Sweet Tooth: The Next Generation.

I didn't grow up in a household with tons of snacks. I had to venture to my friends' houses if I wanted soda, Fruit-by-the-Foot or Star Crunches. My grandmother has always had an honest sweet tooth -- she just preferred to satisfy it with real desserts, not packaged kiddie treats. Thus, even though there weren't Twinkies and Kool Aid in my childhood home, there was almost always fresh pound cake. She loved making desserts herself. Even now, twenty years later, my grandmother still loves to come home from the grocery store on a Sunday and indulge in a new recipe. It's usually something sweet, because that's what she loves.

For the last couple of years, I've noticed my own sweet tooth -- which I've had since childhood, thus taking after her -- inspiring me in the same fashion. Once in a while I'll make a real meal, but I particularly love making sweets. Last week, I made what I called "peaches in a blanket" (rolled up peaches with cinnamon, butter and honey and baked inside dough) and tonight, I made frozen hot chocolate for the first time. I couldn't help but think about my grandmother. Sure, I've gotten the last two of my recipes off a Pinterest page and she gets hers from real magazines or cookbooks. And sure, she can still turn a Bundt cake right side up without a problem, whereas mine broke apart the last time I tried. Nevertheless, I think this is a trait that I can proudly say I got from my grandmother, sugar highs at 9 p.m. and all. 

During deadline, it can't be a bad thing to feel awake anyhow. 

Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Accelerates My Heart.

So, it's Lent again. And as usual, I've given up something that seems like no big whoop until I have to actually deal with not having it. This year, it's "coffee drinks." Everyone cocks their brow in confusion at that term, so let me explain. No, I have not given up all coffee -- I need caffeine to survive.

But until Easter Sunday, all I'm allowed to have is black coffee. No Starbucks vanilla latte, no honey latte from the yummy local cafe -- not even MILK IN THE MORNING.

All black coffee, all the time.

I've learned a couple things while drinking nothing but bitter, dark cups of Joe. Here goes:

1. All black coffee tastes the same. Thus, i don't care to go for my used-to-be-usual afternoon cup from either Starbucks or whatever's convenient at the time. I had a feeling that my black-coffee-only rule would cause me to cut back on caffeine. But I didn't know how right I'd be. Coffee isn't fun if it's plain.

Coworker: Want to make a Starbucks run, Denise?!
Me: Ehhh...and order a scalding cup of bitter sludge? Nah. I'll stick with water. But thanks. 

2. I keep burning my dang tongue. Without that splash of milk, Irish liqueur or half n' half, the stuff is hotter than you'd expect. In fact, I don't think I've had all my taste buds in good working order since Ash Wednesday.

3. Not many people drink black coffee. In fact, I can name only two right off the top of my head -- Brian and my friend Sarah. Other than that, everyone looks at me like I've lost my mind when I say I'm only drinking it black til Easter. Which brings me to my next point ....

4. I used to think that I liked the taste of actual coffee more than most of my friends and colleagues. When I lived with Genessa, she would put so much creamer and crap inside her cup of morning brew that it ended up just tasting like coffee Kool Aid. And I'd make fun of her. I also made fun of people who always get the mocha milkshake crap with whipped cream on top. But now that I'm drinking coffee in the buff, I'm realizing I don't love it either!! I mean, i can STOMACH it for the purpose of having my morning jolt, but I'm not really happy about it.

All of that said, my mama drinks her morning coffee just like I do: milk only, no sugar. Sharing a cup with her is one of my favorite parts of going home, which makes looking forward to spring that much sweeter. So, until then, I guess I can stick to the dark stuff.

I just need to remember to let it cool on the counter first.

Saturday's cup in the elephant mug. So bare bones. 

Imagination: I'm Grateful.

I had a heartfelt conversation with my friend Julia at another friend's Thanksgiving dinner party last weekend. Julia is 11 years old, and her mom and I have been pals for years.

