.

If I knew you were comin'...

2008-12-09T17:30:00.000-08:00

I'd've baked a cake,

Baked a cake, baked a cake.

If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake,

Howd-ya do, howd-ya do, howd-ya do...

Oh wait.

Recipe soon...

Radar

2008-12-04T16:00:00.000-08:00

Currently reading:
Golden Boy by Clifford Odets. An incredible work by the legendary Group Theatre's first original playwright, this play about a scrappy young boxer named Joe feels like a shiny new penny. I played Lorna Moon, the woman having an affair with Joe's married manager, in a class in college and have been revisiting the text over the last few days and falling in love with it all over again.

Can't stop listening to:
The new Coldplay EP (extended from their latest album Viva la Vida). So good it made me wonder how these songs didn't make the cut... And then I realized they did because Chris and the boys were good enough to release this. Hallelujah.

The Hotel Cafe presents Winter Songs. Sweet and tender, and a welcome contrast to the sometimes overly-saccharine songs of the season. "Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson is the haunting and simple. The perfect late-night driving song.

Love:

The Jamie bag from J.Crew. After saving all my pennies and milk money and hoarding birthday checks from last month I was able to purchase this little beaut over the weekend for a steal. Come to momma.

And these are dominating my internet airwaves.

This is from Suz over at Alive in Wonderland (love her).

Original post here.

And this came to me from the lovely and so-funny-my-tummy-hurts Bake and Shake.

Original post here.

I dare you not to laugh.

Friendsgiving

2008-11-24T15:49:00.000-08:00

The rest of the country may be celebrating the national day of tryptophan and thanks on Thursday, but my holiday was yesterday. I spent my Sunday (and Saturday) cooking Thanksgiving dinner for 50-60 people. Scout's honor.

I have pictures to prove it.

This is Kenneth. He kisses me on the cheek every time he sees me. Mmhmm.

"I better get a husband out of this."

Stephanie, my right hand woman. Seriously, the best kitchen help a girl could wish for.

This is Cubbie. I just... There are no words.

A man and his bird. Jason cooked the two 20-lb. turkeys at two different houses and kicked some serious turkey tail. Those babies were deelish.

Kudos to the turkey master.

The spread. Ie: five heads of lettuce, forty pounds of turkey, 20 pounds of potatoes, ten pounds of corn, three pounds of butter, sweet potatoes, stuffing, 100 rolls, half a gallon of gravy, and TONS of love.

This lights my heart up. And then reminds me of all the dishes I have sitting in my sink.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Caramel

2008-11-14T15:59:00.000-08:00

It won't do, to dream of caramel...

To think of cinnamon, and long for you...

It won't do to stir a deep desire...

To fan a hidden fire that can never burn true...

So goodbye, sweet appetite...

No single bite could satisfy.

Thick Caramel

1/2 cup butter

1 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 cup light corn syrup

6 oz. sweetened condensed milk

2 tablespoons whole milk

1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 teaspoon salt

Bring the butter, brown sugar, corn syrup and sweetened condensed milk to a boil over medium-high heat stirring to combine. Then, with a wooden spoon, stir all ingredients together and then slowly add the milk.

Continue to stir for about 5-10 minutes until the caramel coats the spoon thickly. It is important to continuously stir the mixture.

Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla and salt. Stir for an additional 2-3 minutes, allowing to cool slightly, then use wisely.

(Lyrics to "Caramel" by Suzanne Vega)

Wealthy

2008-11-08T00:18:00.000-08:00

My mom always used to say I had champagne taste on a beer budget. Lately it's been more like trying to satisfy my taste for French champagne with milk money. People usually assume I'm wealthy-- that my affinity for dressing well and carrying myself like a lady (most of the time, I hope) denotes a certain amount of money in my family's bank account. The sales ladies at Nordstrom always remember me. One afternoon when I was in my late teens I was musing about this fact out loud to my mother in our kitchen as she made dinner. "It's probably because they think you're rich," she snorted.

What most people don't know is that when I was a baby my dad worked as a pizza delivery man to support my mom and I. When I was six I was too scared to tell my parents I had outgrown my shoes because I thought we might not have enough money to get me new ones. On my ninth birthday, all my presents came from Goodwill. Right now, nine and a half out of ten things in my closet were bought at a deep discount, and gas and grocery money usually starts getting tight several days before my bank account is replenished. That's just the way it is.

I've been without a job for a long time now, an internal war being raged between my fearful, Practical, Common Sense side that says, "Who are you kidding?! Get a JOB!", and my gut-hungry, aching soul that says, "If I have to do one more hostess/ coffee shop/ office job I'm never going to stop crying myself to sleep at night." Just recently I came to the point where a compromise had to be made and have now settled for a job selling luxury cookware at a chain store in Beverly Hills. I'm not sure how I feel about it. On the one hand, I know that I always like being in the store whenever I visit, so working there (hopefully) won't be torture, but on the other hand I feel so dissatisfied and quite frankly, gypped.

All I want is a job that will pay my bills and leave me feeling satisfied at the end of the day. That's it. It doesn't have to pay a lot, and it doesn't need to be easy... I don't even need a lot of recognition. I just want to feel good about myself and the world when I turn the key to my apartment every night.

A few weeks ago a very wealthy man told me I was beautiful and gave me his business card. Later, as I walked up the steps of my aging apartment building and climbed the stairs to my old and beautiful abode, my thoughts wandered to what it might be like to be a "kept" woman. I wondered what this man in his shiny car and expensive suede loafers would think if he saw the chipping paint on my door frame, or noticed the frayed seam on the hem of my Target dress. Would he change his mind about me? Or would he deem me as worthy of more and buy me purses and bracelets and evening gowns, and maybe move me into one of the lavish condos in the building next to mine? Would he send cars to pick me up and take me on trips to expensive dinners in Vienna and Prague and Paris? Would he do that for me because he thinks I deserve it?

Right now I'm sitting here typing on my three year-old laptop in a 12 dollar tank top and my underwear. I'm surrounded by things I love: resting on the beautiful love seat my dad and I picked out at the consignment store for a hundred dollars, my first real pair of "expensive jeans" that do supernatural things for my butt slung over the back; I have pictures of my mom and friends and family hung simply on the wall, and my chipping pink discount dishes are all stacked in my kitchen cupboards. And I know who I am.

I may want nicer things someday, and am not ashamed to say that I can't wait for the day my gas budget is no longer a pressing issue, but here in this place, I am satisfied. I'm not pretending to be content with some office job, paying my own rent while my soul goes bankrupt, or feigning interest in an older man with the means to make all my material dreams come true, only to later realize I've lost what really matters. I'm in a beautiful apartment that I love, with clothes that keep my desires for beautiful, designer garments sated, and my forty dollar purse looks a lot more expensive than it is, thank you very much. I have friends I can't get enough of, and a family most people only dream about.

As for the job part, well... I'm still working on that. But somehow I think it'll work itself out in the end.

By the way, did I ever mention my name means Wealthy? It does. And I think now and forever, it fits.

America

2008-11-05T11:48:00.000-08:00

"Perspective on Tomorrow's Election"

Yes, we did produce a near perfect Republic.

But will they keep it?
Or will they in their enjoyment of plenty,

lose the memory of freedom?
Material abundance without character is

the surest way to destruction.

Indeed, I tremble for my country when

I reflect that God is just.

-Thomas Jefferson

Late(ly)

2008-10-20T16:38:00.000-07:00

A few things have been keeping me busy recently...

And the people keeping me busy. (Just replace the three guys in the back with Reid, Ben, and Tracy, and you've pretty much got it!)

Momma's anniversary dinner. I have incredible, incredible friends.

I don't really drink beer. But I needed one that night. (Everybody seemed to enjoy that very much)

This was the state of my refrigerator for about a week. I'm not ashamed. Sometimes the grocery budget's a little slim and you've got to live in baked beans and parmesan cheese for a bit. (That Redi-Whip is not mine. ...Not that there's anything wrong with that. And the bananas were for cupcakes... Obvi.)

Then I flew to Kansas City to surprise my best friend for her birthday. One word: AMAZING. Why am I not moving to Kansas City again?

Baby bear is growing so FAST!

Then I came home and have been drowning my ache for KC and BF with baking. Lots, and lots, and lots of baking...

Consider yourself updated.

Daily Doehle

2008-10-11T14:55:00.000-07:00

I just realized an explanation is probably in order...

My last name (Doehle), is pronounced like "Daily".

Does that clear a few things up?

(Pun-wise, I mean...)

Blondie's Blondies

2008-10-07T00:07:00.000-07:00

I've been nursing this recipe all summer, derived from this one at Culinary in the Desert, tweaking here and there until now, when I know- that I know- that I KNOW-- that this is The Best Dessert I've had in a long time.

White Chocolate Walnut Blondies

A sweet, caramel-ey blondie (the secret's in the maple extract!) with soft hunks of white chocolate and the earthy crunch of walnuts, this bar cookie is the perfect transition from summer's light sweets to the warm, gooey desserts of fall.

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
12 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon maple extract
1 cup white chocolate (chopped or in chips)
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped

Preheat the oven to 350

In a large mixing bowl, beat together butter, brown sugar and granulated sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, mixing until combined. Mix in the maple extract. Add the flour, baking powder, and salt, and stir until combined. Fold in the white chocolate and walnuts.

Line a 9" square baking pan with foil, overlapping the edges of the pan, then spray with nonstick spray. Spoon batter into pan and then smooth the top (the batter won't spread very much in baking, so try and get it pretty even). Bake until golden and puffed, about 30 to 40 minutes.

Allow to cool fully before lifting bars out of the pan using the edges of the foil. Slice into 12 squares (or 6, or 4, or just get a fork and a tub of ice cream and go to town...). Enjoy!

How do you say Doehle in Italian?

2008-09-29T22:15:00.000-07:00

Um. Can we talk about how I just found myself on the Italian version of IMDB...?

I mean... What?!?!

724 Days

2008-09-22T10:35:00.000-07:00

This is the time when everything starts to shake. My whole torso seems to shudder and vibrate with every shaky breath I take, pulsing in and out with grief. These are the times that make my head spin and my heart ache.

I was in yoga class last week, stretching and tensing my limbs in repetition in a darkened room. In the middle of class I suddenly found my body overtaken by intense sobs. One minute I was standing strong, arms stretched out, eyes locked straight ahead, the next I lay forehead pressed to the rubber mat, tears streaming up across my eyelids, through my eyebrows, and into my hair. Crying upside-down.

This is what it’s like. The grief just comes and hits hard and fast like a weighted blanket swung by someone very strong. Chest goes fuzzy numb and knees buckle. And then two hours later I’m fine. And by fine I mean “fine”.

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.
(C.S. Lewis, "A Grief Observed")

This time around I’ve found myself feeling the same familiar hustle, and looking desperately for an avenue to let some of this steam out. I want to work like crazy and busy myself up to try and match the frenzied pace inside. Last week it worked. But here I am on Monday morning and I’m realizing I can’t do that any more. This week is the countdown, the home stretch. One week until it’s been two years since my sweet momma stopped breathing. It hurts so much it’s almost sweet.

I still miss her so much.

And this week I can’t take that away, I can’t make it better, I can’t drown out the echoing throbs that ache for the innocence I once knew. They say that in a car accident it’s best not to tense up, but relax into the impact. This week I have to quiet my heart that’s throwing a fit to try and protect itself, and stretch out on this bed again and relax into the throes of grief.

This week I have to take it.

But this week also holds a new promise, a new hope. As I look back on the last two years, the past 724 days without my mom, amidst the piles of ash and burned rubble, I see restoration. I see the moment He touched my heart and opened my eyes to his goodness again. I see all those nights I lay on the floor, aching so deeply I thought I’d throw up, and my sweet Lord came and kissed my face and told me it would be okay. I see the night just a few weeks ago when I laughed for the first time since she died. Laughed… Not just a giggle or guffaw, but a true, honest, straight from my belly and toes and fingertips, so deep I cried, laugh! For the first time in a long time, I had tears that weren’t from pain. I didn’t know if that would ever happen again.

So as I’m laying here, still and throbbing, I feel hope rising. This week is the end of two years of battle, two years of war. This week marks the end of another year of pain’s dominion. This week I will remember my momma’s sweetness, her soft strength, her quiet wisdom and authority. This week I will remember all the ways my ravaged heart has been sewn up and kissed better by the one who made it. I will remember how he’s promised to restore me and “make all things new”. This week I will remember his faithfulness, and how it’s made all the difference.

It’s all going to be all right.

Love and Marriage

2008-09-16T15:12:00.000-07:00

I've always wanted to get married. I don't think it's very weird-- I'm a woman who was once a girl, and I was raised on Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and marriage has always seemed like this glowing white perfect ending, this sailing off into the sunset of life, all swathed in white organza and lace.

Even though I now know that's an illusion, a well-meaning figment constructed by romantics and idealists like me, there is still this gorgeous, powerful allure to someday being one half of Man and Wife. Marriage is love, forever. What's not to long for?

I recently read an interview with Charlize Theron where she was quoted as saying that she would never get married to longtime boyfriend, Stuart Townsend, because she didn't believe in marriage and "I want to know that I wake up to Stuart every morning because I want to, not because a piece of paper says so."

