A couple weekends ago, Chris and I were holed up in a Truckee hotel for a night during one of his mountain bike races. He was in the bathroom tending to one of his “it’s cool, I think a butterfly bandage should hold it together” injuries (ew) while I distracted myself with Food Network in the bedroom. Because that’s what married people do in swanky euro-mod hotel rooms. First aid and cable.
Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives was on, of course (is it not always?), and exclamations like BANGARANG and BOOYAH and TAKE ME TO FLAVORTOWN were shooting out of the TV like Cyclop’s laser beams.
HOLY CLAM, BATMAN.*
GIVE THAT BAD BOY A TASTE.
And that’s when it hit me.
Blind people probably think Guy Fieri is a porn star.
Is that an OK thing to have people believe?
I don’t think so. I think not at all is that OK.
So, Public Service Announcement: Guy Fieri is the host of a food show. Tell your blind friends.
Remember that time it was 1:30 in the morning and your #SoLetsPigOut Day 3 joint post with Gina was supposed to go live in 6 hours? But then you spent a good 40 minutes googling The Bachelorette spoilers? And eating too many handfuls of Chicago mix popcorn? But really you just picked out all the caramel ones?
Hello. Welcome to my now.
We should totally be talking about salad.
When Gina and I were brainstorming the menu for #SoLetsPigOut, she was stuck in the midst of some Whole 30 BS and I was in the process of shoving circus animal cookies in my face. So when it came time to choose a main course of sorts, naturally we both honed right in on salad. Her because, um, grass and twigs and whole stuff. And me because salad later = more cookies now, and that’s the kinda math I can get behind. I mean, it’s right up there with
you! + me! = us!
To the three people that got that, we’re officially BFFs. Let’s braid hair and compare retainers. Mines blue with glitter! Squeal!
This morning I woke up certain that I was still dreaming. A glimpse outside revealed a slate sky heavy with anticipation, a thick-striped greenbelt under the window screaming words like verdant and lush that have become few and far between on the West Coast.
And then: the staticky buzz of cicadas, audible even over the light hum of the outer belt.
Ah, yes. The midwest. Again. It’s no dream.
More years ago than I care to count, Chris and I packed up our tiny college apartment just outside of downtown San Luis Obispo and dove (or rather drove) into a new life — a presumably grown-up life — in Columbus, OH. We did it for our jobs, first — and for the small thrill that accompanies decisions that are ultimately the result of late night brainstorms brimming with youthful proclamations: we’re young! we’re nimble! extra ranch and peperoncinis!
Living in Ohio was both exactly and not at all what we expected. It was opportunity — to advance our careers, to buy our first house, to explore a part of the country we had previously (perhaps selfishly?) ignored. And to forge incomparable friendships. But it was also isolation — from our families, our friends, In-N-Out Burger, literally everything that we knew as home, all of which was still back in California.
The four years we ended up spending out here taught us more about ourselves, about each other, than we ever could have guessed. Missing our families transformed into becoming each others’ family. Our boy-meets-girl story was slowly filled in with all those nothing really anecdotes that make up a history. Riding bikes in the thick of a summer thunderstorm. Shoveling — or rather, not shoveling — a drive. (Rookie mistake.) Crying over a dented box of Cheez-Its in the middle of the grocery store. A story for another day, I promise…
This morning I woke up with sunshine practically pouring out of ears, my heart lighter ‘an air and a serious spring in my step. It’s summer, you guys. Not almost summer or might as well be summer but the real thing. Warm. Glorious. And my
day planner Google Cal is finally awash with long, sleepy weekends, fancy pants dinners and aeroplane travel to places near and far. Columbus, Las Vegas, Puerto Vallarta. Tahoe, Mammoth — and, if I can swing it, maybe even a late summer roadtrip through the Pacific Northwest. It’s a lot in a little time, and before I know it, I’ll probably be one big ball of whiney woeisme, but for now I’m just gonna go ahead and bask in the glow that is a proper summer vacation.
And drink me a drink that is unapologetically literal in its celebration of the season. (Because it’s sunny yellow. Poetic, right?)
Growing up in Sacramento, summer was sticky forearms on the counter at Vic’s Ice Cream. Long drips of mint chip, the sharp, puckery fizz of a lime ricky. Tall cups of pineapple sherbet passed across the counter — sweet, frothy and impossibly cold. Blissful on a hot day, for sure. But even better enjoyed in the waning light of an 80-degree evening, plus cutoff shorts and Rollerblades. (Because, no shitting, everything tastes better on Rollerblades.)
(More parentheses: And a grilled cheesedog sandwich alongside. But we’ll save that for later. Homie can only cram so much summer into one post. No more parentheses.)
Oh what’s up, dudesies. Fancy seeing you here. I thought you might have flown the coop since it’s been all crickets and cobwebs up in these parts lately. And by these parts I mean the blog. This blog. Not those parts. Oh dear, and now we’re talking about cobwebby parts when we should be talking about just about anything else.
Like the impressive flip-flop tan I accrued last week. See, the Inland Empire is hot as farts. Sunshiny, too. And a literal hotspot of boutiquey fruit vendors tempting passersby with baskets of red, sun-warmed berries and candy sweet stone fruit. Squishy dates, glittering with amber syrup. It’s also where my bestie-with-the-baby just put down roots, which means she’s but a 60-minute airplane ride away. (Airplanes, man. More like fatty, winged mind-blowers, amiright?)
So, that’s where I was last week, while things around here were getting all…lonely and unkempt. (I can’t help it – it just keeps taking that turn.) Eating fat, juicy berries and fat, sugary dates and squeezing fat baby cheeks and getting my foot tan on.
I did it again. It’s getting dangerously close to 90 degrees outside, and here I am talking about soup. I feel like we’ve been here once before. Ah, yes, the Famous Cheesy Broccoli Soup of Spring 2014. Jeez, it wasn’t even that long ago.
But this time is different. This time, I know you guys will forgive me. Because look at this soup.
Its supremely lovely hue. That hypnotic swirl of green garlic cream that begs of you to put down the remote…pick up the spoon…you are not Olivia Pope…you are not Olivia Pope…you ARE NOT Olivia Pope…
I suppose now might be a good time to confess just how many eps of Scandal I’ve devoured in the past 24 hours. I’d heard all the rumors, but in short? UH.Dicted. It makes coping with the 80+ degree temps inside my house nearly tolerable. Frequent trips to the freezer are helping, too. Open freezer. Insert head. Consult box of Arm & Hammer from 2011 on how best to go about asking landlord for an AC unit. Realize you’re consorting with an air freshener. (A stale one at that.) Opt instead for the well, it can’t get any worse route. Make soup.
And here we are again.
It’s my birthday week around these parts — and who’s got two thumbs and loves herself a birthday cocktail? THIS GIRL. Sadly, the only booze we’ve got in the house at the moment is brown, and unless there’s a good glug of ginger beer involved (or bacon and dates) (or ice cream and fruit) (or peer pressure … Continue reading