The Power of Flowers . . . Wild Ones, That Is.

I'll be the first to admit it.  I'm not the kind of gal who likes receiving flowers.  I actually usually get kind of annoyed when I do.  I know -- that's a real bitch of a thing to admit to . . . but it's true.  There's something so planned and contrived and orchestrated about the whole flower thing that I just can't get excited about it.  To me, it's one of those generically romantic things that rubs me the wrong way, kind of like weddings, which I also am not fond of.  (I actually really think weddings are a real waste of energy and money, but that's for another day and time.)

Besides, flowers from a florist are way too expensive to last only a week.  What really charms me is something special and original, like, I don't know, a big cylinder of Cheese Balls or something.  But that being said, I actually do love flowers, particularly the kind that spring from the wild and brush against your legs when you're taking a walk on a summer morning or that catch your eye at the farmstand, such as these beauties that I picked up for less than four bucks earlier this week.

They might've been the prettiest bouquet I've ever seen, probably because they were so natural resting in water, held together with a rubber band just waiting for me to pluck them from the wooden crate.  They didn't try to be prettier than they were; there was no pretense in their packaging; there was nothing planned or contrived about them -- they just were.  These are the kinds of flowers I love -- the ones that symbolize the unexpected pleasures of life, rather than the planned ones.  Kind of like life.  Because some things are better unplanned.

Gaga For Grilled Cheese

I don’t know what it is, but lately I can’t get enough grilled cheese sandwiches.  I had it for dinner Monday night; I had it for breakfast yesterday morning.  I wanted it for lunch today, but I didn’t have access to a stove.  The best grilled cheeses are made with the humblest of ingredients.  It’s not about being fancy, organic, or gourmet here; it’s about recreating the iconic childhood favorite, the way my mom (and sometimes my dad) made it on rainy days, flattened with a spatula and blackened on a cast-iron griddle.  While it’s great paired with Campbell’s Tomato Soup, in my mind there is nothing more satisfying than grilled cheese and a tall glass of ice-cold milk. 

Now that I’m an adult, I’ve revised the version my parents made for me ever so slightly.  I’ve determined that my favorite bread for grilled cheese is J.J. Nissen Canadian White.  It’s doughy, slightly sweet, moistness provides ample heft for grilling and complements nicely with the tanginess of the cheese.  As for the cheese, the star of the show, I prefer Kraft 2% American Cheese.  I am no snob when it comes to American food given that one of my favorite American dishes is a burger and fries, but my only preference here is that the cheese must be white and not orange. 

I line two pieces of cheese on one side of the bread making sure that it’s evenly distributed.  Oftentimes, I peel a piece off of one of the slices to make sure all portions of the bread are covered evenly.  On special occasions I smear on a dollop of mayonnaise to the other slice of bread before I combine the pieces.  Or, on even more special occasions I will add a little bit of peanut butter.  Call me crazy, but these condiments (never combined, mind you), take the grilled cheese to another level.  The peanut butter idea was all mine, but the mayonnaise suggestion was one I learned from an article I read in Bon Appetit.  After reading that, I bet you’ll try it. 

While my mom always used a cast-iron griddle, I only sometimes do now.  It does a great job of forming a nice crust, but in my mind the beauty of making a grilled cheese is that it’s the ultimate lazy [wo]man’s comfort food, and that should not require me to reach on top of my fridge to pull down a heavy griddle.  So, on a stainless steel 10” pan I add a tablespoon of butter and turn on the stove to let it melt.  Once the butter is a small pool I swirl it around in the pan and add the bread and cheese.  I cover the plan and let the sandwich grill on medium for 2-3 minutes and then flip it for the same amount of time. 

As soon as it’s tawny and crisp looking (a little less charcoaled than how my mom made it), I slide the grilled cheese onto a plate.  I break the ultimate food etiquette rule by not cutting it in half so the cheese remains preserved in the sandwich rather than oozing over into the plate.  That is key.  Finally, I pour myself a glass of milk, pull out a magazine (a phonebook will do too), and munch away at my grilled cheese.  So simple, so basic, and it still just doesn't get much better than this. 

