Growing

I do not have a green thumb. I suck at keeping plants alive. I have managed to slay succulents and african violets. I murdered a diffenbachia. Heck, even my lawn is sketchy. Plants are not my thing. I love them, but in a distant "other people's gardens" sort of way.

That being said, a sweet friend told me every nursey should have something homemade and something growing. Homemade we've got. From the cradle made by my father to blankets, quilts, hats and booties, many wonderful people have used their talents and time to bless our little girl.

Now for the growing. This sweet pot is a little pink cradle. Inside grows an ivy plant made from a clipping from our friend Shannon's ivy plant. Shannon loves plants and plants love her. All her fingers are green. She works hard and spends quality time to ensure that she has fresh herbs and vegetables for her family. Her gardens are decorative and functional. I did not want to disappoint her and I certainly didn't want to lose the "growing thing" for the nursery. I was hopeful that I might do better than I had in the past. See, Shannon gave me an amyrillis bulb for Christmas and I managed to care for that little plant well. It gave me 3 huge red flowers in the middle of winter. It's still alive, but flowerless at the moment.

My little ivy plant has survived pretty well thus far. I've been caring for this little plant since January. It's still growing strong, getting new leaves and dangling about. I've relocated it several times to keep it away from tiny kitty teeth.

Right now, it rests on our mantle, next to a glass pumpkin Shannon gave us at an Autumn dinner party years ago. Next to that is our wedding cake topper, that Shannon's husband Allen made for us. I think it's in good company. Mostly it's someplace that I see it and remember to water it, so that's important. I hope I can keep it growing. I want to have to re-pot it, and someday tell Eleanor how to care for it, the little ivy from our friend Shannon.

Wish me luck and a green thumb or two.

This was going to be a list of awesome things, but I got tangentially ranty

SURPRISE!

Ok, so very few people have acutally seen my "shocked face." This is not because I am somehow un-shockable. I'm quite shockable due to a delightful combination of not knowing very much about the world at large and my general trust of people I like which sometimes leads to some leg-pulling. I'm serious. One time, after an uncomfortable medical procedure, my husband was driving me home from the hospital and I said that I really wanted ice cream. Comfort food. Fat and sugar because it tastes good and if I was going to be hurting, I at least wanted my mouth to be happy. Darling husband did volunteer to drive to the 24 hr Baskin Robins/Dunkin Donuts* for me, and said, quite calmly, that it made sense that I was craving ice cream, because it had natural muscle relaxant properties. My eyes got wide. I thought this was like that "turkey makes you sleepy" thing or the reason that I would crave giant steaks once a month. "Reeeeally?!?" I asked, all full of hope. Then he laughed at me. Jerk (whom I love & adore).

But that's not what I was trying to get at. So, my "shocked face" is a running gag because frequently, my friends & I make very obvious statements in a pseudo-sarcastic way, at which point I try to put on my "shocked face" but inevitably fail, because... well, OF COURSE you want to do a punk-polka-whatever Ms. Gruss. Of  course you do. Most of the time I just leave my shocked face at home. It's too much to lug around with me everywhere.

I do have a point here somewhere, I swear.

So, this weekend, I was feeling a little down. On Friday, I attended a friend's baby shower and it was lovely... except (there's always an except, isn't there?)... some of her friends were... rude. I was going to try to find a nicer way of saying that, but there isn't one. They were just rude--condescending & dismissive of her desire to cloth diaper. They laughed in her face when she tried to answer the questions THEY asked about how the cloth diapers worked. It made my blood boil. They mean well. They're moms and have kids of their own, so know more about the reality of baby butts than we first-time mom-to-bes do, but... um... RUDE! So, I came home and thanked Twitter for being supportive and awesome of our desire to try cloth diapers. People in the real world are rude. I've had people laugh in my face too. It makes me get a little... honey badger.