Immediately when I read it I knew I disagreed with it, but couldn't figure out why. I mean, it sounds romantic and free-- love unfettered by politics and law. What was it about this declaration of free love that felt wrong? As I thought about it throughout the day, I pondered my parents' marriage, my best friend who wed when we were both 18, and so many married people I know and respect. I thought about how I've always longed to be married, and can't wait to commit to be someone's other half for the rest of my life.

Marriage is the deepest form of human love. I truly believe that. And love is not affection, it's not infatuation, it's not an emotion or a feeling-- it's a state of being. It's an all-encompassing presence of heart that puts another person before yourself and honors them above all others.

When a man and woman get married, when they choose to spend the rest of their lives with each other and ask the state to stand as witness, what they are really saying is, "I choose you. I choose to love you even on the days when I don't feel like it, when the emotions aren't there, when you hurt me and don't treat me like you should. I choose you above all others. Because you are the most honorable, trustworthy person I know and you are worth loving. I give my heart to you in exchange for yours. And on those days when I really, really don't feel like loving you, I commit to anyway, because you're worth it. I choose to honor you with my love and my life, forever."

Someday I will stand facing the best man I have ever known and give him my heart. I will look in his eyes and hold his hands in mine, and entrust my entire self to him as he swears to always choose me. He'll give me his heart in return, and I'll vow to choose him, to honor him until the day I breathe my last. I will choose to love him, to be love to him, and he will choose the same for me.

We're going to be a great team. And I can't wait to meet him.

Ready for My Closeup

2008-09-15T11:22:00.000-07:00

Baby's gettin' a little press!

Tastespotting

Photograzing (My little cuppycake was on the Serious Eats home page all weekend!)

...and now Cupcakes Take the Cake!

This is the point where I act all low-key and humbly thank everybody for liking my cupcake so much... Screw that-- AAAAAAAHHH!!! I'm so EXCITED!!!!!

But no seriously, thanks for liking my cupcake so much. :)

Please sir, I want...

2008-09-11T14:15:00.000-07:00

S'more cupcakes!

What can I say? I'm getting a little adventurous... With September in full gear I figured this was the perfect time to compose a farewell ode to the waning days of summer. And what says summer more than chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers?

Soft, yellow cake enclosed around a sweet Hershey Kiss, topped with marshmallow cream icing, drizzled with hot fudge, and sprinkled with salted graham cracker crumbs. Amen.

S'more Cupcakes

CAKE:
1 1/2 cups self-rising flour
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
2 cups sugar
4 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
24 Hershey Kisses

FROSTING:
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1 cup marshmallow cream
2 1/2 cups powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
up to 1/4 cup milk

GARNISH:
1/2 c. hot fudge ice cream topping
1/2 cup graham cracker crumbs
1 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Line two 12-cup muffin tins with cupcake papers. In a small bowl, combine the flours. In a separate bowl, combine milk and vanilla. Set aside.

In a large bowl, on the medium speed of an electric mixer, cream the butter until smooth. Add the sugar gradually and beat until fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.

Add the dry ingredients in three parts, alternating with the milk and vanilla. With each addition, beat until the ingredients are incorporated but do not overbeat. Using a rubber spatula, scrape down the batter in the bowl to make sure the ingredients are well blended.

Carefully spoon the batter into the cupcake liners, filling them about three-quarters full. Drop one unwrapped Hershey kiss into each cupcake tin, pressing down slightly so only the tip peeks out. Bake for 18-20 minutes.

Combine butter and marshmallow cream in a mixer until well combined. Add sugar and vanilla. The mixture will probably be really stiff. If it is, add milk a little at a time until it's spreadable but still thick. If it gets runny, just add more powdered sugar.

Cool the cupcakes in the tins for 15 minutes. Remove from the tins and cool completely on a wire rack before icing. When cool, frost with marshmallow icing.

Then take hot fudge and warm it slightly in the microwave before spooning into a plastic bag (I like to use a product called "Hershey Bar in a Jar" that tastes just like a melted Hershey bar so they REALLY taste like s'mores). Cut off the tip and pipe in a little design on the cupcake. In a bowl, combine graham cracker crumbs and salt. Spoon onto cupcakes.

Consume in mass quantity.

Enjoy!

Mish Mash, I was takin' a bath...

2008-09-02T09:27:00.000-07:00

WOW! It has been so long. Forgive me, I've been running around like that proverbial headless chicken... Here are the highlights!

Home last weekend to visit Best Friend before she up and moves away. Looks like I'm going to be spending a lot of time in Kansas City.

On the drive home I got my very first flat tire. Here's how it went:

Rumble rumble rumble

Jostle jostle jostle

Get out of the car to check tires/ fluid

Rumble rumble rumble

Jostle jostle jostle

Turn radio up

BOOM

SWERVE

...

Call AAA

Crawl in the backseat and take pictures of feet for an hour

Made it home. This is Buster and my morning routine.

Note: I made those pajama pants myself in 8th grade home ec. Represent.

Big ol' goodbye party.

Spent some time with BF and this little nugget.

She's an incredible mom...

But seriously, how could you not want to take care of this guy?

We have quite a relationship already.

This weekend I shot a web-series where I played a homeless lady (totally shutting down your social filter is more fun than I should admit), went to the beach, had a big grown-up sleepover at a home with the biggest, most gorgeous kitchen I have ever seen, went to a football game and watched my alma mater kick some serious tail... Oh and did I mention I baked three batches of cookies and a chocolate layer cake in there somewhere?

That's just how I roll.

More soon.

Home

2008-08-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

Home for the weekend. Spending as much time with this guy as possible.

Be back soon.

Beautiful

2008-08-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

I spent a large part of my life somewhat to very overweight. Now I weigh a hundred pounds less than I did in high school and I’m baking cookies and cupcakes like flour is being discontinued. Sometimes I pass windows and mirrors and have to double take because I rarely recognize the blonde I see reflected wearing the same dress I am. Every once in a while when I’m brushing my teeth or checking the hem of my skirt, I catch my own glance in the mirror and have to stop and take myself in. It’s not a vanity thing, I don’t think, but more of an information-gathering exercise. “Oh, so my nose does that now… My eyes look different this way. My arm looks like that… Oh, so my legs look like this when I do that...”

I don’t feel like the chubby girl I was in high school any more—I didn’t even feel that size when I was that size—I feel like the very curvy, well-padded girl I was at the halfway point: fifty pounds less than when I walked across the stage to get my diploma, but still big enough to be “plus-sized” for several years. I feel like that girl every time I leave the house, every time I go to a restaurant, every time I enter a crowded room. Pretty but slightly ashamed.

But I think I’m coming to terms with it, I think slowly and ever-increasingly I’m coming to understand who I am and what I look like in this new body. Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed that I would EVER be the size I am right now. I dreamed and longed to be this exact size, but only ever in the deepest, most secret recesses of my heart and imagination because I thought there was no way it could happen. I honestly didn’t think it was possible unless I went on Survivor or something…

But now here I am, and things are not as I always imagined they’d be here in this daintier, bonier land. Men don’t approach me as much as I thought they would. In fact, I think I get less attention now than I did forty pounds ago. I still can’t wear a bikini. That sucks. It’s a little more uncomfortable laying in bed with my laptop now that my hipbones are more prominent, and unpadded chairs can only be occupied for a few minutes at a time. I get cold easier.

I don’t really feel like I’ve won.

Don’t get me wrong, there are many advantages to being a woman on the cusp of being underweight in our society… Right now I’m sitting in a painfully trendy café, and I know I fit in. My hair is curled, and my emerald sundress is pulled down off of my tanned, lean shoulders. I never have to think if I’m the biggest girl in the room any more, or wonder if a store’s largest size will fit me. Dainty little flip flops with wispy straps always felt ridiculous on my pillowy feet, and now a delicate gold sandal hangs from my pedicured foot… I can wear “skinny girl sandals”.

But sometimes I wonder what it all means. I think of all the people who slave away at the gym and read about celebrity diets and are practically killing themselves to be thin, to be beautiful, to feel what I feel… And it doesn’t seem worth it. This? This is what I agonized over for so many years? This is why I cried myself to sleep so many nights? This was the holy grail, and now I’ve got it and all I am is confused.

Nobody ever tells you this in Weight Watchers.

The victory that I’ve found, however, just comes back to all the truths I knew when I was bigger, but never allowed to sink in: that regardless my size, no matter what I look like in that dress or those jeans, I am beautiful because I am a daughter of the King. And better than I look in the perfect outfit, I am more stunning, more outrageously beautiful holding a baby I love, or talking with the old lady at the supermarket who likes my sweater, or sitting on the cold bathroom floor with my sick friend in the middle of the night. My heart makes me beautiful. My smile can set the world on fire. Not because of who I try to be, but because of who He is making me to be. And that is worth finding. That is worth seeking with all my heart.

I just wanted to be beautiful. And I think I’m getting there.

You Can Call Me Cupcake Anytime

2008-08-11T23:04:00.000-07:00

I made cupcakes for my friend Kate's going away bash last night.

Nothing I like better than a lap full of cupcakes. Well, I take that back... Money or shoes or a hot man would probably be better.

Beauty shots.

Coconut beauty. Sort of like the cupcake equivalent of a maribou scarf.

Cupcakes on parade.

Sprinkles!

Decorating remains...

Tonight

2008-08-03T21:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight my show is on. It premiered last week, but for the last seven days I've been hearing from all kinds of people about how I'm all over the ad for tonight's episode, and yesterday I finally saw it. It's beautiful. The shot I'm in is composed of the lead actress, and me poised over giant text that says "16 EMMY" (nominations). I screamed when I saw it (and when I asked my friend to record it for me... And the six times I've watched it since then). I'm so excited. So, so, so, so, so, so, SO excited.

When I first got this job everybody said, "Mad what?" "Man huh?" "Is that the one about the medical interns?" But now everybody in this town knows exactly what I'm talking about and I feel like I could bust a gut. My heart sings and screams like a 13 year old girl every time I see a billboard or a magazine cover, or hear someone talking about "The best show on television". I'm so proud to be a part of something so beautiful, so interesting, so good...

Tonight as I was turning the key to my apartment door, the thought flashed through my head, "I should call Mom and make sure she's watching it." *sigh* That seems to never go away. This inherent loneliness that somehow somebody's missing it. But then I hear her laugh tinkle through my heart, and she says, "Sweet girl, I've got it on REPEAT! You think I'd miss this?!" I love it when she cackles like that. And suddenly I feel whole again.

Tonight my face will be all over the hottest, most important show on television. No one will hear me speak, and almost nobody's going to know my name, but there I'll be. And whenever anyone looks back on this season, this episode of this beautiful, incredible show, they'll see me.

It's better than anything else I could've ever dreamed.

Golden Idaho

2008-08-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

We went. We celebrated. We ate huckleberry pancakes...

Here's some eye candy I took to document our trip.

Driving up to the lakehouse.

You know you're at the cabin when...

Happy 50 years, G&G!

Love,

This Spud's For You

2008-07-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

On the heels of my Facebook fast, you'd think I'd be holing myself up in my apartment, poring over a month's worth of pictures, messages, and comments, only breaking to go get meals suitable for eating in front of the computer... But I'm in the Gem State for some sweet (mostly internet-free, ironically enough) time with the fam for my g-rents' 50th anniversary. I'll take plenty of pictures, and eat plenty of potatoes, have no fear.

In the meantime, I had a really good hair day today and needed to share.

Bra straps + unmade bed= keepin' it real.

Miss you already!

30/30

2008-07-16T16:51:00.000-07:00

Today is the last day, the thirtieth day of thirty.

Almost five weeks ago I had a dream that made me feel a wee bit guilty about all the time and devotion I had been giving to Facebook and MySpace. I started thinking about how much time I spend looking at other people's lives, and how I so often use Facebook as an excuse for spending time with people, or as a way to dull my own loneliness.

So I decided to take a break. A 30 day break to be exact.

You see, I'm a computer nerd at heart, and have been known to squander hours and hours gazing into my giant mac screen, wandering through the epic maze that is the internet. I've always been especially fond of sites like MySpace, and now more recently Facebook, because in the quiet of my apartment, when it's just me in these four walls, I can talk and laugh and socialize with people I know and love. I can see pictures of what's going on in their lives, and have a place to showcase what's going on in mine-- I can even spy and read up on people I've just met and get the inside scoop in a perfectly private, non-confrontational, completely convenient way that requires absolutely no commitment or investment on my part... Voyeurism is always just a click away.

I haven't been on Facebook or MySpace for thirty days as of today, and I'm not going to lie... It's been hard. I've felt disconnected, bored, and lonely without my multi-daily fix of checking in with my group of friends. I've felt out of the loop when people talk about posted pictures, or mention an event whose invitation was circulated only on Facebook. Especially with my busted foot, I've been logging some serious hours flat on my back on the sofa, with only the computer and TV to keep me company. (I definitely almost cracked after a few nights of watching Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives for three hours straight... There's only so much Guy Fieri a girl can take.)

But it's been good, and much-needed I think... I've been much better about keeping my apartment (mostly) clean, got on a regular work-out schedule (which I've since tossed out the window to recoup and let my foot heal, but discipline is never a lost cause!), I've been blogging more regularly, and just generally feeling like I waste less time.

It would be untrue to say I'm not counting down the hours until I get to log back on tomorrow. I'm so excited to read my messages and catch up on pictures from all the fun events I've been to in the last month. I can't wait to see the baby pictures my best friend posted last week, and I've got my fingers crossed that some hot boy didn't try to contact me while I was gone.