We walked up and down the street after dinner, just the two of us, talking about life. I was amazed at how relatable and easy to talk to she is. But then again, I'm accustomed to being enchanted by the imagination and wisdom of children. Before our walk, we jumped rope, hula-hooped (well, she hula-hooped; I just attempted it) and basically ran around the house being silly together.

The quality time with Julia came right on schedule. I've been thinking a lot about what I should be grateful for, versus what I am grateful for. Am I grateful for all the days I spent lounging underneath oak trees and daydreaming as a kid? Or the elaborate games that my friends and little sister and I invented on Saturdays? Not often enough, until something happens to make me think twice.

For example, I went to the mall tonight after my usual tutoring session was canceled. I was feeling gloomy while walking around the mall, fretting about how I would afford all the gifts I want to buy for people; fretting about a friend of mine who's struggling with her health; fretting about life in general. Then I decided that instead of just sulking back to my car, I would try to perk myself up.

My perk came in the form of a conversation with the man dressed as Santa Claus in the center of the mall. It looked as though Santa was winding down for the afternoon (he works so much harder these days, what with everyone's holiday fever starting at Halloween) so I ducked the velvet green rope and asked him how things were going.

"Are the kids asking for iPads and iPhones?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yes. I tell them all they have to wait until they're older." Then he sighed, and I knew he wished kids still asked for simple toys made out of wood. He was an older Santa, with a legitimate beard.  He talked like he's been playing the role for years. I could tell he understands the importance of childhood and tries his best to pass it on.

A minute later, he was escorted by some of the elves off to his break, and he turned around and gave me a friendly wave. "I'll be back, and we can talk some more," he said.

My own childhood wasn't perfect, but I'm glad it was filled with imagination.

And I have people like Julia to thank for reminding me.

Me with Julia on her first day of first grade. We go way back. 

Millions of Peaches...Well, Enough for a Pie, Anyway.

I got some peaches gifted to me yesterday. There were enough of them that I decided to make a peach pie. I had never made a fruit pie before tonight (y'all kindly remember my lack of kitchen skills) but this one turned out well, if I do say so myself. I pretty much used the easiest recipe on earth and a pre-made crust. Is it silly that I'm still proud of myself? 

New Adventures in the Old Kitchen.

I grew up with my grandmother - who is an excellent cook - preparing the majority of my meals. She'd make an array of classic dinners, from beef stew to chicken with rice. I took it slightly for granted as a kid, but now I recognize that she has mad skills. She's also a killer cake baker.

My sister took after her, always inquiring about how to prepare certain dishes, particularly traditional, Lebanese plates that my grandmother only made on special occasions. Marie is definitely more talented than me. But she's also always had more of an interest in the art of cooking. I've always been more like my mom; I can put something simple together, but my passion for eating always outweighed my passion for putting food together.

I don't know if it's been the chillier than usual temps this winter, or just a newfound inspiration in the kitchen, but I've been making food at home a lot more. And yes, I'm enough of a newbie that I need to brag about it (at age 34). There are always the usual reasons to cook meals at home: You'll save money; you'll be healthier. However, I've compounded a list of additional reasons I like making food at home.

• My computer is nearby, as are my books, papers and anything else I might need to jot down a poem, take photos of my food without receiving withering looks from a tableful of people, etc. 
• Genessa often comes home, asks what I'm making, and sounds mildly impressed when I announce the evening's project. 
• The grocery store is apparently a good place to meet men, or so I hear. I haven't met one there yet. 
• I can listen to Pandora. 
• The smell of the food cooking pretty much counts as an appetizer. I think I eat a little less at home, because I'm not as frantic when I finally sit down with my plate. 

And, if you're wondering what I've been making as of late, it's nothing to get ALL excited about. Here, a short list.

• French toast with a side of oranges 
• Salmon with Brussels sprouts tossed in balsamic, olive oil and bacon bits 
• cheese and onion omelet with toast 
• steak and eggs with a side of spinach 
• fajitas with steak and bell peppers 

So, as you can see, I'm still a beginner. But I'm getting better. I didn't mean to make a resolution for 2014, but I think I've come up with one without meaning to: Eat at home at least a few times per week.

