Last night I “slept” with rage in my heart and a pillow tightly pressed against my ear. Somewhere in the abyss, also known as the mini forest thingy right outside my bedroom window, was a dog that clearly was not happy about being put outside. So he or she barked. And then barked and barked for a solid four hours straight, maybe longer. At first I didn’t hear it but then it was ALL I could hear.
After hour one of said dog’s incessant barking, realizing it wasn’t going to end, I started to run down scenarios in my head.
Do I drive my car to the house and knock on the owner’s door at 3am?
Will they murder me? Do I call the police?
Do police even care about dogs barking?
Or do I just get ear plus because knocking on a stranger’s door at 3am sounds like a murder waiting to happen? Probably get ear plugs. Who likes confrontation? Not me. Poor dog.
If it happens again tonight I have no idea what I’ll do….ahh! What should I do?!
They say you can tell a person’s true colors in the darkest of times.
That moment for me was early Monday morning when the Los Angeles earth decided to shake rapidly in the middle of the night. I was mid-crazy dream. I was in the South of France. Amelia and a cat were fighting. I found a Sriracha bottle (how a bottle of Sriracha was just laying on a French country-side road is unknown) and started to throw it at the two of them to quit it. That’s when the earth shook, the doors to my closet trembled and my inner-self went into pure panic mode.
Petrified and confused out of my mind, I jumped out of bed, pushed Josh to wake up and bolted out of the bedroom door. Josh screamed (a very manly scream, I might add), “WHAT IS IT?!?” and him, me and Amelia headed for the bedroom door. Apparently, he thought there was a squirrel in our bed. Why a squirrel, I have no idea…so as we were running out of the bedroom door, he threw the blankets on top of each other, as to try and catch the non-existent squirrel and slammed the bedroom door shut.
Amelia was not to be left behind. She was right there. The trembling stopped and I immediately started doing this weird cry/laugh thing I always seem to do when I’m embarrassed/scared/confused.
Josh explained his fear about the small animal in our bed and I just started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t stop.
There are only a few things that can calm my panicked-self. French toast is one of them.
Sundays are somewhat of a double-edged sword. On one hand, they’re lazy, relaxing and involve Bloody Mary’s and long brunches. But then, as the night sets in, you feel the impending week full of to-do lists and getting up early just looming…
As a kid, Sundays were depressing. It was usually the day when I had to buckle down and do homework. You know, the homework that I had thrown to the side all weekend long because I was busy having fun. There was usually lots of whimpering and pouting and being a brat. There was usually a gigantic cloud over Sunday night. The only things that usually made it better was the tick, tick, tick sound from the opening credits of 60 Minutes and the smell of something mom was braising in the oven.
This weekend is dang important. I mean, SUPER important. It’s Mama’s Day! And I know dogs aren’t considered real children (though they are in my house for the time being), but I’ll be celebrating my first Mother’s Day as a mama. I want brunch, man! I hope Amelia bakes me a quiche.
When I was around 10 years old or so, I remember being pretty bummed. I wasn’t the tallest, prettiest, fastest or smartest kid in my class. Actually, I was the total opposite. I had gaps between every.single.one.of.my.teeth. My hair was frizzy (the 90s were pre-blow outs/Morrocan hair oil), my teeth were unfortunate and I was the teeniest and tiniest person ever. I remember expressing my overall terribleness to my mama and her response was simple, “You’re a later bloomer.” I remember it so specifically because it made all my current short-comings (literally and figuratively) ok. It made me calmer about the present and really excited about the future.
A few weeks ago I was feeling a little bummed about things, when I came across this article written by Martha Stewart. It’s all about being a late bloomer, how she, specifically, is a late bloomer. I don’t think anyone would consider her a late bloomer but she is! She started her empire in her 50s. Isn’t that amazing? It’s never too late. It was an inspiring and motivating read. Let’s relax about right now and get excited for our future. There’s still time.
And more importantly, let’s take the day and celebrate our mamas.
When did fortune cookies stop being fortune cookies and start becoming trite phrases of knowledge? Like, don’t tell me to “live in the moment” or whatever; tell me how many kids I’m gonna have! tell me if I’m gonna get a raise! tell me if that thing I’m stressing about is gonna work out!
Our current fortune cookie reality upsets me, but only because I’m passionate about them. I wish all foods came with fortunes or love notes or Lotto numbers. This dutch baby inflates so high that it could fit a ton of them in its center. How would we get piece of paper in there? I dunno. I wish I knew the secret. I have a feeling it’d involve a lamenting machine and some note submersion. Waking up to this fluffy, tart, sweet thing and some life direction would be cool.
Also, more cutting boards should be shaped like animals. They’re cute and this one makes me want bacon, which sort of disturbs me.
When I was eight years old, I was gifted a child’s magician kit and thought that I had found my life’s calling. Included in the kit were three cups and a disappearing fuzzy ball, two very white gloves, a stuffed animal bunny that folded into the side of a hat, and playing cards that were sneaky.
For the next two months I wore terrible magician-like outfits and forced anyone, and I mean anyone who came over to our house to allow me to show them my act. It was very serious. I’m pretty sure I was inspired by David Copperfield making a huge gigantic plane disappear under a big tarp on 60 Minutes or something. It was pretty impressive.
I’m now very retired from my magic days but I kind of like watching magic shows. One of the most fun things in the world is to have one too many drinks and go watch magic. Literally, like, literally everything will make you go “Oooooo!” and “WHOA!” You will understand nothing.
These pancakes are like magic. They have crazy secrets inside! They appear to look like pretty normal, standard chocolate chip pancakes, but they’re so not. Oh no. (And yes, I basically just compared making a plane disappear to pancakes.)
The September issue of Vogue told me a few things about Fall.
It told me that prints are the new basics, maroon is the new black, curvy is the new sexy, and quinoa is the new oatmeal.
I’m lying. Vogue totally didn’t say that. BUT, if Vogue covered breakfast foods, like they do clothes, they def would have said that. Oatmeal out; quinoa in! And calling it “porridge” gives it this very chic “working class English industrial revolution” feel. Think: orphans in Oliver Twist, BUT trendy and adorable (and not sad).
Quinoa for breakfast may seem strange. I suppose it is, a little. But when cooked in sweetened and spice-spiked milk, it goes from sort of weird to dreamy and stylish.
Some of the best stuff isn’t planned. And today I present you the most delicious accident that’s happened in a loooong time.
You’re actually supposed to be staring at cute little baked oatmeal cups. I pictured you whipping them up for a Mama’s Day brunch and setting them alongside blood orange mimosa, iced coffee and super pretty flowers. But I failed you. SAD! I failed to bring the cuteness, I think. But that’s okay, because as I sat there pondering why and how the baked oatmeal cups went wrong, I started spooning it straight out of the muffin tins…and found myself repeating this act over and over and over. My accident was delicious!
So, rather than trying to make something cute, I decided to remake the dish–tweaking a few things here and there–and just throwing it all in a casserole dish. Sometimes tasty trumps cute, you know. And that sometimes is riiiiight now…
I like to think that galettes are like lazy, messy, casual pies. You only sorta have to roll them out. You only sorta have to make them look pretty. But really, the messier the better. It’s about the easy.
I can’t really think of a meal of the day where easy is most welcomed than on a cold, hazy January morning.
Let’s have pie for breakfast. But let’s leave the fruit for the summer. It’s January. So, pie…with runny eggs, lots of cheese and salty bacon.