Less than 7 hours to go... I freaking did it.

Built for Speed

2008-07-13T20:26:00.000-07:00

Found on a changing table in Alberta, CA (courtesy FoundMagazine.com)

(Please excuse the nasty word)

I'm totally with her on the anti "short" bus, and a "sense of ha ha" is pretty important... But I just can't even fathom what "built for speed" means.

Sprained!

2008-07-08T13:23:00.000-07:00

Last week I sprained my foot. It wasn't glamorous or heroic. I just fell down the stairs. Here are the (not so) gory details for your afternoon reading pleasure!

It all started with a headache. For almost the entire month of June I had been feeling really weak all the time-- always run-down, exhausted and tired, with no real strength to speak of. It started to get worse toward the end of the month, and I couldn't figure out what the deal was-- I tried to pin down when it began, and I noticed it was about 3 weeks into a new workout regime.

At one point I asked around and found out I had been doing way too much, so I took a week-long break and I really started to feel better... But when I started exercising again, albeit much less frequently and intensely, the exhaustion came back immediately! I was frustrated and figured it was something else so I kept working out, and kept getting progressively more tired and started feeling really sick all the time (I remember laying in bed one morning and feeling like I had been poisoned!).

Then last Sunday I was supposed to go to a prayer meeting after church before helping some friends move. I skipped the prayer meeting in favor of a little rest (don't judge me), but as I was leaving my apartment to meet my friends, my head was still light and foggy. I was slowly making my way down the stairs when all of a sudden my left ankle buckled, twisted and I fell, crushing my foot beneath me and sliding down several stairs on my right shin. Quickly, I grabbed the railing right before it turned into a full-on, head over heels tumble down the entire flight of stairs.

I sat there for several minutes feeling the pain starting to pulse through my foot, completely unsure of what to do. I lifted the right leg of my jeans to reveal some deep scrapes that were pooling with blood on my shin, and that's when I started to cry. I've never broken or sprained anything before, so I just sat there alone on my apartment stairs, holding my foot and thinking, "I don't know any of my neighbors... I live alone. Where ARE my neighbors? What is the protocol on this? Is that scrape going to scar? I don't want MORE scars on my legs!! ...Waaaah!!"

After whimpering and quietly howling for a few minutes I got up and limped back to my apartment where I peeled off my jeans and went to make an ice pack for my foot and leg. (As I poured the ice cubes into the plastic bag I kept saying, "Oh Lord PLEASE don't let my foot be broken! PLEASE don't let my foot be broken!!") I started to feel overwhelmingly like I was about to throw up, so I grabbed the bag of ice and a pack of frozen sausages, and hobbled quickly to the bathroom. I laid down on the floor next to the toilet and unsuccessfully tried to get ahold of my dad and a med-student friend of mine (holla, emoss!). I finally got ahold of another friend who was out of town, who quickly told me that she would find someone to come take care of me.

As I was laying there on the phone, tailbone pressing uncomfortably into the cold, stony tile of my bathroom floor, all of a sudden every inch of my body started to tingle and I felt all the strength drain out of my body. About twenty minutes later, the adrenaline fog momentarily cleared and I realized that someone was about to find me laying next to the toilet in my underwear with a Ziploc bag full of ice cubes and a package of chicken andouille sausages on my leg.

Gingerly I got up and reached into my hamper for a pair of cropped sweatpants right as my friend Stephanie showed up with a real ice pack and took amazing care of me for the rest of the evening... She looked up foot sprain care information on the internet, brought me water and painkillers, and even went out and bought me some chocolate pudding! What more could a sick girl want?

Chicken andouille sausage is way better as lunch than as a cold compress. Just for the record.

The next day I went to the doctor and she confirmed that it was just a sprain, and ran some blood work to see about the weakness that caused this whole debacle. Apparently everything is totally fine (except I have a slightly elevated bilirubin-- weird!). I think it may have to do with my body still needing to recover from the overtraining I did, so I've been keeping a very strict eating schedule all this week, making sure I'm getting enough protein at every meal, and I'm feeling WORLDS better.

So now I'm just sitting here, finally with the mental fortitude to explain the whole shebang, and all I have to figure out now is how long it'll be until I can strap on my four inch heels again.

Missing

2008-07-06T11:10:00.000-07:00

When I was little, Mom homeschooled my brother and I, and for several years into our early childhood, we weren't allowed to go get breakfast or watch TV in the morning unless we had cuddled with her first. Every morning we'd clatter into her bedroom and dangle our muffed-up heads over her face as we asked, "Mom, can I go get some cereal?" "Mom, can I get up now?" "Mom, I think Kitty needs me..."

"Just one quick snuggle..." she'd always say.

She'd pull us under the covers and bury her nose in our warm, fluffy hair and squeeze us tight. There's no real activity to cuddling, just resting and loving, so we'd tuck ourselves in tightly next to her, each on our own side, and lay there and let her warmth wash over us.

When I was five the local newspaper came to our house and interviewed me because I had written them a letter about how I thought they should do less stories about violence and more about cuddling. It was on the first page.

One of the last times I saw my mom truly alive (before the coma and respirator), she was in laying in her hospital bed as Dad and I sat and talked with her. I was really tired, so she pulled the covers down and invited me to come up and take a nap with her. There was not a moment's hestiation as I pushed the tubes and wires aside and crawled into her big, squeaky hospital bed. I laid myself down in the nook that had always been mine on those mornings at home so long ago, and tucked my now bigger head under her chin, resting my cheek against the soft skin on her chest. My legs dangled off the foot of the bed as she wrapped her arms around me and kissed my hair. We drifted off to sleep together that way, soft and warm and overgrown.

I don't think I'll ever stop missing that.

kitchenaid

2008-06-28T15:25:00.000-07:00

Wandering into my darkened kitchen last night, I headed straight for the fridge to sneak a midnight snack before bed. I passed the counter, sink, stove, and went to open the door to the icebox when my eye snagged on an unusual shadow lurking in the bowl of my pink Kitchen Aid mixer. My head jerked back to the counter where the jewel in my confectionary dower rests in all its glory, and peered into the deep silver bowl... This is what I saw.

It's enough to make a girl jump straight out of her nightgown! Or at least lose her cereal all over the kitchen floor. (And no, that's not a euphemism...)

I have no idea what in heaven's name it was, but he had these terrifying long red antennae and big red beady eyes festooned on his lanky, electric green body. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate some long legs, but six of them is where I draw the line.

After shrieking (and snapping a few pap pics... Natch.) I shuttled the whole thing to my bathroom window and attempted to heave his tiny green body into the open air. At first he was having nothing of it, but after I almost sent the entire bowl crashing into my neighbor's window he disappeared. Satisfied, I returned to the kitchen for my snack and went to bed.

The next morning I looked up from brushing my teeth to see my long-legged friend perched on the wall above my bathroom mirror. So I killed him with a sanitary napkin.

Don't hate. Obviously he had boundary issues.

But here are some pictures of other things that have come out of my pink Kitchen Aid recently that will hopefully erase the mental image of a spindly green bug being smashed to smithereens beneath an Always Overnight.

Cupcakes au natural.

Caramel and chocolate chip

Care for a cookie?

My Apartment is Cooler than Your Apartment

2008-06-25T10:25:00.000-07:00

I live in this cute little art deco style apartment building which contains 15 little studio apartments. I have a full kitchen, dining room (complete with little chandelier), a Murphy bed in my living room, and my closet isn't a closet but a dressing room complete with built-in vanity. My stove looks like something out of Leave it to Beaver, and the black and white subway tile in the bathroom is too charming for words. All my doorknobs are these little frilly acrylic things, and the vanity mirror has the cutest floral embossing at the top. Next to the mirror there's this little button embedded in the wall, and I've never been able to figure out what it was, but had sort of given up assuming it used to be an old-school electrical outlet for a vintage hair dryer or something.

Well, I ran into my neighbor at the gym yesterday and we were talking about our building when she said, "Well you know what it used to be, right?" Aghast and curiosity piqued I replied, "No!"

"It used to be dormitory style housing for young starlets being groomed by the big studios! ...Yeah! And you know that little button that's on your vanity? It was a buzzer they would ring when they were ready to have their hair done."

I mean... I'm never moving.

Rock and Roll

2008-06-23T16:30:00.000-07:00

I'm just going to tell you right now... This is going to get embarrassing.

Last weekend I went to see Get Smart. For one because the ads actually looked hilarious, and two because it was so hot outside it felt like walking around in a hair dryer. But I'm not here to talk about that. What I am here to do is make a confession.

I have a big, fat, cause-me-to-stumble crush on Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.

So there.

To be honest, Get Smart is the first movie he's been in that I've actually watched the whole way through. You see, when he first came off of the pro-wrestling circuit (have no fear, this entry will not include a confession regarding a secret WWF preoccupation-- just so we're clear), he had the Scorpion King and the Mummy Returns... Blah blah blah. What prissy teenage girl wants to go see those greasy testosterone fests? Not this one, I tell you.

Then came movies like Be Cool and The Rundown which, while perhaps more up my alley, I still never happened to see. Then one day I came home and flipped on the Tivo in expectation of watching the Barefoot Contessa marathon I had taped the previous night. However, as Tivo is wont to do, the channel had failed to change correctly when recording started and as I settled in on the sofa with my apple slices and cheese, I found myself facing the last 2/3 of Walking Tall.

Perturbed with my brother who had left the TV on another channel before the recording started, and annoyed with Tivo for creating a product that played with my affections so carelessly, I began to watch a few minutes of the movie just out of spite.

Thirty minutes later I realized I had no idea what was going on and hadn't been following the plot at all, I had just been staring at Dwayne Johnson.

Alarmed, I flipped off the TV and sat stunned, eyes wide as I slowly picked bits of apple peel out of my teeth and wondering if I was really just that taken with a former pro-wrestler. I mean, he's just this big and bulky and tan... OH MY GHAW- I TOTALLY HAVE THE HOTS FOR THE ROCK!

I tried to reason with myself... He does that weird eyebrow thing, remember? And he used to wear spandex in public! And remember that god-awful catchphrase of his, "Can you smell what The Rock is cooking?" Really, Jessica?! His name is DWAYNE! I mean, he's got that big, outrageous tattoo... Actually it's really gorgeous... AAAHH!!! WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?! I TOTALLY HAVE THE HOTS FOR THE ROCK!

I can't explain it. I can't tell you why I, miss "Food Network and Turner Classic Movies" and "Maybe MAYBE once a year SEES a man she thinks she COULD be attracted to", gets so twitterpated over a big lug who used to wrestle on TV. All I can tell you is that he seems to strike that perfect balance between raw masculinity and refined gentility. He could build me a fence, beat up my bad guys, and HANDLE me, but I could take him to a suit and tie dinner party and he would carry himself beautifully.

Plus he just seems nice. :)

Now for the love of cake, please no one tell my grandma!

5

2008-06-17T18:35:00.000-07:00

Auntie tagged me! So settle in with your favorite snack for a little light afternoon reading... Here goes!

Five things in my purse:

1. Bobbi Brown Lip Tint in Punch

2. A pink and green grosgrain ribbon from a present my Alabama mommy gave me

3. Tanning bed goggles (I haven't been to a tanning bed in two years-- honest!-- but for some reason these are still knocking around in my handbag)

4. My pale blue and gold crocodile Abas wallet

5. A seashell from my last weekend at the beach

Five favorite things in my room:

Romance.

Nightstand. (Journal, Bible, diamond ring, steel airplane...)

Love notes pinned to the wall above my bed sing over me as I sleep.

"His banner over me is love..."

Five things I've always wanted to do:

1. Be recognized as, "Hey, that's that actress..."

2. Eat a fried Oreo.

3. Slow dance with the man I love.

4. Lay on the floor of the Sistine Chapel.

5. Sing harmony with Coldplay.

Five things I'm currently into:

1. Wearing my crazy sixties work hair in public. I won't lie, I've been a little tempted to start teasing my hair on my days off...

2. Ditto with the control top pantyhose-- can I wear those to the beach?

3. The vegan caesar wrap at Real Food Daily.

4. Evening the tan on my shoulders.

5. Vive la Vida. Just... Just get it.

Five impressions of Auntie:

Glamorous. Sly and impossibly cool. Big, warm heart that you don't expect. Made me feel like I actually belonged in this family during those wonderful teenage identity crisis years... Just... cool!

Next is Six Quirks. Here are mine:  

1. There are only two foods that I absolutely CANNOT eat: figs and ginger flavored anything.

2. I've never owned a hoodie sweatshirt in my life... And I don't intend on changing that.

3. I have the type of handwriting I think should be used for writing love notes.

4. My mom used to call me all kinds of little nicknames... Jessica Rose, sweet girl, kitty cat... I miss that.

5. My red velvet cake is the best I've ever eaten. I'm not ashamed to say it.

6. I've had the same best friend since I was two. And she seriously still rocks my world with how wonderful she is-- I am OUTRAGEOUSLY blessed!

Pressing On

2008-06-09T23:27:00.001-07:00

What is it about feeling tired, getting run down, that makes your defenses and self-control come crumbling down as well? All this time I've been slowly getting tired, slowly getting more and more stretched, and as I faithfully put one foot in front of the other, each step a little softer than the last, I find my heartstrings being pulled by old, shut-out fingers. Tinges of longing hum ever quietly, stirred by glimpses of formerly closed doors as I walk along.

