Do you remember grade school fire drills? The alarm would sound. Momentary chaos ensued as the teacher tried to collect all thirty of us students — we were wiry, strong-willed things, with no intention of being collected or corralled or told what to do. Stern words would follow. Maybe a whistle would be blown. Eventually, we would all march out to the blacktop and line up in a line, facing the school, pretending to watch it burn down in horror. Yeah, we were dramatic. The moments after the drill were usually filled with a broken yet stern sort of disappointment from our teacher. We’d be reminded that the fire could have been real. We should take things more seriously. We’d be reminded that if we were ever to catch fire, God forbid, we were to STOP. DROP. AND ROLL. These words are very firmly implanted in my brain. For as much as I dislike being told what to do, and as much as I disliked the monotony of fire drills, I’m not opposed to keeping pertinent information in my brain that might save my life if I spontaneously burst into flame. I like having basic survival skills. […]
I know that the holidays are in full effect, and that I should probably be posting how to make sugar cookies shaped like reindeer, covered in candy canes and peppermint bark and dipped into eggnog. That would be festive. Also, gross. Note to self: don’t dip overly-candied cookies into eggnog. Or, do. I feel confused. Is there a Christmas professional around who can tell me if this is a good or a bad idea? Also, how many gingerbread cookies crumbled up into a bowl make a good breakfast cereal? I have a lot of questions. But, I digress. Treats. I’ll probably be shoving treats in your face soon, so not to worry. However, this is the kind of food I’ve been crushing on currently. Hard. Like, I’m a twelve year old girl in 1995, and this pan of roasted veggies is on the cover of Tiger Beat right next to JTT. Big-swoony-write its name on my binder kind of crushin’. Practice kissing on your hand before bed kind of crushin’. It’s serious. […]
Growing up is weird, right?
The more grown I get, the more uncertain I am if the term “grown up” is even a real thing. I think, like most young people, I had this false hope that one morning in my late twenties I would awaken with a strong grip on how to do taxes, and the willingness to save money for a new sensible vacuum cleaner. I would be tidier. I’d have cosmically started a retirement account. I would feel a certain maturity. The depth of my wisdom would increase alongside the axis of how strong my prescription glasses needed to be. I would definitely not curse in front of my husband’s boss. And, I probably wouldn’t sign business e-mails with emojis. But, this doesn’t happen. It’s not concrete. I still have the crappy vacuum cleaner I purchased when I was nineteen. I’m wiser, but not above asking Web MD if I am dying when I have a headache. I’m aware that grown up mail is usually just a slew of bills, credit card offers, and an L.L Bean catalog from that time I purchased my husband a fleece. I’m aware that sometimes the child who is working the checkout of a Trader Joes will call me Ma’am and not card me when I purchase wine. And, I’m certainly aware that being a grown up means eating a lot of veggies. […]
I’m going to level with you. I had a fever when I created this pie.
Not in the dramatic “I have an insatiable fever and the only cure is pie” kind of way, and not in the overtly-sexy “you give me fever” jazz-standard kind of way. But, rather the “I’m cold sweating, and this thermometer tells me I’m NOT actually cold on the inside” kind of way. Things aren’t generally awesome when you’re sporting a fever. Shivering happens. Clammy-face happens. Your husband might come home from work to find you laying on the couch, wearing nothing but a long sleeve shirt with an ice pack stuffed into your bra. Who needs pants when you’ve got long sleeves? Using fever logic, the answer to that question is NO ONE. Or, maybe it’s seven. I’m not sure. Basically, things don’t make sense. […]