I mean, I get it. I've never done this before. Cloth isn't normal anymore. It's a lot of work. I have no idea what I'm really getting in to. I get it. I really don't have much of an idea about any of this infant business, even after my classes at the hospital, nieces, nephews, friends, etc. I get it. I know nothing. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? I have FRIENDS! Friends who are right now, this moment, sucessfully cloth diapering their kids. More than one! They're not crazy or uber-hippy or whatever else you think. They're awesome and frugal and environmentally sound and all that. Everything I "know" about cloth diapering has come from the mouths of moms who've done it. All the diapers I've purchased are recommendations from those moms. Because they KNOW! And maybe my baby will be different. Maybe the styles that worked on their tiny-people butts won't work on my tiny person's butt. Ok. Trial and error. Maybe my baby will inherit my uber-finicky skin and will get 14 kinds of rashy and need monster strength creams that aren't compatible with cloth diapers. Maybe I will suck at doing laundry and this whole experiment will fail. I admit that all of that is a possibility, but please, for the love of decency, could you give me a fighting chance here people? (Not YOU people. You people are awesome. It's the real life skeptics that are bringing me down, like Gruss would never do.**)

Ok, that is a completely different tangent that I didn't mean to have, but there it is. I'm trying stuff and might fail and if you "told me so" I will stab you with daggers from my eyes because SHUT UP! It could work. Just as much as it could NOT work, so... grr... anyway

ANYWAY! This weekend I was feeling down because I found out that of the 6 other ladies in my small group/Bible study/Nebraska girls only 1 was going to be able to make it to my shower. Now, let's be fair--they all had totally reasonable and pretty awesome reasons not to be there. A dad's 60th birthday party, a trip to London, England with boyfriend & boyfriend's mom!, a childbirth class at the hospital, a conference previously paid for... all good stuff! None of which I would ever, in a MEEELLLLION years ask them to ditch to come sit around with me and scrapbook while talking about pink baby things and eat finger foods and drink punch. I don't hate them for not being able to come. I just... was sad that these ladies, who are such a big part of my life, wouldn't be able to be there--kind of as a group, you know? Anyway, I was a little bummed. Not that I wouldn't have friends to celebrate with me at my shower (I do). Not that I wouldn't get more presents (I will). Just... that part of my life wasn't going to be represented at the party, and that was a little sad. Ok, so there's that.

THEN! On Sunday, my husband was all "Tomorrow, you should come to dinner with me & Doppleganger & her husband (dude... still weird to call him that. I mean, they've been married 2 months, I should adjust soon)" Wait, the parenthetical there is my thoughts, not his. He doesn't think like that. Yeah. I didn't want to go. Bible study was that night, at our house, so I wanted to be there to... stare at the living room before people arrived. I don't know. I just wasn't excited about going out. I didn't really want tacos (which should have been 17 kinds of red flags that there was something SERIOUSLY wrong with me, because when do I ever NOT want tacos?!?), I like our friends a lot, but didn't want to go out. Then Monday came, and I worked and I complained to my husband about still being sad about things that I felt I had no business being sad about (see above paragraph) and kept asking "Do I really need to come to dinner? Can't I just stay home and do dishes instead?" Seriously--I don't know why my husband didn't have a thermometer & a shrink at my side instantly, because I am not the kind of woman who ever says things like that. (Spoiler alert--the very next day I had some random fever crap that was gone as fast as it came. Bizzare.) He just kept repeating that yes, I should be there, it was important, trust him! I thought Doppleganger had NEWS to share, though I couldn't imagine what it would be. They're not planning on hopping on this having-a-baby train any time soon. I'd already seen her new car. In fact, I just saw her on Sunday, so... what's the big deal. I grudgingly went to dinner, tried to put on my best face, despite being tired, not hungry, and generally feeling icky. Thankfully, these are friends who like me even when I'm tired and icky, so I didn't have to try too hard. It was a nice dinner. We sang "soft kitty." Then I left. No NEWS was revealed. I felt cheated and tricked and crankier. I told my husband so in a snippy text on my way home.

I rushed home to get there before people arrived for bible study. Thankfully, because everyone but me lives about 20 miles south, much closer to downtown, in an older and far-too-hip-for-me neighborhood, they're generally late, which was awesome for me on this day. Except when I got home and saw a strange car in front of my house! OH GREAT! Jennifer, our newest member, has probably been waiting outside my house for... like... MINUTES and doesn't know the garage code to let herself in and I'm a horrible hostess and the crank increases.