I know they're shut. I know what lies behind them isn't what I want, really. It wouldn't be good, it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be best-- I've been over this... But my slow, easy tired takeover leaves me longing for a rest in SOME room... Even if it's not the one I want.

But He's so good to me. And so I take a deep breath and press on, planting my feet with all the firmness I can muster, doing my best to lock my gaze on the road ahead. He'll give me my rest when I need it, and these doors, these rooms, these sealed lands and journeys are closed for a reason.

Please help me press on.

Recently

2008-06-01T20:32:00.000-07:00

Work has slowed... But life has picked up! I am a blessed, blessed girl to be as tired as I am from all the social events that have been happening recently. My heart is so full it's weary!

It's been birthdays galore in recent weeks, with one at the beach...

One on the pier...

And one on the patio (planned by yours truly) under the lights hung by God and man...

Birthday girl and I

Does anyone know what I'm doing here? I mean really.

You didn't think I could plan a party without doing the dessert, did you? (For the record, it was a strawberry rhubarb crumble)

emoss tried to get a ride to the dessert table... He wasn't havin' it.

I have incredible (blonde) friends.

It's been good.

So Necessary

2008-05-30T12:37:00.000-07:00

You should be watching this.

Dorm Life

Go. Go right now.

A whole gaggle of people I graduated college with last year made it and I'm freaking busting my buttons because it's so amazing. Don't worry, I won't steer you wrong...

Athletique

2008-05-27T23:16:00.001-07:00

I am not an athletic person. I never have been. Growing up homeschooled, our version of P.E. was a few rounds of "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" led by my mom in the living room. (Athleticism was never really her thing either, obv.) In fourth grade I had to pass the President's Physical Fitness test, and trained for weeks at the park by my house to run a mile, do the V-sit, and hold a pull-up for 7 seconds (note: I just checked the facts on this... SEVEN seconds?! Man...). I remember one evening on the playground with my parents at the monkey bars, preparing for the aforementioned extended pull-up.

After several of my unsuccessful attempts to keep my chin above the bar while my dad looked at his watch and counted down the seven seconds (note: I swear it was longer when I was younger), my mom decided to try and engage my mental strength in the hopes of it somehow carrying over into my physical reserves. As I dangled there, legs flailing and complaining that I couldn't do it and just wanted to go home, she said, "Okay sweetie, this time just pretend there's a brownie up there!"

Yeah.

This is one of those moments where my adult self looks back on a situation and goes, "Did she really just say that?!" Sort of like when you all of a sudden remember your dad flipping pancakes in his underwear, or realize Aunt Barb had scotch, not iced tea, in that glass all those years... Idyllic childhood memories all of a sudden become vaguely tainted with adult realizations. I know it frustrated the hell out of me at the time, and I really, really tried to picture a big, square, fudgy brownie resting on top of the peeling paint of those iron monkey bars, but all I kept thinking was, "Forget the brownie and just let me GET DOWN!"

When I was even younger, my parents enlisted me in a community tee-ball league (my one and only foray into the world of extracurricular athletics) which basically involved me standing in left field picking daisies and making ponytails through the back of my hat while stray balls occasionally bounced past me. I couldn't catch (or throw for that matter), and had absolutely no interest in baseball, so why would I try and go after the ball? In an effort to improve my confidence in the outfield, my mom pulled me aside one afternoon for an easy game of catch. After several fumbled softballs, she went to throw the ball again and said, "Now this time, pretend it's a pink diamond!"

Lord help me.

Is this explaining anything? It should fill in a lot of gaps for some of you.

Needless to say, this only worked for a few minutes before I realized I was just as bad at catching a pink diamond as I was a big ugly softball.

I've come to the point now where I've just accepted it. Athletics are not something I yearn to be good at-- I'm not one of those girls who looks good in sweats and a baseball cap, I'm much more at home in a cocktail dress or even a pair of good jeans and a clean white button-down... I'm better at baking than baseball, and that suits me just fine. But seriously now, can someone just teach me to catch?

Beeep

2008-05-23T18:02:00.000-07:00

Currently low on fruit and clean underwear. (There's a Fruit of the Loom joke in here somewhere...)

Update soon.

Today

2008-05-16T23:55:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up with "Gaston" from Beauty and the Beast on full rotation in my head.

"... five hurrahs! Give twelve 'hip-hips!', Gaston is the BEST and the REST is all DUH-RIPS! *deep breath* ...Nooooo ooooone fights like Gaston...!"

I mean. I don't even know how to explain that.

Anyway, I hurriedly dressed myself and got ready to go shoot a pilot for HBO about bikers. Um. Okay. When I got the call from the casting agent at 10:00 last night I was a wee bit standoffish about the whole thing, but whatever-- she's the casting agent, surely she knows what she wants right?

*just in case you forgot, this is what I look like:

Um. What about me says biker? I'm just wondering...

Well, I showed up this afternoon as the mercury climbed to a staggering 107 degrees at this big dusty field in North Hollywood. As other cast members began arriving it immediately became clear that they were NOT actors... These were real, legit, straight-off-the-street bikers and there were hordes of them and only one of me.

It was sort of like that game on Sesame Street-- you know, "Which of these things is not like the other?" There I am in my J.Crew jeans and fitted black tank top (the only things I own that seemed even REMOTELY biker-ish), surrounded by leather chaps and sequined bandanas and spandex bell-bottoms with red and orange flames from hem to waistband (no joke). Oh dear.

So I spent my day sitting in a dive bar the still, oppressive heat of the San Fernando valley, surrounded by more bikers and "old ladies" than I have ever seen in the entirety of my life-- let alone at once-- wearing a pair of (wardrobe-supplied) cut-off shorts and drinking a fake beer while listening to a fairly talented cover band sing Janis Joplin over, and over, and over, and over...

There was enough leather in that room to strangle every single PETA member from here to the nearest polar bear reserve, and I listened to all these bearded men talk about police corruption and so-and-so's brother who got his hand broken by some dudes on Bourbon Street, and badass Kim let me borrow her hot pink lip gloss. I really feel like I earned a little street cred when one of the old weird guys at the bar asked me to pose with him on the back of his bike. Slightly skeezed, but proud. (Sort of...)

Tomorrow I'm going to a ladies' luncheon and then must bake a three-tiered birthday cake. Clearly much more my speed.

From a secretary in 1962 to biker chick to ladies' luncheons and birthday cakes. I mean... Is this really my life?

Mother's Day

2008-05-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

I miss her. Every year I think it’s gotten better, and then that shake comes back—the one that rattles deep in my soul and shakes its way up to the base of my neck, catching my breath and spinning me into a quiet frenzy. Dizzy and alone I sit with nothing but the sick ache in my chest to keep me company, no sound or noise registering but the dull throb that pulses in the soft tissue around my heart.

Oof.

July, 2006

It is these times that I miss her the most. Times when “Mother” is plastered in every shop window, every spam e-mail, every greeting card headline… Mother. Even her name is soft and comforting.

I remember after she died, I flew with Dad and Brother to Hawaii, her favorite place, to shake what ashes remained of her human form over the crystal blue tropical waters she loved so much. Sitting in the airport on a layover from one island to another, I caught sight of a family encamped in the row of chairs across from me. Father, Mother, and two daughters sat in their shorts and sandals, bags and magazines and colored iPods spread out over several chairs. The girls played with each other occasionally, but mostly the eldest sat with her headphones in her ears while the younger asked Dad for money to buy M&M’s, if she could go to the bathroom, how much longer the layover was, and if Mom had remembered to pack her favorite My Little Pony. Busy and dizzy with anticipation and boredom, she finally settled in the seat next to Mom and laid her head in her lap. She laughed and talked and haphazardly ran her hands up and down her mother’s legs as Mom absentmindedly stroked her hair while reading a magazine.

Something about the scene hit my heart, and suddenly the back of my throat became very tight. Stinging, stinging eyes, and tears I tried to hide by tilting my head back so they would only have to roll the short distance across my temples until they were out of sight, lost in the forest of my hair. It seemed so familiar. So easy. So average and normal that it hurt like a knife coming out. Probably the way a permanently injured athlete feels when they watch the game they can never play again, or what rushes through an amputee when they go to buy pants. Loss afresh.

I watched this little girl with her stringy hair and bunchy shorts strewn across her mother’s lap, and her mother’s calm, tired face as she ran her hands through her daughter’s hair, and the thought came: “Don’t take it for granted. You may not always have this—this ease, this thoughtless love, this perfect informality. Don’t take it for granted!”

But then even quicker I thought, "But isn’t that the benefit of a mother?" Isn’t that the built-in perk to the relationship? It is so deep and permanent and constant and unchanging—the most lasting, eternal bond we will ever know… Isn’t part of the greatness of the relationship that we GET to take it for granted? The way that the sky is blue or the sun rises in the morning-- it is and was forever. It’s something good you can always rely on, and a blessing don’t have to think about. There are other things to write thank-you notes for.

No, as I sat there I realized the real beauty of what I was seeing was the fact that this excited, bored, restless little girl could sit and laugh and talk with her mom, and never ever have to think twice about whether her mother loved her or thought she was special or wanted to spend time with her. She could just exist in her mother’s love, and not have to apologize for it.

Sunday is a special day. It’s a day when children across the globe honor and thank their mothers—their suns, their blue skies, their eternal love. That day, more than any other day we are encouraged not to take our mothers for granted, but instead to acknowledge their tireless efforts and many sacrifices for our good. I cannot tell you how I wished I had a reason to buy a card this week. How I would love to see my momma in church wearing the corsage my dad would have picked out for her, and sit across the table from her at brunch in the afternoon. How I wish I could whisper, "I love you, Momma," in her ear one last time. She was an incredible mother, and she deserves more honor than she received.

But more than anything else, more than all these things, I wish she were here to rest my head on her lap. To squeeze myself into the little nook in between the back of her knees and the back of the couch, and curl up on top of her as we watch American Idol or some other guilty pleasure TV show of hers. I wish she were there on her sofa when I come out into the kitchen to get my breakfast, reading her Bible and drinking her coffee in the morning sun. I wish she was here to tell all about my first day of work and how I feel like I screwed up that relationship, and how do you tell when a mango is ripe again? I wish she were here to say, “I love you,” as we get off the phone…

I wish she were here so I could take her for granted. And I don’t regret a single day I did.

November, 1990

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma. I love you.

I'ma Let You in on a Secret!

2008-05-06T21:20:00.000-07:00

So I started my new job three weeks ago tomorrow, and at the risk of balling up into a big giant wad of cliche, it's been a whirlwind. Things have been slow to start, so I've only worked one day each week, but it is amazing how much I've learned and picked up in just a few days. The first thing that truly struck me after being on set was how incredibly efficient, professional, and generally polite everyone was. I mean, I guess I shouldn't have been shocked-- it IS a Golden Globe award-winning show. But the sight of this big group of people, all accomplishing their designated tasks and moving with an efficacy that seemed like pieces of clockwork was just a wonder to behold. Amazing, really. I've made a few blunders, but hopefully nothing to drastically mar my reputation-- I just dust myself off and kept moving. *gulp* Generally I just try to stay as quiet as possible and not get in anybody's way (which can be a little tricky when you're ALSO trying to ham it up and get some camera time)!

There are so many little technical things that nobody tells you about in school. All this time I've been spending hours moving from the center of my body and learning about scansion (which really IS helpful), and nobody tells you what a second A.D. is or why you'll get yelled at if you head straight for the food line at lunch time. And let's be real for a second... If anybody on set ever saw me shaking sound out of my leg, I'd be INSTANTLY demoted to "the girl who is always in the back".

Therefore, in the event that you ever find yourself working as an actor on a TV show, I've compiled this random list of:
Things You Might Want to Know to Look Like You Know What You're Doing Until You Actually Figure Out What You're Doing

aHEM!
(This list is ongoing, and by no means all-encompassing)

1. Segregation is alive and well in television. Crew only talks to crew. Stars (aka: Principals) only talk to stars. Background only talks to background. The only interlopers are hair and makeup people, the props guys, costumes, and the occasional PA. Any other attempt at cross-genre communication will be met with surprise and a pat answer before they look at you funny and walk away stiffly. (Thusfar I have not been dissuaded. I'm considering staging a sit-in at the lighting guys' lunch table next week... This may or may not have anything to do with the extremely hot man who works in lighting. I'll keep you updated.)

2. Any and all food set out by the lunch or craft services staff CANNOT BE TOUCHED FOR ANY GOD-GIVEN REASON UNTIL EVERY SINGLE CREW MEMBER HAS EATEN. Otherwise you will find yourself on the receiving end of some very, VERY nasty looks and some pretty dirty comments. Just stay away and gnaw on your hand until the last grip leaves the food table. Trust me.

3. Speaking of eating, you will find yourself privy to more food on a constant basis then you have probably ever had access to in a week, let alone a day. The holy and anointed ones (aka: the craft services team) will keep their table stocked at all hours of shooting with a vast array of snackables. Sample wisely... You still want to fit into your costume tomorrow.