And flirt with a man in the grocery store.

Here's Looking at 34.

My birthday was over the weekend and I turned 34. I can't believe it. Luckily, I've been so bombarded by the well wishes of my friends and family (who downright spoiled me this year) that I haven't had the time to dwell on the aging process. Whew!

Normally, the gift du jour during birthdays is a shot of liquor or a glass of champagne during the party - and I did get plenty of those. But this year I also racked up a few nice gifts. Here's the short list:

a homemade journal, made by my pal Jim
gift cards to Chick Fil A and Barnes & Noble (two of my FAVORITE places)
cake and cupcakes (chocolate and red velvet!)
designer stationary
candles with fine scents
homemade birthday cards
homemade candy, made by my pal Emily
a book journal - I called it the "old-fashioned version of Goodreads"
lottery tickets
earrings

So, as you can see, I was overwhelmed by the generosity of my people. But I pretty much feel that way every single day, because their unwavering support and friendship gets me through whatever life tosses onto my (cake) plate.

Cheers!

Goat Island.

If you travel over the connector heading toward the Isle of Palms and look off to your left side, you might notice Goat Island, a small community with a friendly cluster of neighbors who all live their lives right in the middle of Charleston's busy suburbs with remarkable simplicity.

I visited Goat Island this past weekend and I had a wonderful time. My hostess, Sara Sanders, picked me up on a small motor boat from the Morgan Creek docks. I climbed into the boat carefully, my notebook tucked into the nook between my body and arm. It was a gorgeous day. Despite the fact that we were surrounded by people on elaborate party boats, drinking beer and sunning themselves in the October sun, I felt like Sara and I were on a secret expedition.

Her house was charming. It was the kind of house I would hope to have - beach casual and filled to the brim with items worthy of conversation. In the back she has two pet goats, both I fed with a handful of Honey Nut Cheerios. Their names were Muriel and Otis. And let's not forget her friendly lab, Callie.

One of the best parts of the morning was traveling the dirt road in Sara's golf cart to visit the neighbors. We rode through the thick brush and Sara would point out the different houses (some quite hidden in the trees) along the stretch of "road," telling me about each neighbor. It enthralled me that she knew everyone. The island is so intimate, yet everyone has the space to enjoy the entire, wild world.

Of course, Sara's neighbors were talkative and welcoming. They gave me a tour of their main house and guest house. Everyone is hospitable on the island - perhaps it is the fact that you can arrive only by boat. I've always noticed how much friendlier people are on the water. I even read them a poem.

I didn't want to leave Goat Island but the call of duty eventually demanded that I do so. After a yummy lunch, including a piece of chocolate cake, Sara brought me back to the docks. Fortunately, she said I was welcome to visit again any time that I wanted to. It was probably the best invitation I've ever gotten.

I might take her up on it soon.

Sunnyside.

Funny story: My car died in the Jimmy John's drive-thru yesterday. I had just ordered a sub sandwich, low fat potato chips and iced tea. I turned the key - and nothing happened. Frantic, I pounded on the glass drive-thru window and told the Jimmy John's guy that I couldn't move my car because I couldn't turn it on. 

"OK," said the dude. "I'll send out a couple guys to help ya."

Imagine how humiliated I was when the sandwich-making crew had to help me push my car to the side of the parking lot, out of the other patrons' ways. I sat in my car, wrinkled my nose at the bag of food (I was much too wigged out to eat) and tried to think about what I should do. Luckily, it was only 11:30 a.m. but still, I had to be back at the office before 1 p.m. to greet my new social media intern on her first day. And I had to move the car. And buy a battery, apparently.

Brian showed up with jumper cables, and, once we started my car up, I bought a battery - which I paid an arm and leg for - and griped about my rotten day while I waited for the installation to be completed.

