Summer Reads

We aren’t headed to the beach until July, but already I’ve got my warm weather literary list. I’d like to alternate between classic (Gatsby … so excited for this movie remake in 2012!) something that requires a bit more work (Jacob de Zoet), then countered with light (Fey, Handler, and Childress, respectively), a dose of travel envy (The Paris Wife), followed by a page-turner that brings out the feeling of the season (Midnight’s descriptions of a hot, sticky summer in Savannah do the trick), and finally end with a book I should’ve read in college, but skimmed (Papa Hemingway).

Oregano Limoncello

My in-laws visited us last month for Easter, and they brought with them a bottle of Limoncello from Italy. I’ve always had a strong relationship with anything citrus, specifically lemon … scented hand soap, or accompanying seafood and vinaigrettes; I love this fruit in all its freshness and burst of happiness. It is a happy thing, isn’t it? And quite in your face about it too, I might add.

Limoncello is a no-brainer because it’s all that, plus, I can fully support a recipe that only calls for a mere handful of ingredients, especially when one of those happens to be vodka, yes sir. I used a recipe from Giada, found here, but the herb addition is all mine. I wish the oregano inclusion was because I’m just that creative, but to say my garden at the moment is overrun with it is an understatement. The infusion of this earthy herb was done more out necessity than anything else since the rosemary, mint, and basil are getting jealous of its abundance and planning a turf war revolt along the lines of no pesto for you this summer.

It all worked out well; oregano floating around drunk in a pool of lemony goodness, now, that’s cin-cin toast-worthy, and a much better fate than a screaming match with parsley.

Writer’s note–I intentionally left out the finished product image.  The nicest way to put it … Limoncello can pass for a sample Lohan and Sheen have to randomly provide their parole officers. It’s delicious, but unfortunately not at all photo friendly.

Toxic Beauty

A while back I attended an event called “Get the Lead out of Lipstick” at a private estate. The concept and campaign are both wonderful, but the crowd was interesting to say the least; I found it jarring to listen to all the talk about toxins in beauty products without noticing the Botoxed hypocrisy, as a lot of the women in this set sported injections, which last time I checked, are in fact, the opposite of chem-free.

But it did force me to look at what products I use (or used to use) and how much gunk is hidden in our beauty regime. It’s more than overwhelming to think about products you use from dental floss to moisturizer that could contain carcinogens and what all this means to us as a people and a planet. Here are some products I do love and that are (for now) safe. To find out more, go to safecosmetics.org.

No. 4 L’eau de Mer hydrating shampoo
Kevin Murphy anti gravity
Raw Essentials refreshing face wash
Dr. Hauschka moisturizing day cream
Butter lacquer in blowing raspberries
PLA Beauty glam lip gloss

Hush, Little Baby

I’m 34. Even though I apparently look young (I still get carded fairly often) despite my obvious signs of crow’s feet, I feel better than I did in my twenties. I’m more confident, more sure of myself both mentally and physically; in short my thirties have been very good to me, I think. But, never have I felt all of 34 until we started trying for a baby.

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Key Lime Pie

When a meal ends I generally cap off the occasion with a glass of wine or coffee. I’m not a huge dessert person, but there are several treats I go gaga for … coconut, carrot and red velvet cake, to name three, well, maybe I am a sweets person. But, the dessert I adore above all others is Key Lime Pie. Tart, tangy, creamy, cool, and generally reserved for sun-scorcher days or ordering in a somewhat tropical place. I love everything about this pie including that it screams spring to me with its pale yellow hue topped in white clouds of whipped heavy cream.

I remember making it as a teenager at my parents’ house in Kansas, it seemed so exotic, and even though I could never find key limes, a bottled variety found at the commissary could curb my cravings. It’s pretty obvious I’m not terribly picky when it comes to this pie, as I’ve even been known to eat the basic supermarket variety. I’d never made it from scratch including the buttery graham cracker crust, but I decided to do just that this past weekend. This treat requires ridiculously few ingredients and is relatively easy to make, to which the recipe found here will attest.

Springtime in Atlanta is in full bloom and I’m thinking this will become just the thing to officially kick off the warm weather season at our house.

Brit Invasion

England is having a good go at things, yes? The 2012 summer Olympic games in London, the House of Windsor nuptials on Friday, to name two. This week’s culture, a roundup of proper British imports I adore.

Buckingham Palace Cushion, notonthehighstreet.com
Earl Grey Tea, Twinings of London
“The King’s Speech,” Image: Courtesy of See-Saw Films
Otis, the rescue dog, allegedly mixed with English Labrador
Pint Tumbler, Crate & Barrel
Vintage Flag, Room & Board
Fish & Chips, BBC Good Food
Hayley & Lucas Print, Keep Calm Gallery
Jane Austen’s “Emma,” Penguin Classics Clothbound
Hand Embroidered Linens, Gayle Warwick (PS—if you’re in the Atlanta area tomorrow check out Gayle’s trunk show at Gramercy from 10 a.m.-6 p.m.)
Corsage Hairband, Topshop

Yoga Jumps the Shark

I took my first yoga class in June 2000 at the corporate gym inside CNN Center, just after I moved to Atlanta. Yoga seemed like a cosmopolitan sort of thing to do and very foreign to me, but at first I didn’t quite get what the fuss was about. It was just so-so and even though I didn’t feel terribly challenged, for some reason, I stuck with it. About eight months later, I signed up for a special lunchtime class on Valentine’s Day dealing with heart chakras. I was single, and that sounded like just the thing to avoiding downing a bottle of wine later that night solo while wearing a chocolate mustache, candy wrappers piled around me, not that I cared too much about occasions like that in the first place, but it could happen. At any rate, I knew my heart needed to be taken care of, and I couldn’t think of a more fitting place for it.