4. Any and all odd behavior exhibited by principal actors is to be absolutely disregarded and undiscussed. This includes yelling, making loud "pip, pop, POW" noises, jumping around, singing suicidal songs at the top of their voice, making stupid jokes that use the "F" word over and over again, et al. Any obtrusive, annoying, or unsociable behavior is to go unrecognized and is never, EVER to be discussed. It is simply to be considered "part of their preparation".

5. Oh, and the really gorgeous lead actor who is somehow even MORE gorgeous in person and you can't even look in his direction without losing your breath a little bit...? Well. Uh. Just enjoy it I guess. :)

Thousands and Thousands of Words...?

2008-04-29T17:31:00.000-07:00

This took way more time than it should have. Way more time.

Here's what you do:
1. Go to flickr
2. Type your answer to each question in the "search" box.
3. Using only the first page, pick an image.
4. Copy and paste the picture to your blog.
Enjoy!

1. What is your first name?

2. What is your favorite food?

3. What high school did you go to?

4. What is your favorite color?

5. Who is your celebrity crush?

6. Who is your favorite Disney princess?

7. Favorite drink?

8. Dream vacation?

9. Favorite dessert?

10. What do you want to be when you grow up?

First Day

2008-04-24T21:28:00.000-07:00

First Day of Work, as Told by My Hair: a photo essay.

Leaving for work, day 1: Buttcrack o'dawn. Got my pin curls ready for the girls in hair and makeup to mess around with. Please also note the thick layer of pale, matte foundation. Can a girl get some CULLAH?!

Home after work: 1:24am. Tight pin-curls have been transformed into a lacquered shroud that is surely nearly bulletproof. This is my tired/happy face.

The morning after. Bulletproof cloud of hair has seemingly grown in volume overnight. Subject so alarmed, photo documentation is required despite a complete lack of makeup.

On to day 2...

Home

2008-04-21T18:37:00.000-07:00

I went home this past weekend, for the last time in I think a very long time.

I got to see one of my favorite boys off for prom.

We are a dream team.

Taught my favorite mini-me nephew how to bake strawberry shortcakes. (And by "taught to bake" I mean, propped him up on a stool next to the counter and watched him scream with glee as he pressed his face to the side of the mixer and the whipped cream splattered his face.)

I mean, just look at his faux hawk-- how can I not be in love?

Visited with another one of my favorite boys for the first time since he was born. Call me biased, but I think my best friend has the cutest babies.

It should be noted that approximately two seconds after this photo was taken, Nathaniel threw up all over himself. It should also be noted that this only happened after I turned him away from me. Thus I attribute his slightly pained expression here to the holding in of his little baby vomit so as not to spew all over my cashmere v-neck. Clearly manners are already his forte, little dear...

And that's what he has to say about that!

Trying the "anti-pap" face on for size.

Baby, baby.

Okay, enough of my favorite boys (just call me Mrs. Robinson)-- I also found a few gems in the old family photo album...

My (third? fourth?) birthday party with my best friend. For the record, hers is the gorgeous baby you see above. Yeah. I can't believe we've been friends this long, either... But I'm SO glad.

Less than a year old, with Dad, Aunt Nannette, and Mom... Can you believe how cool my aunt is?!

I also found proof that my love for all things domestic started young... Baby Betty Crocker, in tha' HOUSE!

And there we have it!

Oh, and one more thing... I got a new job that starts on Wednesday. You might want to keep an eye out for a new six foot blonde on Sunday nights... :-)

The Spell

2008-04-13T23:52:00.000-07:00

I know this isn't a real post, but something needed to be done with this...

To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter. He had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of breaking the spell.
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Someday. Someday the spell will be broken.

Food

2008-04-07T16:02:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it here (though you've PROBABLY picked up on it... Was it my paragraph-long description of the perfect bowl of cereal that gave me away?), but I have a deep, true love for good food. I like eating it, making it, talking about it, reading about it, watching other people make it, watch other people talk about it, watch other people eat it, look at pictures of it... Eating is required on a physical level for our bodies to subsist, but we are more than physical beings, and I truly believe a good meal feeds more than just our cells-- it feeds our hearts, our imaginations, our memories, and our ideas. What is better than good food?!

Breakfast.

In this age of Clif Bars and protein shakes and trying to figure out what the right carb/ protein/ fat ratio we should be eating for "optimal performance" (whatever that means), whatever happened to eating to sustain AND please our bodies? I've discovered that if I really just allow myself to be still inside for a moment, my body will tell me what it needs. Whether I've been on a long walk, and a pulpy orange, heavy with juice that runs down my wrists is what I ache for, or I've been sitting behind a desk all day and nothing sounds better than a big bowl of cereal (with extra nuts!) as I curl up on the sofa, or it's my birthday and nothing but a big slice of chocolate cake will do... I love my body, and my body loves good food. So I try to listen.

Sometimes, Deep Dark Chocolate Cheesecake is all that will do. For a full week I had been wrestling with a craving for the deepest, darkest, most intense chocolate THING I could get my lips around... Thus, this momma of a cheesecake was born.

I made this quinoa salad today. Quinoa has become pretty trendy among the health food crowd recently because of its status as the only grain that is also a complete protein. I love it because not only does it treat my body well, but its nutty, silken pearls are the perfect backdrop for some really yummy add-ins. I whisked up a white wine vinaigrette, poured it over the steamy quinoa, tossed in some feta and almonds, and a truly fantastic lunch was born.

Jessica's Mediterranean Quinoa Salad

Cool, tangy feta resting in a bed of warm, oily quinoa with the salty bite of roasted almonds, this salad would be the perfect accompaniment to a Mediterranean-inspired dinner. But I think it's perfect on its own.

1 c. uncooked quinoa
1/4 c. white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 c. olive oil
salt and pepper
4 oz. feta cheese
1/4 c. roasted, salted almonds

Rinse quinoa under cold water until water runs clear. Then put in a medium saucepan with 2 cups of water, and boil. Then reduce to a simmer and cover until quinoa is translucent-- about 15 minutes. Set aside.

Combine vinegar, mustard, and sugar in small bowl. While whisking constantly, SLOWLY add olive oil in a constant stream until completely combined. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Pour dressing over warm quinoa, and stir until absorbed. Cube feta and toss on top with almonds. Serve warm or cold. (Serves 4 as a side, or 2 as a main dish.)

Tide Turner

2008-04-01T01:27:00.000-07:00

There are things about my childhood that come back to me in pieces. Moments like broken shards of life that I seem to catch in my feet as I walk along, suddenly registering and sending long, stinging flashes through the flesh of my memory.

I remember standing against the wall in the hallway of the dirty home I grew up in, little brother trembling beside me as Mom let us have it one afternoon. I remember gritting my teeth, refusing to cry, refusing to show emotion as, out of the corner of my eye, I saw hot tears stream down my brother’s chubby pink cheeks. Fear turned to anger as I had suddenly had enough of my mother’s tirades that day. Mouth pressed in a thin, hard line, I silently dared her to yell more. My eyes burned with hot defiance as I stared at her, knees locked, absolutely refusing to show that I had been moved. I can feel the vaguely damp carpet beneath my bare feet, and the tension gripping my locked knees and the rod of boldness shooting up my back. I can hear my brother’s soft, childish whimpers as he shakes next to me in fear and sadness. My palms are pressed against the wall. And then abruptly it all goes black.

Why does this moment all of a sudden come back to me? Where did this tiny pocket of time come from? It’s always been there—memories don’t leave, they just lower themselves into deeper pools of the soul—so what does that moment say about me? And what, I wonder, did it change in me?

It probably shocks you to hear me talk about my mother in such a way—my beautiful, wonderful, wise and sweet mother who I miss so terribly and am soul-achingly blessed to call my own. But just because someone dies a sad, sweet death doesn’t make them perfect, and my serene and thoughtful momma was not always so. I remember a lot of yelling when I was younger—outbursts at things I can’t even recall. I remember her throwing a butter knife in the kitchen when I was very small, explosions in the car when James or I hadn’t done our schoolwork like we should… Pockmarks on the canvas of my childhood. As I got older, she changed, softened, became more whole. The yelling ceased. If you had asked me about early memories with my mother two years ago, I would have answered that our childhood was quiet and uneventful. It’s amazing what reform can do.

In recent days as I’ve built up the courage to read through her private journals—writings she started when she was only three years older than I am today and lasted over the course of several brilliantly bound books through the days she breathed her last—I see a woman in battle, a tender, aching woman who wanted truth more than anything, and healing above all. She was a woman walking upstream, the majority of her life spent fighting the lies and abuse and curses she inherited as a child, and she did it not only for her own good, but for mine.

Years later, I remember sitting across from her at a rickety iron table in a strip mall by our house, her napkin laid across the metal grate between us as she took a pen and illustrated how all the trauma that had been passed down through the long lines of her family stopped with her—it didn’t belong to me, and had no authority in my life. And I remember squirming in my chair, rebellious adolescent blood coursing through my veins, just wanting to get out of the awkward, scarring event of being forced to sit with my mom in public. But now I see that she was right. She fought for me, and it stopped with her. The ugliness I saw seep out of her early on was only the lies and brokenness that had been bred in her heart throughout her life being drawn out like poison from a wound. All the pain I saw her endure all my life—like she was taking blows from invisible adversaries—I now see as waves crashing over her as she stood between us and the deluge of lies that sought to consume her. My mother was a turner of the tide.

Now when I look back on all the things that stab at my memory every once in a while—the painful, ugly things that hurt to remember—I see with new eyes. I see that hearts can be broken, but they can also be put back together again. I see that even the deepest of wounds can be sealed up and restored. And I know that above all, there is always, ALWAYS a fresh start worth fighting for.

I am the trailblazer.

Brain Thoughts

2008-03-27T17:21:00.000-07:00

So I'm watching Barefoot Contessa right now, and Ina Garten is slicing up spinach and gruyère puff pastry rolls in her big gorgeous Hampton kitchen in preparation for an art show for a friend. I mean... who LIVES this way?! And who ARE all these people? And who has enough money to buy such outrageously large logs of cheese to just... have around? Oh yeah, Ina Garten.

I don't really have anything particularly enlightening or intellectual to say today, but some things have been whirring around in my thinker for the past little bit, so I thought I'd share. Aren't you so glad you're here? ;-)

First of all, I bought a microplane zester a couple weeks ago and can I PLEASE tell you how it seems like the whole world has opened up since I got this seemingly benign little tool in my greedy little palm? How have I lived without this jewel in my culinary dower until now?! All previous personal cooking conquests seem archaic compared to the glory I have now that I can add zests to just about anything I want. Pancakes? A little orange zest is just what it needs... Creamy soup? Some freshly-shaved nutmeg will give it that certain something... Steamed lentils? A drizzle of olive oil and some lemon zest would be perfect! I mean, seriously. If you eat, get thee to a Sur la Table, post haste! You have no idea what you're missing.

Speaking of pancakes, this is one of my favorite movie scenes of all time. The look on Macaulay Culkin's baby face at the end just makes my heart sing.

Also, will someone please buy these for me? I wear a size nine.

Or this:

The picture is PAINFULLY boring, but rest easy-- it is much cuter on... Oh, and I'm a size 4.

I promise I'll send you cookies and sing your praises.

Also, I think I'm due for a reeaaaally good dinner. It's sort of like how every once in a while you just need to be kissed where you feel it down to your knees... Like, little friendly pecks and goodbye smooches aren't cutting it anymore-- you just need someone to lay one on you so your knees buckle, the hair on the back of your neck stands out, and your toes curl! (Not that that has ever happened to me, but every once in a while I get that feeling like I just need someone to make a woman out of me.) Anyway, I have that itch regarding food recently. Like all my meals have been good and filling, but they haven't quite satisfied that deeper, unctious, gut-stirring yearning for something truly fantastic and satisfying. Something's got to give.

You should be kissed often… And by someone who knows how!

(from...? anyone?)

And now I'll leave you with another of my favorite movie scenes. Because... "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." Gah.

Oh! And P.S., does anyone have an idea for a dessert that's appropriate for an afternoon softball game? I mean... Tea parties I can handle. Outdoorsy softball games? Not so much.

Missing It

2008-03-21T16:43:00.000-07:00

I've realized something about myself lately... More often than not, I posess a complete lack of skill when it comes to recognizing what's perfect for me. As I look back on my life thusfar, and think about gifts and blessings bestowed on me that truly mattered-- things that really make my heart sing-- they weren't things I even liked at first.

When I was very young-- probably four or five-- I came home from playing at the playground with my dad one day to find a three-story dollhouse sitting smack-dab in the middle of my little girl's bedroom with a Barbie bride propped up against the fading floral of my bedskirt. I was shocked-- Mommy had only just let me start playing with Barbies, and I had been wanting a Barbie house and Ken doll to make my domestic doll dreams complete. As I dashed toward the cardboard house (that wasn't actually a Barbie house, but some other sort of doll domicile), and fingered my new Barbie's frothy white wedding dress, the following words tumbled out of my mouth... The same words that still make my heart ache with selfishness and regret to this day...

"But where's the Ken doll? I wanted a Ken doll!"

Ugh.

Needless to say, my pre-preschooled mind didn't care to comprehend the fact that my mother had spent the afternoon out seeking a way to bless me, and wanted to truly blow my mind when she saw the big beautiful house sitting in Goodwill that afternoon. Despite our family's near financial destitution, she sacrificed somehow, because she hoped my heart would be delighted by this wonderful new toy. The off-brand Barbie sitting in a box of toys nearby seemed to be the perfect accompaniment, so she bought that too-- she just wanted to knock my socks off, and saw a way to do it. But none of this entered my mind as I squatted my chubby little legs and peered into the rooms of this new toy-- all I could think was, But it's not all I wanted. It's not complete!