"Today sucks so far," I groaned, not caring who heard me. "I'm so sick of worrying about money."

But, I made it back to the office well before 1 p.m. and did a stellar job of orienting my social media intern plus the new design intern. And I got to thinking how much worse the car breakdown situation could have been. I mean, I could have broken down someplace far worse than the parking lot of a sub shop with a yummy lunch already in my clutches. I could have been in a bigger hurry and missed my appointments. I could have had bigger problems than just the battery.

I have this friend who sometimes texts encouraging messages around 7 a.m. while I'm brewing coffee. (He gets up roughly two hours before that, so it's easy for him to think of stuff.) Yesterday's message said something like: "Get ready for a wondrous and magical day."

It took me a while to admit that anything about yesterday could be remotely close to that description, but I think I'm fine with it now. After all, it felt kind of like magic, having those sandwich guys nudge my silent car to a safe place so easily, it was like wings had sprouted from her blue doors.

On Blogging.

Last night I was at a small get-together when one of my friends proclaimed that "blogging is useless."

Of course, he's (mostly) right.

Yes, sure, there are blogs such as The Sartorialist, which are now so large that they're just websites, not  what we think of when we think "blogs." But when it comes to tiny blogs like mine, with everyday thoughts like mine, my friend is right.

Who the eff cares?

Perhaps I've done myself a disservice by not picking a blog "theme," like traveling or food or photography, because, let's face it, simply being Denise isn't a theme.

But, the thing is, it feels like one sometimes.

For instance, yesterday my roomies and I went to Chick Fil A for brunch - and when I say brunch, I mean it. I ordered a chicken biscuit and waffle fries, after the friendly employee told me that they were now serving breakfast AND lunch during those hours on Saturdays.

"That was delicious, and it was just what I wanted," I announced to Genessa in the car, as we drove to pick up her television from a guy she found on Craigslist. "I think I might blog about it."

No one was surprised. My fellow housemates are accustomed to me saying I'm "going to blog about" anything that strikes my weird fancy. And it's not always hipster, trendy, social media-worthy shit.
In fact, it never is.

So, I guess my friend had a point. Writing about my random-ass life on blogspot IS useless, if he means as reading material for him. But as a writing outlet for me, it's perfect.

And I make no apologies for this hodge-podge.

Florence + Christmas = Joy.

I just got back from Christmas in Florence for six whole days, which was absolutely wonderful. I spent ample time with really old friends, saw all the members of my family and even made a fancy dessert from a Christmas magazine for the first time.

cake roll

I mean, really, who knew I would be so excellent at rolling up angel food cake? Not I. The recipe made two cake rolls, so I brought one to Christmas dinner at my dad's house and the other to supper that night at my uncle's house. I thought it went over well in both locations. 

Abbey and me

Besides rolling cake, I also feel like I bonded with my cousins on my dad's side a little more this year. I've always liked two in particular--Anna and Abbey, who are my first cousin Tammy's young daughters. Whenever we see each other on Christmas day at my dad's, we talk about planning something else before next Christmas. But this year I think we actually will. 

My oldest friend Gayden and me

I suspect one of the reasons I enjoyed Florence so much this year is because I was completely alone, with no boyfriend, and I was able to submerge myself into feeling 12 all over again. I feel like I got back to my roots.

Now I've got the post-holiday blues, which typically happens to me after an exceptional Christmas. There isn't much going on this weekend and I just woke up a little while ago, wondering if it's warm enough to sit out in the driveway and read books and magazines. 

I crave other people's ideas for the new year. Everyone can use a little inspiration now and then. 

DIY Beauty Blunders.

Tonight I decided that because I'm going home for Christmas in a couple of days, I needed to exfoliate my skin. So I whipped out my smart phone, searched for the words "oatmeal face mask" and started reading recipes. I already had plain oatmeal in my cabinet from the time I tried to make oatmeal raisin cookies. It was an utter disaster, so I can't imagine why I thought anything related to that accursed container of oats would go differently.