The best I can describe it is that I had some sort of spiritual experience during the class. I started to understand what yoga was about and why people are such devotees. Then, two weeks later, my dad died. I channeled my healing into yoga, and that is when I truly became hooked. Throughout the poses I moved through my grief—depression in the rabbit, anger in the breath of fire, denial in downward dog, bargaining during bird of paradise, and acceptance in eagle. Each day was different in what I felt and how I moved, but yoga, to be blunt, saved my life. It gave me the life I never thought I could have, one that strives for balance both on and off the mat.

So imagine my surprise when my private Prozac, my own special pill, becomes dare I say it, trendy. I’ve seen a rise in articles on the therapeutic theory—with everything from The New York Times running a great piece in February on fertility and the link with yoga as a stress reliever (you can read it here) to  Town & Country last year publishing an article titled “Prescription Yoga” (What? I read it while I was at the eye doctor.) about yoga as the cure all for whatever ails you. Yoga for anxiety, yoga for anger, yoga for anorexia (seriously), yoga for depression–why can’t it just be what it is? I realized more than a decade before Town & Country told me so that yoga is in fact my prescription; I need it like I need other things in my life to feel whole, and I can certainly tell when I haven’t had enough (my family will also vouch for that). But it’s frustrating to see this ancient practice broken down in a way that strips it of its original meaning. Are we so far gone in our fitness and quick-fix pill state to take something so basic, pure, and wonderful and turn it into a dumbed-down version that’s hardly recognizable? It just worries me that once the buzz factor of the practice dies down and the pendulum stops swinging which part of yoga will remain, the old or the new?

Double Trouble

Surely by now you’ve seen this video? I love everything about it. How one baby is smiley and taking it all in, letting the other one talk his little heart out, animated and vocal. My twin sister and I are not identical, unlike what these adorable fellas appear to be. No, we’re fraternal, which, when broken down, means we’re no different technically than any other siblings. But we are, regardless of the countless studies saying the contrary. Separated by just eight minutes (the longest of my mom’s life, she says) we were born on our due date, which is overdue for twins. Apparently we liked each other from the get-go, no hurry to join the rest of the world, perfectly fine hanging out, just the two of us.

I’ve touched upon being a twin (here) but that piece was more about my marriage than my relationship with my sister. We’re more alike than people give us credit for. I think others want to compare twins and stick them in a box and give them set differences and all that is fine, but the one key difference with us, despite what people try to interject, is the speed in which we operate. We joke that I function as if I’ve just done a few lines of coke, her like she’s just digested a bag of mushrooms and is waiting for the pretty colors to change. Our swim coach growing up used to call us Double Trouble—she was just Trouble and I was More Trouble, and I think we lived a bit in those roles for a while. She was shy and I was outgoing, doing the talking for the both of us. She was careful in thinking, doing that for me, very cautious and meticulous in her process.

My mom tells a fantastic story about us. I’ve always gone to bed early and gotten up early, even as a baby. My twin stayed up late and slept in (when did our poor mother sleep?). Well, one morning when we were babies, I crawled out of my crib and padded downstairs to find my mother in the kitchen. She asked me if my sister was up, and I said no. My mom started to feed me and about half and hour or so passed. With no noise from upstairs or anything, I declared, “She’s up.” We went upstairs, and sure enough, she was stirring in her crib. I apparently just knew and I’d do that often.

When this video appeared online, my twin was at a conference for a week in Tampa and I didn’t talk to her for almost an entire week. One of the longest stretches we’ve ever gone except for times one of us has been out of the country. It was awful and I felt off for days–sad, lonely, just bleh. She’s back, thank goodness, but it made me realize how special our relationship is, and one I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Also—I’m pretty sure the video ruckus is over the missing sock.

 

Beach Bum

I could’ve been born in a swimsuit. Living in Hawaii for three years certainly didn’t hurt, either. This has nothing to do with body image or best cuts, I’ve always loved the bright colors everything beach fashion entails, from Pucci-printed caftans (here), the ease and function of surf-inspired clothing, and I especially I adore the old photographs of Elizabeth Taylor, tunic clad with a matching headscarf (here), all of which I’d happily live in daily.

My grandmother, Mary, loved Elizabeth Taylor. My mom thinks it’s because of “National Velvet,” since Grandma Mary was an avid horsewoman. Taylor’s death last month reminded me of style. Here’s to the iconic beachwear and surfer styles and, of course to Taylor who had glamour and grace in spades.

A Respite

Several of my friends saw the Dalai Lama (if you were my husband, you’d insert the Bill Murray-Caddyshack line here) speak last year when he was in Atlanta and the take away (according to them) was that life is about finding the sweet spots along the way, not nirvana at the end.

The journey is the message, and I think there’s something in that. So far, this year’s been particularly busy. I’m trying to wrap up several major writing projects, and ease into a new position, as well as start a new chapter in our family. But, I’ve found it’s always busy (in some fashion) and there’s often a monkey wrench … not every year is a job layoff and cancer, but some are just difficult conversations or a conflict with a sibling. Here are a few things giving me respite lately…