I remember my momma being hurt and leaving the room after a while, as I sat and tried to make do with my seemingly incomplete blessing. But as the years wore on, that dollhouse traveled with us to a newer, bigger home, and that formidable structure-- probably three and a half feet tall with big white plastic pillars to hold up each level-- became one of my favorite toys and the focal point of my bedroom. Whenever friends came over, they always asked to play with it, and marvelled at how big and spacious it was compared to their own cramped, pink plastic Barbie pleasure-domes. It really wasn't until I was fully entrenched in pre-teen angst many years later that it made its exit to the garage play area (where visiting friends still continued to ask to play with it).

I missed it. I had my heart so set on wanting the complete package-- Barbie, Ken, house (is there a psychiatrist in the house?)-- that when something different showed up, I missed it completely. It wasn't until I gave up my preconceived hopes for what I thought would make me happy and started to interact with what had been given to me-- this huge, special, unique house that none of my friends had and that was way better than anything Mattel could ever manufacture and came straight from my momma's desire to delight me and nothing more-- that I realized this was what satisfied my heart.

It's happened over and over again since then, with more gifts, people, ideas, relationships... It seems like in every facet of my life I get blinded by what I think I want, when the blessing that will make my joy complete often gets placed, unnoticed, right in my lap. But here's the thing, I don't think I'm alone in this. Think of how many times you forgot to return that lame Christmas gift, only to realize how much it came in handy a few months later... Or how many times you turned down a prospective date, only to finally acquiesce and have a truly great time! What about when you didn't get that job or promotion or get into that school you reeeeaaally wanted, and discovered your true passion in the puddle of anguish you bathed yourself in?

I think the key is to stop looking up, and start looking here. I know for me it seems like my gaze can be so set in one direction, waiting impatiently and self-righteously for something to come along that meets my standards of happiness, that when something does come down the road and isn't what I had in mind, I push it aside and wait for my "real" blessing to show up. Joy doesn't always look the way we think it should. And thank God for that! I'm realizing that my Father loves me too much to give me what I think I want... And he knows I love surprises too much to let me have what I want, when and how I want it! He gives me what I need, what I truly long for. He made my heart, so only he knows how best to delight it-- and he does, if only I'll open my eyes and let him.

All of a sudden the world opens up... What joy is there hiding for me in my life as I know it? What unrivaled, perfect blessing is waiting for me in my everyday rhythms? What treasures lay in the shallow recesses of my existence, just waiting to be mined?

It's time for a new focus.

Moves

2008-03-18T13:06:00.001-07:00

Something substantial is on its way, but until then here's a little snack to tide you over. I mean... Who even has MOVES like this?!?!

Tagged

2008-03-11T18:46:00.000-07:00

Ack! I got tagged, and never responded! Better late than never... Here we go!

Ten (More) Random Things About Me:
(I'm running out of random factoids here... Yeah right. I have enough oddball qualities to fulfill a lifetime of these MeMe's.)

1. I really, really enjoy cereal. But I'm very particular about my cereal regimen. Generally I mix two, usually three, different kinds of health-nut cereal (some form of Kashi is always involved), add toasted pecans or walnuts or almonds, and drizzle with honey before soaking in whole milk. I used to do sweetened soymilk, but then I started reading that it's really, really bad for you... So I stopped. Sometimes if I'm feeling frisky I'll put a little dollop of cottage cheese on top as a sort of protein-rich garnish to swirl around with my GoLean. Mmm... I'm getting hungry...

2. I've never held hands with a boy. Or a man, for that matter. (But I've met less of those...)

3. I seem to be in a constant battle regarding the length of my hair. Right now it's just about shoulder length, and I'm trying to grow it out to at least past my shoulders, but there are days where I reeeeaaally just want to hack it all off and get back to this:

4. Dustin Hoffman kissed me on my twentieth birthday. I bawled like a freaking baby. ...And then he wiped my tears and gave me a hug. I mean... That's been a hard birthday to beat.

5. I'm pretty sure grocery shopping is my favorite kind of shopping. I mean, I feel like if someone were to give me an unlimited spree on Rodeo Drive that MIGHT trump my beloved trips to Trader Joe's and Whole Foods, but I don't know for sure... (Anyone want to help me find out the truth?)

6. I would rather worship than do anything else. But after that, I'd rather act, then be with people I love, then bake. That is my hierarchy.

7. I wish I were surprised more.

8. I wear earplugs every. single. night. when I sleep. You know those people who need a little white noise to rest easy? I am not one of those people. I sleep best when the environment is most like a vacuum of noise and light. Perhaps like one of those ocean-bottom-dwelling fish?

Speaking of which...

9. Ocean-bottom-dwelling fish FREAK. ME. OUT. As does the deep bottom of the ocean, for that matter. I can't even watch those National Geographic shows about submarines that go down and find buried ships... *shudder* Even the last scene in Titanic was a stretch...

10. I read about 50 food blogs a day via GoogleReader. I actually probably shouldn't admit that in public.

Okay, and now the really fun part! I tag:

Drea

Adric

Mike (leave yo' answers in the comments, boo!)

Nanny

and Daisy!

Aaaaaand, go!

Worth It

2008-03-07T15:24:00.000-08:00

"It's gonna' be worth it... It's gonna be worth it all."
-Misty Edwards

Something has come together.

My eyes have been opened, and I see His goodness, His gentleness and His joy. I see His rich love for me and feel the overwhelming weight of His glory-- and I am nearly sick with awareness of my own rebellious, prideful, adulterous heart. A bumper sticker I saw a few weeks ago read, "Life is beautiful." I laughed out loud in my car. I wanted it to be true, we all want it to be true... But it's not. Life isn't beautiful, life is pain.

But He is beautiful.

And He is worth it.

This incomprehensible, impossible, overwhelming treasure that has been stored up inside of me is worth all the pain my soul has known. And the promise of knowing Him more and getting to explore and discover more of my Lord's heart... It is worth it.

All the nights I cried myself to sleep, soul so deep and black it felt like pain was swallowing me from the inside out... All the days I walked around feeling like shattered glass-- one wrong move and everything would fall apart... Every morning I wake up and have to mourn her all over again because I get so used to her being alive in my dreams, and each tear that will stream down my cheeks on my wedding day when she's not there to kiss me and tell me how beautiful I am and sit next to my daddy as I am united in love... The moment my heart breaks as I grasp the air, reaching for her hand when I become a mother myself... All my pain and all my scars and all the wounds to come...

I am here to tell you that it is worth it.

This treasure is worth it.

He is worth it. He's worth it all.

Sick

2008-03-02T19:59:00.000-08:00

Whew! I'm back! Please pardon my extended absence... I've been laid out sick all week, which one would think would be just perfect for dreaming up all kinds of new and fantastic blog entries to type up and send into the blogosphere, but really has only been good for creating new and disgusting materials for adding to our world's landfills. Awesome.

Last Saturday morning (early afternoon if I'm being honest) I awoke with a wee scratchy in my throat, and a teensy bubble in my sinuses, and I knew something was a'brewin'. As I went through my day, I noticed watery eyes and lots of sinus pressure start clouding up my head, and I knew something nasty was on the horizon. But how and when did I get sick? I mean, it had struck so suddenly! Friday night I was out on the town, taking a fabulous cooking class feeling healthy as a newborn pup (those are healthy, right?), and then less than 12 hours later I was besieged with sickness! What on earth could have transpired? And then I remembered...

A week before I had been out to lunch with some friends after church, and this lovely man I'm just getting to know was sitting across from me. He's been recovering from the plague that's been sweeping the nation for the past, like, month, and we were all talking and laughing and eating and having a wonderful time when suddenly it happens...

My new friend is telling a story, and right in the middle of it, right as he's expounding on some important point and we're all listening attentively, everything slows and time seems to almost stand still. Suddenly the world dims and I see this teensy, infinitesimal little orb of spit leave his mouth. It's perfectly formed, tiny as a fleck of dust, but sure as the seitan tacos on my plate, it's there. As it leaves his lip, this droplet of disease begins to make its way toward me, its path making a perfect, golden arc, illuminated by the sunshine, straight for my face. I can't look away, I can't stop it, I can't catch it mid-air, all I can do is sit transfixed as it flies toward me through the air, a whirling comet of disease hurling toward me in slow motion. I watch it the whole time, frozen, but then I blink and it's out of my sight. And I know that I know that I KNOW it has landed on my bottom lip.

Time has now resumed just as suddenly as it slowed, and I am now back and sitting with my friends at lunch with a tiny droplet of my new, very sick friend's spit now sitting on my bottom lip. What is the PROTOCOL for such a situation?! Should I have daintily wiped it away? It was so small I could hardly feel where it landed! How does one account for screaming and crying for a disinfecting swab while furiously wiping one's lower lip for no apparent reason in the middle of a new friend's story? And even if I had, would wiping the microscopic, germy dot have done any good after it had landed and already started to seep its disease into my pores? I may never know.

Fast forward to a week later when I'm laid out on the sofa watching Throwdown reruns on the Food Network for the third night in a row, wondering if I've been this sick since I had pneumonia in seventh grade and trying not to think about how much effort it's going to take to blow dry my hair after I actually muster the strength to shower... Oh well.

I knew I was feeling better when I made myself some (freaking amazing, if I do say so myself) pancakes Saturday morning. Pancakes make it all better. Really.

Even being outrageously sick because someone else accidentally spit on you? Yes, even that.

Coming Together

2008-02-24T21:53:00.000-08:00

Something is coming together.

Something broken is starting to sing... This low, steady hum that starts in the pit of my chest and moves its bounce to my collarbones-- right beneath where I catch my breath-- and back again.

It didn't happen all at once, this coming together, this peaceful wholeness. But all of a sudden I reached down for pain and bitterness and brokenness, and it wasn't there. My fingers walked the outline of my heart, searching for the cracks and pits and black holes that have made up my life for the past two years... But I couldn't dig my hands in to the loose gravel that my heart has been. What I found as I tapped and reached deep for the old reliable bitterness and hurt was soft balm covering and filling in the jagged veins of brokenness, tender ointment covering the scars that remain of my once-shattered heart.

Something is coming together.

Equalizing Forces

2008-02-19T19:45:00.000-08:00

Note: The following is not deep, encouraging, enlightening, or otherwise intellectually stimulating in any way.

So. There’s this girl who lives in the apartment below me, and she is one of the few people in my building I’ve actually seen... She has this big giant dog that I see her taking out for walks all the time, and I can hear banging around in her teensy apartment during the day every once in a while (the dog, not her)... Anyway. She also has a SUPER hot boyfriend. He is truly one of the most legitimately gorgeous people I’ve ever seen up close… Breath-takingly gorgeous. “See-him-walking-down-the-hall-and-the-gasp-gets-stuck-in-your-throat” gorgeous. (For the record, she’s cute, but not THAT cute… Makes one wonder, you know?) ANYWAY.

It just so happens that approximately 9 out of the 10 times I see this gloriously hot man walking around my apartment building, I am looking SERIOUSLY SCHLUMPY. Now, lest you get the impression that I’m being overly humble, I’m not talking about, “Oh fiddlesticks! I forgot to put on my third coat of mascara this morning!” schlumpy. Oh no. I’m talking “This is the worst I’ve looked inside my own apartment—much less in public—in three and a half weeks, and I’m taking great pains not to look in the mirror because my self-esteem really can’t handle this kind of negative visual input right now” schlumpy. These are the moments that seem to cosmically draw Super Hot Boyfriend to me from wherever he is in the universe—almost some kind of equalizing force that senses the incredibly high levels of unattractiveness I'm registering and must bring supernatural hotness to my locale to balance things out. *le sigh*

Like, the morning I decide to dash downstairs to take out my three-week-old trash that smells like rotting fruit and old guacamole wearing my slept-in pajama bottoms and white tank top with the black bra showing through and unshaved armpits… POW! Really Hot Boyfriend is just getting in from his run around the block, and happens to be coming in the door right as I’m going out. Awesome.

Or the evening I’m getting back from my walk around the neighborhood, ratty, muffin-top-enhancing jeans and 3 year old sneakers on and my (unwashed) hair sticking to my (unwashed) forehead… KABLOW! Extremely Hot Boyfriend is doing his sweetie a favor and getting her mail right as I walk in. Great.

And then there’s today. No makeup. Deep, deep circles under my eyes from getting too much sleep last night. Hair looking like my cat did it with crazy sweat curls that have yet to see a brush making a Jerry Seinfeld-esque mullet against my neck while my bangs are curling into some sort of 1988 mall rat wave on my forehead, and the only reason I even CONSIDERED leaving the house looking this (truly) horrifying was because I was craving a kombucha REAL bad, and I figured the granola heads at Whole Foods wouldn’t care… (I was wrong. The checkout girl looked at me like I was homeless.) I’m walking up the steps to the front door, fingertips brushing the underside of my nose because I think I can feel a lurker creeping down the side of nostril #1, and… BAM! Super Hot Boyfriend standing in the lobby talking on his cell phone, stretching before heading out for a run.

Perfect.