So, I walk inside with a mouth full of appologies, only, I see this instead:

Yeah, that's right! My husband lured me out of the house so that my bible study ladies could throw me a surprise baby shower since they were all going to be out of town/otherwise busy on the actual day. And my husband didn't put them up to it! Aparently they planned it all when I wasn't around. Because they are sneaky. And my husband kept the secret--which is a pretty big deal for him. I usually get like 4 or 5 presents from him at every gift-giving holiday because he can't wait to give them to me on the day.

Yes. I felt like a giant dork for being all mopey and was totally surprised and shocked. Not that they like me and wanted to celebrate me, but that they would go to all the trouble of putting on a whole shower (with games! and punch! and snacks! and cake balls!) on a Monday night. It was awesome.

Also, I participated in this awesome Scarf-swap thingy that Raven over at Just Expressive organized. The scarf I got from -R- is wonderful! It's the perfect color to go with so many of my peacock-themed things, and! I got bonus matching earrings with it! Score! (Also, I'm wearing jiggaflern in  my hair that I stole of my peacock-themed wreath that I still haven't taken down because I realized it wasn't really all that Christmas-y, so now it hangs in the bedroom because I like it. And I stole a little cluster of appropriately colored stuff & stuck it on my head. Ta-da!)

In summary--things that are awesome: My Twitter friends (more on this later, because I actually do have lots to say about them) and my real life friends. Basically, my friends in general. I'm pretty much the luckiest girl in the world.

*Seriously the best business plan ever invented! 24 hour access to awesome ice cream (Jamoca Almond Fudge please!) and donuts!

**You know that song by ELO? The "Don't bring me dooooooown, Bruce!" song? Well, it's not actually Bruce. It's Gruss. The song is about my friend The Gruss. And when you hear the song on the radio, you must immediately start singing along and call her. No matter where you are in the song when she/her voicemail picks up, you must not stop singing to say any sort of greeting. She's a smart cookie. She'll catch on. She knows the drill. It happens all the time. So... anyway, Gruss won't ever let you down. That's a fact.

Little Bride and the happy Groom

Today is a wedding day.

Not *my* wedding day of course. My doppleganger is getting married. It's funny that I think about it that way, because I only met my doppleganger because she decided that she liked my friend Pat enough to date him. And my friend Pat is one of the first people I met when I moved to Texas a million (or 8) years ago.

Pat was sort of my boss, just like Dan was sort of my boss, at this haunted house in Allen, TX where I learned that I just can't be inside a haunted house without screaming--even if I'm the one supposed to be doing the scaring. So I worked in a part of the...house, except it was outside, so it was more like a park with several haunted attractions. Anyway, I worked in a part where we loaded people up into big open trailer things on the back of pick-up trucks & drove them around the woods for a bit while they shot paintballs at monsters. It was actually pretty fun, except for the time I got shot by accident.

Anyway, Pat & Dan were good buddies and they eventually stopped thinking of me as my brother's little sister and I got to be my own person, and they introduced me to their friends, and ta-da! I made friends in Texas. Pat & Dan are my staples, my go-to guys. They can get anything done... or blown up.

Many years later, Pat met Lisha. Well, actually, I don't know when they first met, as they have a mutual friend, but many years later, Pat brought Lisha to a Christmas party that I attended and I met Lisha. Ok, another 6' redhead with a weird L name? Awesome! And she is. Just like when Dan got married all those years ago, somehow his wife became just as good and close a friend to me as he is. Same with Pat & Lisha. I met Pat, and got a Lisha. Pretty good deal if you ask me.

Pat is... he's not one to gush and squee and run around like a chicken sans head. He's a planner, even if the plan is just, "Show up, do stuff, go eat." His wedding is like that too. It's organized, but there's plenty of room for things to go sideways and everyone will still be just fine. He's got the important part nailed down--at the end of all of this, he'll be married.