 I found a simple recipe that said to mix oatmeal with milk and rub it all over my face. I got out a bowl, mixed the oats and the milk at the kitchen counter, took it upstairs to my bathroom and tried to plaster it to my mug. Oatmeal went everywhere--by the time I got finished, it looked like someone had ralphed in my sink. Not pretty. Plus, the oats were not sticking to my skin.

Concerned that I was accomplishing nothing other than clogging my drain, I finally gave up and rinsed. Buttercup, my roommate's feline, got the leftover milk.

"I'm not sure what went wrong," I announced to Genessa, our neighbor Aaron, and Genessa's boyfriend Randy.

That's when I realized...I didn't cook the oatmeal first. Duh. 

So, I guess my skin will just look the way it always has this holiday season.

At least the cat is still hanging out in my room.

Cooking by the Seat of One's Pants.

Over the weekend, I attended my friend Joy's annual pre-Thanksgiving dinner. It's one of my favorite things to do in November, mostly because it forces me to ...cook something.

In years past, I've had my plan well before going over to Joy's house. One year, for example, I made a pumpkin spice cake in the earlier hours of the day, complete with bunt-shaped pan. It was marvelous. But this year I was slack. I found myself laying around my house until 4 p.m., watching old Parker Posey movies, and suddenly realizing I needed to get dressed and go to Publix.

Hmm, I thought to myself in Publix, Should I just get something simple like a block of cheese and some crackers? Or should I really try to make something? I'd rather make something, but what?

I suddenly found myself in the magazine aisle, reading up on holiday recipes. I picked what seemed easy enough to throw together without even buying the magazine--a Southwestern cheese dip--and scoured the store for what I needed.

"This is good," said my roommate, Dana, awhile later, scooping up a sample taste with a tortilla chip.

"I'm not feeling it. It's not Thanksgiving enough," I announced. And frankly, I was less than impressed with how all I'd done was open up a container of queso and dress it up with some corn and cilantro.

"This is what I get for not having a real plan," I grumbled to myself. Undeterred, I went back to Publix, this time with the intent of somehow making sweet potatoes (that was Thanksgiving-y enough, right?)....but I had no idea how to cook a sweet potato. Or if I had the time.

"Is it considered a faux pas to use canned sweet potato?" I asked the Publix employee, a sweet-faced, teenaged boy who probably didn't know what faux pas meant.

"I don't think so," he hedged.

I finally grabbed what I needed, including a recipe on the back of the can that could be accomplished in thirty minutes. At that point, I had less than an hour until party time. Good thing I was already wearing my makeup.

In the end, my "quick" candied yams were gobbled right up. I feel satisfied that I went with my gut and nixed the cheese dip, although I'll probably uncover that and eat it later.

"You know what I love about going over to Joy's for Thanksgiving?" I later asked my roomies and neighbor. "It's an occasion for all of us to make food."

Since my sweet potatoes rocked, I'll probably make them again, maybe this week. And some other new things. After all, 'tis the season for kitchen adventures -- even at the last minute.

Home Remedies, Part Two.

I once posted about home remedies for getting rid of a cold. Well, that time has come again. I've been coughing a good bit the past 24 hours. Boo. What's funny is that I first started feeling "virusy" on Wednesday night of last week. I went home and texted my coeditor, Brian, that I was coming down with something.

"Eat a whole grapefruit, even the white stuff," he instructed. "Then hold your nose and breathe through your mouth. You need to heat up the germs inside your nose and kill them."

Since I always listen to Brian, I got dressed, drove to Publix, and wolfed down an entire grapefruit faster than you can say "dietary fad." I saved the second grapefruit I'd bought for the morning, then ate it, too.

For a day or so I felt better and thought I'd beaten it. Then, on Sunday, I woke up with serious scratchiness in my throat. I knew then that the germs were stubborn and had fled my nose only to settle in my chest.

So I did what any innovative person would do - I ordered spicy cocktails and spicy food all day long.