What makes it all even worse is that he seems very sweet—he always flashes his gorgeous grin and politely says hello, and all I can do is blink my smudgy eyes and try not to smile so wide he can smell my (inevitably) unbrushed teeth as I try to figure out how to get upstairs, take a shower, put on a full face of makeup and come back down within the next three milliseconds.

This morning I couldn’t even look at him, but I felt his gleaming smile flicker at me as I hurried past him up the stairs, desperately fighting the urge to scream, “I’m hot too! You just NEVER see it!”

Ugh.

Love

2008-02-14T00:36:00.000-08:00

There's something about Valentine's Day that always makes me soft and velvety inside. I've never had a Valentine in the traditional sense of the word... Mom always made us little baskets like Easter preludes with a few chocolate goodies (always a Reese heart for me) and a little gifty tidbit inside. Sometimes I got flowers... There was never anything big or striking or extravagant, just a sweet little day marked by pretty little things.

In my teenage years, there were several Valentines that I despised-- a season when everything about the American landmark day for romance repulsed me... Always a true romantic at heart, I was utterly disgusted by the realization that the candy hearts and paper cut-outs and pink-wrapped Hershey kisses mass-marketed and filling my local Target's shelves were being equated with the grandiose, epic, soul-stirring force that is Love. The fact that February 14th is essentially National Date Night, how every man in a romantic relationship is societally obligated to buy plastic-wrapped chocolates and red roses at Safeway before taking his partner out to a reserved dinner at Black Angus, or otherwise shuffle his feet to jump a set of hurdles pre-set, stirred a deep loathing in me.

Deep. Loathing.

Apparently it still does, because I'm getting pretty grossed out.

I always said I'd NEVER ask or expect my beloved to do anything for Valentine's Day. I considered it an aberration of true romance to celebrate this commercialized bastardization of love and affection. "No flowers and dinner for me, thank you! I'll take it any other day, but not THAT day! Not when everybody else is doing it just because they have to..."

But then something changed. I don't know when, but there has been a softening in my heart to this heart of all holidays. Sure it's cheap and commercialized and preys on the emotions and expectations of people in love (and I use that term lightly... I sometimes wonder how many couples I know are truly in love). But just because this day cheapens love for so many, doesn't mean it cheapens love itself.

I don't know if I'll ever celebrate Valentine's Day with a man I love besides my father. But I'd like to hope that it would be a warm, soft day, full of easy surprises and lots of kisses. Not because the day dictates we should, but because it reminds us of what we know already... That we love each other. And want to care for one another. And want to delight the other.

Until that day I will enjoy my soft, sweet times alone... With flowers from Dad and a quiet dinner for one at my favorite spot. I'll sit at my table, velvety pink scarf tucked around my neck, and wait. And in that waiting know that I am satisfied. I am at rest. I am loved. I will eat my dinner alone and know that it is enough. The love I have is enough.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Goodness

2008-02-07T14:19:00.001-08:00

I just need to say how completely and utterly mindblown I am at God's goodness in my new spiritual family. Last night we worshipped, studied, prayed, and then talked into the wee hours. I didn't know church could be this good.

This must be what it's like to fall in love.

Just in Case You Wondered

2008-02-04T23:06:00.000-08:00

When my tall, gorgeous, cooler-than-the-ice-cream-in-my-spoon Auntie asks me to keep the quiz chain going... I answer.

Favorite Apple:
Honeycrisp (so crunchy it almost hurts). But a Gala will do.

Elvis, Costello or Presley?

Presley I suppose-- if only for the fried peanut butter sandwich association-- but to be honest neither Elvis really tickles me.

Last time you sent a letter (actually had to have stamp sent through the mail):
My dear, sweet, wonderful redheaded Alabaman mommy has her birthday this month.

Combine 3 men to make the perfect man:
Just THREE?! Okay... Okay...

1- Daniel Craig in James Bond

(strong, smart, brooding, exciting machismo with a touch of sensitivity. He could throw me around-- in a good way.)

2- Hugh Jackman

(charming but not sleazy, funny but not a dope, nice but not a goody-two-shoes... A perfect gentleman. And have you seen him?!)

3- Russell Crowe in Cinderella Man

(a strong but tender family man who would do anything to fight for his family and what he knows is right)

If you had a horse, what would you name it?
Ava Gardner

What time in the past do you think you should have lived?
I think I'm alive right now for a reason, but the 40s-60s would have been pretty great.

One place you would like to visit before you die?

The Sistine Chapel

I wish I would have written that:
"If I had not existed, someone else would have written me, Hemingway, Dostoevski..."
-Faulkner

If you HAD to BE a character from a Drew Barrymore movie, who would it be:
Josie Geller in Never Been Kissed. No. Contest.

What did you want to be when you were 10 years old:
A ballerina or a movie star.

Favorite line or scene from a movie:

Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Darcy coming through the mists in the early morning. I can't talk about it.

Or, "You are the champion of my heart." -Renee Zellweiger in Cinderella Man. Oy.

What are your signature colors?
Something about pink just makes me sparkle inside, but I think the champagne shimmer of my hair is my true signature color.

If the talent Fairy came to your house tonight, what talent would you like her to bestow?
Singing and dancing (for musical theater... or anything really)

The Escaped Inescapable

2008-01-31T12:17:00.000-08:00

There are nights when I drive down these city streets, stereo humming, lights on the street whizzing by, the whole world and nothing at all right at my doorstep. These are the times I think, “Whatever happened to that quite little life I never wanted?”

I press the accelerator down and listen to the steady rhythm of my tire tracks on the seams in the road—this bump, that bump, pothole, and again. The tendons of my heart, weary and slack-jawed from battle, seem to gaze with longing, lustful eyes at the life I once thought I couldn’t escape and now don’t think I’ll ever inhabit. A world of baby showers and tea parties and quiet nights spent at home. A world of 2+2=4, and get-togethers, and cooking dinner while on the phone.

It’s not that I don’t want to get married or have babies, it’s that the quiet life I always assumed I’d have is now clearly and utterly beyond my reach. Sure, I'd always had visions of great halls and magnificent journeys and seeing lands and shaking hands my friends at home had never dreamed of, but on these lonely nights when the boulevard stretches in front of me and I find myself weary from a hard-day’s fight, I think of what my life could have been. Quiet. Steady. Happy, in a confined sort of way.

This is not to say that my beautiful friends’ lives that are married with children and living at home aren’t full of unpredictability and adventure… I know their lives are great in their own way. It’s just different. Maybe I long for the days that will never come-- the days when I would get married right out of school and settle down and have our one bedroom apartment and go into the ministry, or have children and stay home and cook while the nice man who matches me goes out to work each day-- because I know I'm finally safe from them. All my life I squirmed and writhed at the idea that that life was inescapable, my wild heart chafed at the idea of walking into what I saw before me. “You need to be TAMED,” one woman said. I thought those days couldn’t be helped, and I nearly went crazy at the thought. Now I mourn for them.

All I’ve ever seen of adulthood are locked doors at night and one bedroom apartments and women as wives, and now I find myself in this distant land of studio apartments and auditions, feeling the labor pains as I birth this dream and destiny I’ve been carrying around in my heart all this time. I’m journeying to the kingdom, to the seat my Father has prepared for me. But there are moments as I’m wrestling through the thickets outside the palace walls, passion surging as I battle day and night against the legions that seem set against me, that my weary heart turns to home.

I can never go back.

More Introductions

2008-01-26T23:04:00.000-08:00

Okay, enough of that foolishness. Seriously, after such a long absence followed by clear evidence that I have too much time on my hands, I'm surprised there's any of you left here at all. But I'm so glad you are!

And since we're in the mood for introductions (you are still in the mood, aren't you?) I am gut-bustingly proud to introduce the latest love of my life, Nathaniel David.

While we have yet to meet, I spend so many hundreds and hundreds of milliseconds each day gazing into his dark squinty eyes, that I'm sure it will be nothing but magic when I get to kiss his dark and furrowed brow for real. Is it just me, or does he seem to hold all the secrets of the universe in his steely glare?

Man, I love babies. Scratch that, I love pretty happy babies that like me. And as of Wednesday, my best friend's babies.

I also love cake. But we covered that already, didn't we?

Greetings!

2008-01-22T21:49:00.000-08:00

Hi! I just wanted to properly introduce myself...

(The first few minutes are a real snooze-fest, but stay with me)

Desperate Desire

2008-01-15T18:29:00.000-08:00

More later, but for now...

Old Mister Kringle is Soon Gonna' Jingle...

2007-12-24T09:26:00.000-08:00

Home for the holidays.

Merry Christmas!

Good Day

2007-12-12T12:34:00.000-08:00

I had the best day I've had in a long time this week. It started out with a lot of giving, but as is His custom, I got back so much more than I ever anticipated. (AND it involved baking cookies! Which, if you remember, always brings me joy...)

Merry Christmas, neighborlies!

This is a recipe I wasn't expecting to thrill me, but boy howdy was I surprised! These warm, spicy cookies rich with ginger and molasses make the perfect companion to a steaming mug of tea. They're big and pillowy-- just substantial enough to qualify as the perfect mid-afternoon snack (or have two for dinner like me!).

Giant Molasses Spice Cookies

*Recipe adapted from Simply Recipes "Giant Ginger Cookies"

1 1/2 cups (3 sticks) butter, softened

2 cups sugar

2 eggs

1/3 cup molasses

1/4 cup honey

1 teaspoon vanilla

4 1/2 cups flour

4 teaspoons ground ginger

2 teaspoons baking soda

1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon allspice

1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice

1/4 teaspoon salt

In a large mixing bowl, cream together butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Then add eggs, one at a time, until fully incorporated. Pour in molasses, honey, and vanilla, and stir to combine. Slowly add flour, ginger, soda, cinnamon, allspice, pumpkin pie spice, and salt until just combined. Then shape the dough into large balls using a 1/4 cup measure. (They will be BIG!) Place dough balls on a cookie sheet and chill in the refrigerator for about 30 minutes.

While the dough is chilling, preheat the oven to 350 degrees. When ready to bake, place 6-8 balls of dough on an ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 12-14 minutes. After removing the cookies from the oven, let them sit on the cookie sheet for 2 minutes before transferring to a cooling rack. When cooled, dust with powdered sugar. (Makes about 20 cookies)

It's Christmas

2007-12-07T11:22:00.000-08:00

Note: The below entry is long. And sad. But so is a lot of my life, so if this type of thing scares you I'd just get out now... :-)

It's December 7th. 17 1/2 days until Christmas morning when I'll wake up in my satin pajamas and pull my big fleece robe tight around me, and pad down the hallway to the living room to open presents. Last year was the first Christmas without my momma. It was so bad. I mean, nothing cataclysmic happened-- no tree fires, no financial despair, Dad, Brother, and I were in perfect health. But with Mom gone, even the lights on the tree seemed dark.

Being the lone woman in this now three-legged dog of a family, I watched my male counterparts assume their usual positions for opening gifts on the sofas around the tree. But this time it was different. It was always a slight conundrum to see who would share a couch while unwrapping seeing as there were three places to sit, and four of us. Usually Brother and I each claimed a sofa, with Dad taking his throne in the big armchair and Mom would sidle up next to one of us kids, eagerly taking pictures in-between telling us the order we should unwrap (so we didn't open a "big" one too early in the game), and puttering to the kitchen to put cinnamon rolls in the oven. But not last year. Last year the three of us sat each on our own place, and the problem was no more. That sofa never seemed so big.

For the past two weeks I've been trying to figure out what's wrong with me. I've been vaguely sick every day (now I realize the result of an allergic reaction last week), but something in my soul has been off. Like my insides have got the shakes... I went from having some of the most intimate quiet times I've had in my life, to feeling like my spirit got bagged, beat up, and shoved in the trunk of a getaway car. Disoriented, shaking, not knowing which way is up and who or what I should be fighting against, I worked myself into a bit of an outside frenzy in order to try and quiet the storm inside, but nothing seemed to even come close to calming me down.

Then it hit me suddenly last night: It's Christmas. And I miss her.

"Is that all?" I thought, "I always miss her!"

But it's Christmas, my spirit pressed. Christmas.

Yes it is. It's Christmas. A time that is so precious and sacred in my heart because of the reverence and joy I saw my Momma take in it every year. Christmas. When piles of presents jumbled beneath the tree were more than just "stuff", but things my mom had spent hours agonizing over, often buying, then returning, then buying again, trying to decide just what would delight her family's heart the most. Christmas. When the house would smell like roasting pecans and closets were magic-filled danger zones where presents lurked... "Nobody go in my office closet! JESSICA- Don't open the third drawer of that cabinet!" Christmas. Oh, Christmas! How on earth could I think that this season could go by without my heart feeling yet another set of aftershocks from the quake that broke it over a year ago? How could I mistake these spirit-tremors for anything but the shivering of grief?

They say that knowing is half the battle and relief is what filled me when I realized the source of much of the chaos inside... I know grief. Intimately. I know how to open myself beneath its scalpel that lets poison go rushing out, I know how to subject myself to its searing iron that burns as it cleanses, I know how to lay as still as I can, broken dreams and dashed hope and wounded faith bleeding from every incision, gritting my teeth as the tears pour and my wounds are sewn shut. Yes, I know grief.