So today, Lisha is a little bride. A 6' tall redhead with hair down to her hiney, in a beautiful & classy gown--who embroidered her own handfasting cloth. There will be a reading about dinosaurs, and one where multiple references to prostitution had to be edited out for the sake of one 87 yr. old grandmother. Her 19 month old godson will be led by his parents down the aisle as a ringbearer, and the flower girl is 5, blonde, and too cute for words.

That's the wedding part.

The real good stuff comes after. The marriage part. I love the way Pat & Lisha love one another--there's lots of laughter and fun and waffles. I can't wait to see where married life takes them, but hopefully no farther than Plano. I like having them nearby!

Melissa Muhlenkamp of Squawk Box Design took this fabulous picture--it suits them perfectly!

Believe it--my life is one big run-on sentence

There is a vicious cycle that happens sometimes when it comes to written communication.

For example:

You are a conscientious and gracious human who receives a gift from another conscientious and gracious human, so you write them a thank you card.  You send them the thank you card, and maybe it was a handmade card, and maybe you said lots of really sweet things in it about how you not only appreciate the gift, but the gift-giver and the friendship that lead to the giving of the gift in the first place.*  Then the gift-giver is so moved by the thank you card that they want to send you a thank you card back, but then you're thanking them for thanking you and that leads to a vicious cycle of pleasantries... so I suppose a pleasant cycle, but still vicious in that it has to stop somewhere, but you don't want to be the unappreciative heel who didn't send a thank you card... even though it's a thank you for a thank you for a thank you...

Alright, in the modern world it sometimes goes more like this:

You read a blog or article or whatever on the Internet and decide to send the author some positive feedback.  Maybe you send them an e-mail because you've been reading months worth of the archives and the breadth of your comments is too much to cram into just any one post.*  So you send an e-mail full of glowing praise for this thing that you liked.  The author reads it and in a totally awesome and real-person-type way, sends a response, which is in and of itself just stinkin' rad!  So, follow me here: the first e-mail is the gift. The response is the thank you note.  But maybe in that response they said even more awesome stuff that you totally want to respond to, because obviously there is a human on the other end of the communication line, and that human actually seems to have stuff in common with you, and you maybe want to tell them more stuff that isn't necessarily about how great they are or how great you think they are, but about those things you have in common...

Is it the same thing?  Am I crazy for wanting to continue an e-mail conversation with a stranger just because I like the things they write and it turns out we have 2 things in common? 

I mean, they have lots of readers, sometimes in the hundreds and thousands range... they must be inundated with letters of praise and adoration.  Even though I know they are appreciative of my praise (because otherwise they never would have responded to say so, because they're not total douchenozzles), I don't want to be all fan-girly... because even though I am totally enamored, I should have some self respect and maybe composure or something... I just don't want to overwhelm anyone with my appreciation, because that seems uncomfortable.  I don't know.  I don't really live in the world where that would happen to me.  The closest I come is one very excitable Aussie Shepherd type dog greeting me when I get home and trying to sniff me in places that I don't like to be sniffed.

I mean I would be satisfied with just tens of followers, and it would be great if those people were my friends with whom I liked to share meals and vacations and YouTube videos.  Which isn't to say that I wouldn't be happy if random people from the Internet came to visit my blog.  No, that would be pretty keen too.  See, random Internet people, I don't dislike you.  Your existence is just sort of about as relevant to my life as the Hubble telescope.  I know it exists and does stuff when I'm not paying attention, which is in fact 99.999999999993% of the time**, but none of that really impacts my day to day life. 

Unless of course the Hubble telescope became a fan of my blog... which would be incredible and mean that I had surpassed the greatness that this world could contain and had to share my greatness with the universe at large... which is incredibly unlikely unless I somehow manage to come up with something to say, which I don't see happening any time soon seeing as how I can't even really be bothered to stop my own run-on sentences.

All of this to say that thrice times have I actually taken the time to write to some of my favorite bloggers (that I didn't already personally know) to tell them that I appreciated their contribution to my Internet adventures, and twice times I have received responses and both times I wanted to respond again but feared being "that guy" that keeps the conversation going much longer than is desired...