Simply Satisfying

As I write this, it is 7:55 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and I am feeling especially relaxed because it’s already my second day of the weekend – of a long weekend.  Yesterday, I spent my day off doing random things like washing my floors, going to Buen Apetito for lunch, calling Garnet Hill to exchange a pair of French blue ballet flats for leopard print, running errands at a leisurely pace, catching up on my favorite blogs, watching my husband install a curved shower rod in our newly renovated bathroom, and buying local produce at my favorite farm stand. 

It was the kind of day filled with simple, seemingly mundane things that become enjoyable when there are no other distractions in the world.  When the task at hand is suddenly the most important thing, such as analyzing different trashcans at the store, for instance.  Or, at the farmer’s stand there is the possibility of making a spontaneous decision to buy a bouquet of flowers, in addition to your usual collection of tomatoes and cukes (I didn’t, but I thought about it).   And, perhaps most importantly, about what style shoe to purchase.

My Friday off was perfect in that unplanned, summertime, simple-life kind of way, right down to the perfectly breezy 74-degree air and cumulus clouds in the sky.  While I don’t need to be reminded about the beauty of a day off here and there, it’s appreciation in the simple things that make life something special, such as Mexican food and leopard print. 

In Defense of The Sandwich

Something I’ve learned about adulthood is that life gets crazy sometimes.  Not in that voluntary add-everything-you-can-think-of-to-your to-do list, such as cleaning the closets or sweeping the garage, mind you, but crazy with things that actually need to get done.  Things with deadlines.  Or, really, multiple things with multiple deadlines.  You know, important work stuff. Things that get your head spinning in multiple different directions, when you feel like you don’t even have enough time to take a sip of tea or eat your lunch, or remember to eat lunch, for that matter.  I am not the only one with a crazy busy life.  Those with careers and kids and houses – it’s all the spice of life that not only makes us crazy, but brings us a certain amount of contentment, too.  Being busy makes us feel necessary, validated, and purposeful, in a sense. 

But, when things get so busy it’s easy to to take care of ourselves a little less, such as not eating enough vegetables, exercising, or flossing.  There are certain things that I make sure to keep up with even when I’m stressed out and overworked, such as working out everyday, eating healthy, and taking my vitamins. There are other things that I tend to let slide when I've got too much going on, such as sleep.  I do my best to get enough of it, I really do, but sometimes my Type A mentality  just doesn’t let that happen, and I’m left lying wide awake in my bed worrying if I sent the correct version of a document to a client.  While maintaining a sense of normalcy in a state of chaos takes a lot of work and conscious effort, I’m learning that life is always going to be chaotic and busy.  The days of half-days at kindergarten are long since gone.  Because of that, life is too short to save the simple things for tomorrow. 

Lately I’ve been scarfing down my lunch while staring at a computer screen because I’ve just been too busy to take a lunch break.  You know the feeling, right?  But today, after countless days of working straight through, I shut my door and forced myself to take 20 minutes step away my computer while I ate my lunch and stared into space.  What a vacation that was.  I felt like such a rebel to myself!  Amazingly, the yawns that I had had all morning were cured, and I was able to get through the day with clarity and efficiency.  More importantly, the day did not wiz by in that all-work no-play blur, because I took a few minutes for Sarah.  This reminded me that taking time to step away and relax even just for a few minutes is necessary for productivity.   While rituals are important, especially in attaining a higher level of creativity and spiritual attainment, the essence of taking time to recharge is perhaps a more fundamentally base need to the functioning of the human mind, because it serves the purpose of allowing us to maintain efficiency and productivity.  To be the best versions of ourselves, sometimes we have to take a little quiet time.  Kind of like nap time for adults.   

I am fortunate for a lot of things, one of them being my job.  That is clear, as I would not take it so seriously if it didn’t fulfill me or stimulate me the way that it does.  Just the same, though, it is not my end-all be-all.  There are a lot of things I value in life; however, when things are crazy, it’s easy to forget that there is life beyond that chaos or that it is necessary to take time in the midst of  that chaos for the sheer pursuit of efficiency.   Equally as important, if not more important, though, is taking time to take care of yourself.  This takes effort and time when we feel we don't have enough of it, but which transcends into more time because life feels fuller, more complete, less rushed.  I will say, that sandwich never tasted so good.  I might try it more often.   