And it's Christmas. Another one I'll have to spend without my mommy. The second of many, I'm afraid. But I'm going to lay myself down on this workman's bench, and try not to squirm too much as my wounds are cleansed. Because He called me to this life, and I'm going to live it.

So as I light my Christmas candles this year, and bake batches and batches and batches of cookies as the scent of toasting pecans fills the air, I'll wrap my presents on Christmas Eve like I always do and think of her. I'll try not to compare the cold feeling that seems to have taken over our home since she left with the warm bustle I can still remember filling this house all December-long, and think about what Christmas in this new world can look like. It might not be full of joy for a long time, and that's okay. I hope. Because Christmas isn't about her, it's about Him, and this year, like every year, I'm going to try and remember that.

"I want so much for Christmas to be a beautiful and warm time when we feel God's closeness and worship Him for the hope and salvation He has given us. I want so much for my children to feel that, because it is the only true Christmas memory and 'tradition' that can remain unchanged from year to year. People change, circumstances change, finances change. Only the truth of what God has done for us and how much He loves us-- that never changes. In over 20 years of walking with Him, I have had just about every kind of Christmas. Busy ones, quiet ones, crowded ones, lonely ones, rich ones-- and many, many poor ones! But my favorite time each Christmas--and the setting is never quite the same-- is when I feel His presence, His holiness, His faithfulness-- and just have a quiet moment adoring Him. That is my true Christmas."
(Momma, 12/04)

May your days be merry and bright.

That's My King

2007-12-06T01:04:00.000-08:00

This is a transcript of a sermon by the late Dr. S.M. Lockridge, a pastor from San Diego, in Detroit in 1976. Something more personal will follow soon, but until then... I've got nothing to top this.

My King was born King. The Bible says He's a Seven Way King. He's the King of the Jews - that's an Ethnic King. He's the King of Israel - that's a National King. He's the King of righteousness. He's the King of the ages. He's the King of Heaven. He's the King of glory. He's the King of kings and He is the Lord of lords. Now that's my King.

Well, I wonder if you know Him. Do you know Him? Don't try to mislead me. Do you know my King? David said the Heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament shows His handiwork. My King is the only one of whom there are no means of measure that can define His limitless love. No far seeing telescope can bring into visibility the coastline of the shore of His supplies. No barriers can hinder Him from pouring out His blessing.

He's enduringly strong. He's entirely sincere. He's eternally steadfast. He's immortally graceful. He's imperially powerful. He's impartially merciful. That's my King. He's God's Son. He's the sinner's saviour. He's the centerpiece of civilization. He stands alone in Himself. He's honest. He's unique. He's unparalleled. He's unprecedented. He's supreme. He's pre-eminent. He's the grandest idea in literature. He's the highest personality in philosophy. He's the supreme problem in higher criticism. He's the fundamental doctrine of historic theology. He's the carnal necessity of spiritual religion. That's my King.

He's the miracle of the age. He's the superlative of everything good that you choose to call Him. He's the only one able to supply all our needs simultaneously. He supplies strength for the weak. He's available for the tempted and the tried. He sympathizes and He saves. He's the Almighty God who guides and keeps all his people. He heals the sick. He cleanses the lepers. He forgives sinners. He discharged debtors. He delivers the captives. He defends the feeble. He blesses the young. He serves the unfortunate. He regards the aged. He rewards the diligent and He beautifies the meek. That's my King.

Do you know Him? Well, my King is a King of knowledge. He's the wellspring of wisdom. He's the doorway of deliverance. He's the pathway of peace. He's the roadway of righteousness. He's the highway of holiness. He's the gateway of glory. He's the master of the mighty. He's the captain of the conquerors. He's the head of the heroes. He's the leader of the legislatures. He's the overseer of the overcomers. He's the governor of governors. He's the prince of princes. He's the King of kings and He's the Lord of lords. That's my King.

His office is manifold. His promise is sure. His light is matchless. His goodness is limitless. His mercy is everlasting. His love never changes. His Word is enough. His grace is sufficient. His reign is righteous. His yoke is easy and His burden is light. I wish I could describe Him to you . . . but He's indescribable. That's my King. He's incomprehensible, He's invincible, and He is irresistible.

I'm coming to tell you this, that the heavens of heavens can't contain Him, let alone some man explain Him. You can't get Him out of your mind. You can't get Him off of your hands. You can't outlive Him and you can't live without Him. The Pharisees couldn't stand Him, but they found out they couldn't stop Him. Pilate couldn't find any fault in Him. The witnesses couldn't get their testimonies to agree about Him. Herod couldn't kill Him. Death couldn't handle Him and the grave couldn't hold Him. That's my King.

He always has been and He always will be. I'm talking about the fact that He had no predecessor and He'll have no successor. There's nobody before Him and there'll be nobody after Him. You can't impeach Him and He's not going to resign. That's my King! That's my King!

Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory. Well, all the power belongs to my King. We're around here talking about black power and white power and green power, but in the end all that matters is God's power. Thine is the power. Yeah. And the glory. We try to get prestige and honor and glory for ourselves, but the glory is all His. Yes. Thine is the Kingdom and the power and glory, forever and ever and ever and ever. How long is that? Forever and ever and ever and ever. . . And when you get through with all of the ever's, then . . .Amen!

And We're Back...

2007-11-27T18:50:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you, but personally I cannot believe Christmas is less than a month away. Somehow it's easier for me to get in the holiday spirit in July when I'm wishing desperately Christmas were just around the corner, than the end of November when it actually is. Hopefully your Thanksgiving was as good as mine (even though I know not everyone can go to a farmhouse in the Nothern California coastal countryside and eat a gourmet spread not only for the feast itself, but breakfast, lunch, and dinner the days before and after), and your waistline is on the road to a full recovery after being stretched in entirely new ways by magnificent food. I planned on staying home for a few days into this week before heading back to LA, but a callback and audition brought me back Monday-- and it's a good thing, too, because I had two more auditions today! When it rains it pours... Or something.

So here I am, back in LA with my cup of tea, burning the final remnants of my pumpkin pie candle and waiting for the advil I took for my sinus headache to kick in (oh and for the record, I really hate zinc lozenges-- if anyone knows a reliable alternative for fending off sickness, I'm all ears). I went for a long walk this morning before audition #1, and it felt so good, yet odd at the same time, to feel productive. I feel sort of like a machine-- a one-woman robot of efficiency, tackling errands and tasks in multitudinous bounds.

I think I'm learning how to maintain and trust my relationship with my Father, while getting a lot done physically... It's been difficult because I feel so numb and I keep thinking I must be doing something wrong, and searching my heart for anything I've missed-- and maybe I have. But it seems to always come back to the fact that a relationship isn't about doing, it's about being. And sometimes it's not about feeling, it's about knowing.

Last week I was nearly drunk in-love. My heart seemed to overflow in peace and joy every time I thought of Him... But now there's so much to do, and hours spent reading and writing and singing and praying aren't happening. And is that okay? I think it is... Because in order for the treasures reaped in those times to be worth anything on earth, they have to be showcased in the marketplace. So today and yesterday have been days at the market.

Anyway, I probably better go eat or tweeze my eyebrows or do something benign to release my brain before audition #2 tonight. That's the one class I think many colleges should really include in the General Education roster-- Dumbing Down Intelligently for the Interview 101. That has a nice ring to it, no? See you on the other side.

Cookies

2007-11-15T22:38:00.000-08:00

I really like baking cookies.

I mean, I really like baking almost anything, but recently I seem to have developed quite an affinity for crafting and creating three-inch discs of dough and sweet morsels. I love knowing exactly how the butter should feel when I squeeze it gently within its wax paper wrapping to see if it's soft enough for creaming. I love the soft whir of sugar crystals scraping against the metal bowl as the intoxicating aroma of butter, sugar, and vanilla wafts up from within my big pink mixer. I love standing with my hips leaning against the counter, dozens of little bags filled with sweet morsels of all kinds jumbled in the cupboard above my head as I judiciously siphon out little amounts of whatever ingredient strikes my fancy. Coconut, toffee, oats, bittersweet chocolate chips, dried cranberries... All fodder for my gastronomic imagination.

I love laying out my baking sheets and slowly, repetitively, methodically dropping equal amounts of the sweet and salty dough into little 3 x 4 charts before placing them within the confines of my baby oven. I love knowing how the cookies are done, not by a loud beep that echoes through my kitchen when the timer sounds, but by the smell that hits my nose just as the outer edges begin to golden. When they emerge after their bath of dry heat, the transformation never ceases to be magical. They've arrived!

I love the steady rhythm of transferring cooling morsels from the sheet still hot from the oven to the cooling racks set on the windowsill. Cookie sheet, window sill, cookie sheet, window sill, cookie sheet, window sill... Back and forth and back again. When finally all the newly formed confections are resting on their wiry bed, I love sitting in my living room and seeing the rows and rows of them out of the corner of my eye as I watch TV or clean or check my e-mail. I have accomplished something good. And sweet.

My best friend says baking encompasses both sides of my personality-- my need for both control and creativity. Baking isn't like cooking where you can just throw a bunch of everything in all flim flam and it'll generally come out all right; there are rules, guidelines, science and chemistry laws that must be obeyed in order for a cookie to be a cookie and not a cake or a cracker or a loaf of bread. But within these laws, a whole palatte of flavors and textures can be chosen and used at will. Sure I have to include butter and sugar and eggs and vanilla and flour and baking soda and baking powder and salt... But what if I feel like throwing in dried cranberries instead of raisins for my oatmeal cookies? And what if I think white chocolate chips would make a lovely addition? And you know, after tasting, I think a little cinnamon might be nice? With just a shake or two of pumpkin pie spice to round it out perfectly... I can do all that and more because these are my cookies, and after covering all the ground rules and checking all the required boxes, it's time to play!

Last night I made cookies at midnight. Because I wanted to. And because I love it!

But now my problem becomes... What to do with three dozen cookies?

Birthday Girl

2007-11-09T16:24:00.000-08:00

Today is my birthday.

I woke to chocolates at my door and danced to Frank Sinatra as I curled my hair. Lunch with friends meant belly laughs over the table and footsies underneath it. Tonight remains shrouded in mystery... I hope for joy. (And a cupcake with a candle in it!)

Another year to conquer... Let's go.

Fighting Back

2007-11-05T18:15:00.000-08:00

I watched Cinderella Man last night. It seems every time I watch that movie I fall more and more in love with it (and Russell Crowe's Jim Braddock-- but that's another story!), and my heart is moved in a deeper, newer way by the truth its myth reveals. As I lay on the sofa last night, I felt my sick, watery eyes (the result of some mystery illness my body has been fighting off for the past few days) fill with hot tears over and over again as Jim Braddock, along with his wife and family, battled for their fairy tale.

Before I started the movie, being the film/acting nerd I am, I watched a portion of the casting featurette in the Special Features section of the DVD. Ron Howard, the director of the movie, talked in the beginning about their short search for an actor to play Jim Braddock, and how it was quickly decided that Crowe would be perfect for the part. Howard then went on to talk about the intricacies of Braddock's story, and how, dubbed the "Cinderella Man" by a reporter, he "was living out a kind of a fairy tale, but it's not that sort of sugar-coated fairy tale, it's more of a Grimm's fairy tale... It's tough to be inside that fairy tale." I was so struck by how true that is. How often do we look at success stories and great victories, and see only the glowing good? When in reality, fairy tales and great successes are often overwhelmingly made up of fierce battles, treacherous journeys, and long, soul-aching times in life's waiting room.

At one point late in the movie, when the hot tears blearing my vision nearly overflowed, Jim is talking to his wife Mae about why he wants and needs to fight. After listening to her pleas against his plans to get back in the ring and box again, Jim looks her in the eye and tries to make her understand his heart. "[In the ring,] at least I know who's hittin' me." Man. How rough it is to feel like you're taking blows with a bag over your head. And how much of life is like that? Spending all this time getting beat up and tossed around without even knowing why or who is hitting you?

I just finished a book called Waking the Dead by John Eldredge, and it has permanently changed my life, spiritually, emotionally, habitually, etc. (Not that that's unusual for any of his books for me...) In it, Eldredge talks about the desperate need in our world for spiritual warfare, and how we as a culture, race, and people have allowed ourselves to be lulled into complacency and surrender, thinking the very war that is beating us down day in and day out isn't happening. My eyes were opened to the millions of fights and battles and sieges that take place every day, and span weeks, months, and years of my life and eternity. It was like my heart woke up and I started realizing that all those terrible things I believed about myself and the world aren't true... They're lies that I've bought into, and I don't have to agree with any more. I realized that terrible things happen in my life because there is an enemy creating and crafting ways to hurt, sabotage, kill, steal, and destroy me every moment. Jesus told us that the enemy "prowls" like "a roaring lion" whose sole purpose is to bring us down-- so why have I been so shocked and surprised when he's actually tried and been successful at doing that? And why haven't I put up more of a fight?

I've never really known what it's like to war for something in my soul before. In the Old Testament in the Bible, God allowed war to come to the Israelites because the new generation had never had to fight for the promise-- and they needed to if they were going to be strong enough to keep the promised land once they made it there. War is here whether we like it or not, and there is a choice: ignore and deny and lay huddled on the ground, taking the blows that will come regardless with a bag over our head, or we can train ourselves for war, look at the enemy who's been hitting us all along, and start to fight back for the good that's ours to claim.

I, for one, choose the latter.