No one wants to be That Guy.

*This really does happen, I promise. I know, because I do it, and while I'm a bit of an odd duck, I'm not a totally unique snowflake type duck.
**as calculated by my random statistic generator, i.e. my imagination...

TACOS!

If you've ever heard of the 5 Love Languages then you should know that my primary love language isn't actually listed. My primary love language is Tacos.

By which I actually mean the consumption of anything vaguely Tex-Mex with people I love.

For example, if I look at you and say, "Tacos?" what I really mean is, "I like you. I am experiencing one of the 7 levels of hunger*. I would like to spend time with you while consuming Tex-Mex type food which may or may not actually include tacos." I might instead exclaim "Tacos!" out of the blue. This is a battle cry meaning "I've had just about as much of this as I can take. Let us flee from these shenanigans to a magical land of avocados and pico de gallo where we shall banish the troubles of this place with copious quantities of cheese and corn." It's not universal in usage, but you get the point.

I not only love the fact that it takes a lot of the guesswork out of dining out with friends. Can't decide where to go? No problem! Just head for tacos. Obviously here in Texas that does create almost as many choices as it eliminates, but then you can decide based on proximity and quality.

"Tacos" can effectively encompass all the 5 love languages that Gary guy lists in one evening.

Quality Time--spend time eating tacos with me
Words of Affirmation--talk about life with me and reassure me that I'm not screwing everything up beyond recognition.
Acts of Service--make me tacos, or enchiladas, or empenadas, or tortilla soup, or nachos
Receiving Gifts--pick up the tab
Physical Touch--sit near me, hold my hand, but not the hand I need to eat tacos with

In the past two days, I've had tacos twice, though I ate enchiladas both times. It's not really about the food, though I do love tex-mex. I'm forever grateful to my friend Dan for teaching me the rule of tacos. No more endless dickering about where to go. Good times were only a phone call away. Whenever my bean-to-blood ratio was low, I could call him up, and we'd drive to that taco place off the highway, a chain restaurant like thousands of others across the country, but that one was ours. We chatted about life and growing up and moving across the country and love and fears and World of Warcraft and becoming rock stars. We'd play ninja games for the check and somewhere the rule developed that if you were able to pick up the tab 3 times in a row, the other person had to buy you jewelery... it's an awesome game! Now we go to a different taco joint, just a little farther north, and we bring our spouses and friends and we talk about different stuff, but it's still therapeutic.

If you happen to be one of the strange folk whom I don't understand in that they cannot, will not, or just plain don't enjoy tacos or other Mexican-ish food... well, find your own version of tacos. Maybe it's schnitzel, or spaghetti, or sushi...or fried chicken! Whatever it is, enjoy the beauty of taco therapy, whatever you call it.



*a post for another time

Girl School

The Man Card. 
Truth be told, I'm not sure what rights and privileges are associated with the thing, but I do know that expressing a lack of knowledge in certain areas will cause other men to revoke the holder's man card... To avoid this happening, go read up on The Art of Manliness.  I admit that even I enjoy reading some of the stuff there.  While I could care less than half a whit about how to tie knots in my fishing cord or shave like my great-grandfather, I do appreciate information on how to make a stellar cocktail, talk to bartenders and properly introduce guests to one another.

But I'm a girl, so enough about the Man Card.  There is a common concept amongst my friends about "Girl School."  That mysterious day in school when the boys were separated from the girls and they taught us all the feminine mysteries.  It was, in reality, quite disappointingly just an out-of-date film about bodily functions. 