RIP, Ms. Winehouse

“Holy shit -- Amy Winehouse was found dead.”  That’s what my husband said to me reading his newsfeed on his Blackberry while we stood in line at Starbucks waiting for our mocha frappaccinos Saturday afternoon.  (God, we sound like such yuppies, but what can I say?  That's what we were doing.)  He continued to ramble on – actually making a poignant remark about how Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Kurt Cobain died at the same age, and I interrupted him to say, “Just wait a minute.  I need to have a moment.”  Stunned, I stood there waiting for my beverage, while I processed the tragic news. 

I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised, or so stunned.  After all, it was no secret that Winehouse was a hardcore addict – both a troubled alcoholic and drug abuser – who had been in and out of rehab numerous times over the past few years.  But still, there is an almost assumed immunity in the young and the extremely talented, that I thought Winehouse would’ve been exempt from the kind of tragic death that might consume an ordinary person overtaken by such an illness.  This may be a wrong assumption, but that’s the kind of musical genius I thought she was, that I think many people thought she was. 

In the past couple days, though, I’ve seen a lot of comments, namely on Facebook, by people saying that her life was a waste, and why should her death be such a shock when she was a one-hit wonder anyway?  I would venture to say that those who were not impacted by her death the way that her fans are had not subjected themselves to the talent that was Amy Winehouse, which I think is sad.  I don't think it's necessarily sad that they were not impacted by her death, mind you.  We're all affected by things differently (personally, I thought the reaction over Michael Jackson's death was a little overdone), but it's sad for someone to not have known her genius, that she was far more than just a "one-hit wonder."   

Her album, Back to Black, released first in 2006  won her six Grammys.  And let’s be honest – it’s a mother f’ing masterpiece.  Her first album, Frank, had less notoriety in the U.S. because it had only been released in the UK, but it is probably equally as good.  (I recommend “You Sent Me Flying/Cherry” and “Take The Box” – two notable standouts on that album.)  Sadly, she had not released an album since Back to Black and before her death, but those two albums – whether you’re an aficionado of R&B or not – will go down in history as cult classics. 

I think some of the animosity toward Amy Winehouse is the manner she supposedly died – over a seizure related to excessive alcohol consumption.  That doesn’t take well to a lot of people.  Coming from someone who is pretty anti-drug herself, I totally get that.  And, in a way, she opened herself to some of that flak as the result of her big radio hit, “Rehab.”  But that’s what made her so appealing – that raw grit that not only described her vocal appeal, but her lyricism as well.  Winehouse was not known for her beauty or for her put-on charm.  In that sense, she was a musician, tried and true.  There was no staged charisma; the essence of her appeal was in her I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude – not in that annoying hipster way – but sadly, more likely as a result of her energies being consumed by her addiction. 

Despite that, even when she appeared visibly intoxicated during concerts she was incapable of escaping her gift, that astounding voice and presence that was unique to only her.  Whether you were a fan or not, it’s a sad day when a musician of her caliber leaves the music community, because she touched a lot of people – both fans and musicians alike -- as well as lent a unique sensibility to the music industry; there was simply no one out there like her.  Drug addiction and alcoholism aside, she was a  powerhouse of a vocalist and songwriter-- a true musician who happened to leave us just a little too early.  Beyond that, I guess I have nothing else to say, other than, RIP, Ms. Winehouse.  You will be missed.

The Family Bond: Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Growing up, if someone told me that I would one day have any kind of relationship with my brother that was anything but tumultuous, I would’ve called you nuts. Both middle children, I, on the younger side of middle, and my brother on the older side, we were like oil and water. Aside from both being caught in the middle, our only similarity was that we bore a similar physical resemblance. My brother Joe, a bull by birth, frequently teased me and beat me up, a sensitive fish. My first black eye was from him, as well as my second, if I can remember right. To him I was a “dog” with a “pot belly” who wasn’t allowed in the fort he had built with his friends. The only times we got along was at Christmastime when we bonded over the new Super Nintendo or when he sold me used goods in exchange for my allowance, such as his leather Raiders baseball  football cap and Arrested Development album he sold to me for $14.