"What drink on this list would be good for a chest cold?" I asked the bartender. (Luckily we were having Thai food at Basil that night, so it was easy.)  "And can you suggest an entree?"

By the end of dinner I felt like I had smoke coming out of my ears. Still, today I'm coughing. I'm coughing as I write this, despite my spicy chicken sandwich at lunch, and despite the sip of booze that  my tutoring clients gave me. Yep. They gave me liquor to sip while I quizzed their daughter on Voltaire.

"You want a shot of brandy? That always helps me!" my student's mother crowed. I held my nose and chased it with sweet tea left from my lunch. Disgusting.

It's impossible to tell if I've cut the severity of this cold with all my zealous "home treatments," but at least the mission has been a fun one. I haven't taken any cold medicine yet and I don't plan to. After all, I have hot-n-sour soup and Kentucky bourbon in my kitchen. What more does a sick gal need?

Litchfield: The Grocery Gamble.

There's a trend that I just have to address. It involves the kitchen at our beach house in Litchfield. Lately (well, probably all along..it's just now I'm writing about it) I've noticed that it's common for family members and friends to arrive at the house, pour a cocktail, and...forget about food.

Case in point: This past weekend, my mom, her best friend Lorraine, and I decided to hang out in Litchfield for a couple days. We all got there on Friday afternoon and--you guessed it--immediately busted out the beer, wine, and spiced rum.

"What are we having for dinner?" I eventually asked, already two drinks in.

"Uhh, well, I brought us this roast," Lorraine declared, pulling it out of her cooler. "And here's some...potato salad. But it'd be nice to have bread, wouldn't it? Or some kind of real side?"

We peered into the freezer and were greeted with a loaf of freezer-burned Sara Lee. It was not appealing.

"Hmm," Lorraine mused. "Well, I suppose we don't need bread."

via

"Someone should have gone to the grocery store," I sighed. "Why does this always happen? It's like, everyone gets here, starts drinking, and we just have to make do with whatever is here because everyone is too blitzed to go to the PIGGLY WIGGLY!"

Another time, my poet-friends and I started imbibing and woke up the next morning, famished and craving a hearty breakfast. Of course, there was nothing in the fridge or the freezer except for old biscuits and American cheese. Not even eggs. And while we laughed at ourselves while eating our eggless, cruddy, cheese biscuits, I know we were all secretly disappointed.

So, now that I've gone and made this issue public by blogging about it, I think I'm going to have to fix the problem. Therefore I solemnly swear, the next time I go to Litchfield, I am stopping first in Pawley's Island to buy the essentials. After all, drinks are best accompanied by food.

Y'all hold me to it.

My GOODNESS Razors are Expensive...Who Wants Beer?

I have this terrible habit of balking at prices when I'm out shopping for things like toilet paper and makeup...then spending GOBS of money at the restaurants and bars. Illogical, no?

I was thinking about that today when I went to the drug store and the grocery store to purchase several items. I bought lipstick, household cleaning products, other random toiletries....and razors.

For those of you reading this who AREN'T female, you might not know that a package of (good) razors for the legs of ladies can cost about $15. I don't get why. I mean, are they expensive to make? (Oh, right. We're paying for the pink handle and the palm tree on the package. Ugh.)

When I plunked down my moola for the decent set of blades, I felt as pissy as I always do when I'm forced to spend more than $5 on something I keep in my bathroom. Yet at the neighborhood bars, $15 barely covers the price of dinner and a few cocktails. And I'm all too happy to pay that price for food and booze!

The only thing I can come up with to explain this attitude is perhaps the fact that I value food and booze more deeply than luxurious toiletries?

Do any other gals find themselves feeling this way? Or am I a freak?

Happy March!

Lock In.

It all started when I got up this morning, VERY begrudgingly, since I slept a total of two winks last night. I don't know what it is lately--I guess I have a lot on my mind--but it's just hard to sleep throughout the night. I feel like an infant, but with bills. Ha.