In most references, we find ourselves lamenting that we missed a certain day in Girl School.  I, for one, missed the day where they taught the importance of matching your purse to your shoes.  I am a one-purse-at-a-time girl.  The current specimen is black, with lots of pockets, and enough room for the average paperback novel.  Stylish?  Not really.  I also missed the days on Haute Coture and Designer fashion.  I can't tell a Prada from a Coach from a Louis Vuitton, and I had to Google how to spell that last one.  I recently spent more than 2.5 seconds considering which shoes to wear with a certain outfit.  Not in a sophisticated "which style would look best and accentuate this ensemble to the fullest potential" kind of way.  In the "oh, do I wear black or brown?" kind of way.  I was shocked!  Color Coordination was one of my major areas of study in Girls School.  I only really dabbled in Application of Accessories, but I've taken several CE courses with qualified instructors* over the years.  Yet there I was, confused by the tan pants.  The only thing to do, once I realized I was wearing black accents and thus needed black shoes, was to go straight to the bathroom to reaffirm my girly-girl qualifications.  I was aces at make-up application and have worked hard to remain up to speed with trends and techniques.  I opened my ridiculous collection of colors and brushes, consulted my mental catalogue and pulled out a muted smokey eye suitable for day office wear with an understated, but flattering, red glossy lip.  I felt firmly feminine again.

There are lots of things that I missed in Girl School.  Sewing, Mending, and most forms of crafts involving needles, including knitting and crochet.  I scrapped by with a passing grade in Kitchen Witching, but have taken a few extra courses over the years that bring me up to snuff.  I couldn't pass Make Stuff Grow at all--not the Visual or Edible versions.  Arts and Crafts was a challenge--not because I lack the imagination or skill, but mostly because I lack the patience. I did pretty well at Freestyle Dance while failing quite miserably at most structured dances, due to an overabundance of enthusiasm paired with a devastating lack of coordination and discipline.  I did alright in Music, so long as the instrument is me, and not something else.  I'm currently working on my certification in Eyebrow Adjustments.  Storytelling, Make Believe, Dress Up, Shoulder to Cry On (and the follow up "Make Them Laugh Through the Tears), How to make a Hair Do out of the Contents of Your Purse--those I'm pretty good at.

I have, however, managed to surround myself with ladies who are good at all the things I am not.  Amazing cooks, bakers, hostesses, dancers, knitter, gardeners, seamstresses, milliners, skirt tuckers, eye-lash batters, save-the-world-with-a-bobby-pin-ers, and more.  If any of them happen to lack skills in Eye Make-Up Application, or Removable Jigga-Flern 101, I'm here to help.

Of course, The Art and Power of Being a Lady is so much more than fashion and accessories.  To sum up, a quote from that lovely book: "Being a lady is an attitude.  It's about being content with ourselves and confident in our abilities.  It's about feeling good and about looking good, too. But mainly it's about doing good."

So all the primping and preening and prepping goes into creating at atmostphere of confidence and joy.  We feel good, because we look good, and so we want to do more good for those around us.  We help our friends look and feel their best on their worst days.  We cook and craft gifts for holidays and Tuesdays and because we heard a song on the radio that reminded us of someone we love.  We lend hands and care for pets and plants when friends are out of town.  We entertain babies.  We loan out our husbands for heavy lifting and making of stuff with wood and glue and saws and nails.   Our hands are eager to help, however and wherever needed. 

That's the real magic of Girl School.  Whatever day you missed, whatever skill you lack, just look to your girlfriends.  They've probably got it in spades.


*An invaluable piece of advice, passed on to me by a good friend, comes from Coco Chanel (or so urban legend says).  When you're done, dressed, and ready to go--take one thing off.  That way, you'll never be too much, over done, or trying too hard.

What a crock!

I'm having a love affair with my crock pot this fall. Now, to be fair, I've always loved my crock pot, but I'm finally putting the little guy to good use!

Last night, I had some girlfriends over for dinner, and like a little cluck of hens, we ate and talked and drank wine.  It was glorious.

The original plan was to put spaghetti sauce on to simmer all day.  Forgetting that, I made spaghetti last week, so spaghetti sauce turned into chili in a hurry.  Really, it's just a matter of switching the spices, as all the rest of the ingredients are the same.

So, chili simmering in the pot, a Tempranillo on the table, and my girlfriends arrive with cinnamon rolls.