During our teenage years, our differences became much more glaring, in part because of his introduction to drugs and my retreating to my own adolescent angst, which consisted of Ben & Jerry’s and Fiona Apple. Then, the only times we got along was when he was high and I had services to offer, such as a ride to his girlfriend’s or to his dealer’s house. Otherwise, he was stealing my CDs and foreign-coin collection for dope, and I was finding ways to prevent him from doing so, such as shackling my bedroom door with a lock and key -- which worked just some of the time.

When he was 25, my parents gave him a one-way plane ticket to California. Seeing him off, I would’ve been content never to see him again in my life. Just reflecting back on that makes me shudder at the frigidity of that former thought. A year and a half later, I was sending him letters to his new home, a halfway house in San Rafael. His process of getting clean and going through therapy is what marked the dawn of a new relationship between Joe and me – one that would ultimately be one of the deepest bonds I would ever have with a family member.

Last fall, I saw him for the first time in six years. He was tall, built, and had eyes just like mine. He was eloquent and polite, a good communicator, interesting, and sarcastically charming. He was the same brother I had been having phone conversations with since he’d left the halfway house, but he was nothing like the brother I had known in person years that last time I had seen him. This version never existed to me in real life before.

This weekend completely out of the blue, I came home from my morning walk to find a package at my stoop.  In it was a beautiful porcelain teapot and teacup from him. Possibly one of the most thoughtful gifts because of what it represented – one of my favorite rituals of tea drinking and the deep bond that my brother and I now share, despite our differences and our past. Because of our history, my brother knows and understands me like very few people do; I believe this to be true of my understanding of him also. The kind of relationship we’ve been able to build in spite of, or perhaps because of our history, says something about the depth of our loyalty to each other and the deep love we have as brother and sister, as well as about the intimacy of family in general. Blood really is thicker than water.

All In The Ritual

I’ve been thinking about rituals lately – the things we do to relax, to center ourselves, or to be reminded that life has a deeper purpose beyond the mundane goings-on of everyday life. Rituals can be anything as simple as washing your face with a particular facewash every morning or practicing yoga after work or something more indulgent such as getting a pedicure or a massage on a weekly basis. Whatever it is, having rituals reminds us to slow down and reflect, allowing us to recharge so that we have the energy to engage more fully in life, whether in our careers, our studies, or our creative pursuits.

I have practiced the same rituals for a while now – listening to music, drinking tea, exercising, and having solo time. I am lucky that I can share a few of these rituals with my husband, but probably my favorite ritual is that of being alone, such as in the comfort of my own space in my study where I have a nice set of speakers and a subwoofer to blast music from.  (If you're going to take listening music to the ritual level sound quality is important.) There I sit in my stuffed chair, sipping tea (another ritual that I enjoy during this time), leafing through magazines, writing, and/or just daydreaming.  Most importantly, my ritual is experienced by simply being in the moment.  Sometimes I’ll do this for 15 minutes; other times I do this for an hour or more. I always know when I’ve had enough, which is marked by that feeling of replenishment and a desire to re-enter the world.  This is when I know that my ritual is working.

While the technical definition of ritual is a "religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order" (Dictionary.com), I believe the key to practicing rituals is that they be whatever it is you feel like doing, rather than something you feel you should be doing, practiced in a manner that feels almost spiritual or meditative. Sure, my ritual of sitting by myself and listening to music and drinking tea may sound boring and a complete waste of time to some, but to me it’s always the perfect remedy when I’m feeling overworked, overtired, cranky, or uninspired. A little soul time always makes me feel like I’ve regained a part of me that has gotten lost in the shuffle during the day or after a long week.

I watched a great documentary last week called All In This Tea, which, in addition to following an American man in China in pursuit of the finest teas, showcases the ritual of tea drinking, which is what got me on the subject of thinking about this ritual thing. In China, tea drinking is all about the experience of the act itself and relaxing, not letting other distractions get in the way. Whether it’s drinking tea or washing the dishes (whatever it is that you identify with) the notion of being present in the moment is the essence of what participating in  ritual pursuits is all about.