So anyhoo, I'm late for poetry circle and on my way out of the door when I realize..I can't open it. Yep, the door is locked and JAMMED no matter which way i turn the knob or the lock. I try over and over to let myself out of the house, but I feel like I'm just going end up breaking the door knob. Ugh. To make matters worse, the cat is staring at me, wondering what the hell my deal is.

I start to get frantic. The back door of our house leads to a balcony, which I certainly would NOT be jumping off of. Neither of my roommates were home. I was helpless. So I whipped out my phone and called my two poetesses.

"You won't believe this," I moaned. "But I'm stuck INSIDE my house. The lock is jammed or something. Help me!! It's too embarrassing to call the fire department!!"

They said they'd come right over. We had decided that if I could at least open the window, they could help me get the screens off and I could crawl through. But as luck would have it, before they even arrived I managed to get the door open. (Good thing I didn't call the fire department, right?)

"Gosh," said Bridget later as we munched our breakfasts. "I was disappointed that you were able to open the door yourself. I wanted us to rescue you!"

I was touched. I sat there, enjoying the homemade bread Bridget made and the delicious eggs that Ali scrambled, thinking how lucky I am to have friends like them--ready to come to my rescue, no matter how absurd the request.

There are worse ways to start a day.

Cake & Champagne.

My birthday was yesterday, but the past several days have been chock-full of celebrations. It all started last Thursday when my friend Emily came into town for a visit, followed closely by my other best gals, Alice and Mandie, on Friday afternoon. Mandie had rented a house out on Folly Beach, and we girls spent most of the weekend drinking cocktails lazily in the sunshine and enjoying the rare occasion of togetherness.

Next, I had a proper birthday party on Saturday night in downtown Charleston, and my friend Aaron sprang for a few bottles of nice champagne. I felt incredibly fortunate to have so many friends raise their glasses to my life. 

And that wasn't all! Last night for my "real" birthday, we had a lovely meal at a new restaurant on James Island. And tonight, my good friend Katrina made me dinner and a fabulous birthday cake, complete with homemade raspberry icing. It was absolutely delectable. 

So yeah, I guess I'm a tad spoiled. 

Pastry Preview.

So this week, it's my turn to bring breakfast to the poetry circle. I decided to go a little overboard (for a weekday) and try making Nutella-banana pastry pockets. I knew they'd be yummy with the fancy coffee that Ali brews.

 As we all know, I've flubbed plenty of (supposedly easy) recipes in the past, and since I'd never made these I wanted to preview the situation this evening. I went to Publix and got some pastry shells. I already had the fruit and Nutella at home.

It was delicious and easy. I sighed with satisfaction when I bit into the first pastry. I only made two for tonight so I gave the other one to my neighbor, Aaron, who is always willing to be my food-guinea-pig.  He agreed that it was a success. I might have to go buy more of these pastry shells. It looks like you can stuff the things with just about anything.

Breakfast of Wordsmiths.

I'm really enjoying my new poetry circle. It's just three of us so far, but we manage to keep things lively and constructive. This morning we talked about some of our favorite "famous" poems before we read our own work. We ate a funny breakfast of fruit, whole grain muffins and chocolate chip cookies. We made plans to do "something cultural" together this weekend.

 I love having poets as friends--they understand when I exclaim over the shadows of trees. They find everything either amusing or tragic. It certainly takes the boredom out of my week.

Christmas in Florence.

Christmas Eve with my friend Gayden and her beau.

Enjoying grandma's tree with my cousins, Isabella and Gabrielle.

My grandma's tree, decked out with gifts. 

Fabulously delicious cupcakes from Sweet, the new bakery in Flo-Town!

Christmas in Florence was spectacular as usual. I spent a whole week there without killing myself or any other family members. I also saw a multitude of golden friends and got a slew of fabulous gifts, including a new camera from my sweetie, fluffy bath towels, luxe bath products and good ole cash. I'm basking in the afterglow of all the festivities this week...a post-holiday high, if you will.