Don't roll your eyes.  It's weird, but it's good!  I'd never heard of this odd-ball combination either until I attended the University of Nebraska, and then all the natives insisted that it was the only way to eat chili.  I'm not convinced of its superiority to things like a baked potato topped with chili, or just chili with cheese, onions and oyster crackers, but it is good.  It's not just the contrast of sweet with savory, which my brother strangely detests.  A pinch of cinnamon in a pot of chili just does something amazing to the spices.  Alton Brown could probably explain the chemistry behind it, but it makes the chili and cumin seem richer by comparison.  Like adding a little chili powder to hot chocolate...

Anyway, it's been a week full of soup-y goodness.  My husband made beer-cheese soup on Monday, and we both want to tweak the recipe a little, though not at all in the same way, so we'll wind up with two different versions of the soup before all is said and done.

And we recently acquired 10 lbs of fresh cow, so there's a rump roast just waiting for a date with the crock pot next week.  I've got a tortilla-type soup recipe that's sort of like Truvy's "a cup, a cup, a cup" recipe, only it's a can, a can, a can--black beans, corn, and tomatoes w/ green chilies.  Of course, then you pick a rotisserie chicken clean, cover it with broth & ignore it for a few hours.  Serve with tortilla chips, cheese, and sour cream if you wish... mmmm... I'm making myself hungry (which is remarkable as I haven't been able to smell anything for 3 days, so nothing really sounds good.  Worst part about a cold really--it robs food of all it's fabulosity...).

I think my favorite thing about the crock pot isn't the convenience or the simplicity.  No, it's the smell.  You walk in to the house and everything smells good.  It reminds me of being young and coming home to find Mom cooking.  The smell is the invitation and anticipation.  It means you've made real food from real ingredients.  It's what makes a house a home... the smell of a good meal. 

So show your crock pot some love soon.  You'll thank me later.

a cuppa tea

Alright, so not being English, or an avid tea drinker, I'm a little slow in jumping on the tea bandwagon. Mostly because tea is, in my mind, the thing you drink when you're cold or have a cold. This is not helped by the fact that my husband drinks some pretty foul concoctions.

Mom drank coffee black, Dad drank tea, sweet with milk. I like my tea black... or did, until I started creaming & sugaring it into submission, much the same way I do with coffee that isn't mixed in with my hot chocolate. That also might be because I started off drinking only fruit teas--mostly Lemon Zinger, and a peach something. Of course, there was green tea with Chinese food too.

Now I've branched out and drink all of the "regular" teas: Earl & Lady Gray, Irish & English Breakfast, Constant Comment and the rest of the standard Twinnings. I still don't care for chamomile or warm mint, but I'm usually game to try most of the other flavors.

See, my friends like tea. They like lots of tea. They like good tea, and they like a wide variety of tea. I'm still learning the language, so I don't always know just by the name whether a particular tea is black, green, white or red. I'm not sure what an Oolong is, but I like it. I don't yet own a tea ball or other method of preparing loose tea, but it's on my list.

My favorite tea is still a little gem from a place in San Jose called Lisa's Tea Treasures. My mom's friend Anne, who's been like an adopted aunt my whole life, took me to Lisa's one summer, and I bought this delicious vanilla jasmine tea. Fast forward ten years to the kitchen of my friend Kathleen, who is one of the many tea-lovers in my world, who introduced me to a beautiful vanilla caramel tea. So, we're standing there, and I'm browsing her teas, and I get a whiff of something deliciously familiar... I look and see the bag and think, "no... can't be!" But it is. There in her kitchen is my favorite tea... and I have no idea how she managed to get it all the way from California, but I'm intrigued and excited and want to do the same. Sadly, turns out it was nothing more than having a friend from the area bring some back for her.

This past weekend, Kathleen brought out another Lisa's gem... champagne raspberry oolong... with cream and sugar and a little 43, it was the perfect thing to take the edge off a chilly morning.

After throwing a tea and cake baby shower, I've got a craving to host another tea party. The last one I had was when I was about 13, and my mom was awesome enough to track down crumpets for my girlfriends and I.

So, next time I have a free weekend, I'm gonna gather some girlfriends, enable us all to wear frilly dresses, gloves and hats, and drink tea, eat tiny cakes and sandwiches, and talk about the weather.