Memory Road

In 2003, the July prior to my wedding that October, I visited one of my best friends in her hometown of Dublin, Ireland. Every March, with shamrock overloaded visuals and overindulgent drinking stereotypes it makes me think of that amazing trip, and also of that part of the globe. It really is just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the States. The trek is easier than you think and for us in Atlanta it’s only about an hour longer than flying to San Francisco or Seattle … worth it.

Here are a few of my photos (so old they had to be scanned) from that magical isle, though they don’t do the trip justice. The Dublin photos are pretty gloomy, as they were shot in black and white, and it was pouring mostly. To balance them out, I’ve also included a few of Edinburgh, Scotland since that was the part of the trip with glorious sunny pictures to prove it.

 

Third Eyes and British Unicorns

I carry a lot of energy. I’m certain I possess more than the average person, and most times that tends to work in my favor and can be put to good use. But during my husband’s layoff last year I realized that without the proper tools for channeling that energy, it can turn into anxiety and worry in an instant.

Because of this, on recommendation from a dear friend, I joined an introductory meditation class. Leading up to the class there are several things that happened. One, the class got canceled. What does it mean when your four-week class to combat stress is canceled? Oh, and it was also scheduled during the holidays, helpful for those of us that might need meditation tools to not go ape shite on our family and have to send handwritten apology notes to everyone after a table gets flipped or something of that nature. Second, I happened to stumble across an article about a study released in a psychology journal about the grey matter of the brain physically changing with the practice of meditation. It’s a fascinating read, you can find it here.

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Before & After, Couch

When we were just friends, I remember my husband missing a day of work because he had to have a couch delivered. I wondered what this couch that required a request-off-of work even looked like. I wondered what his apartment looked like … his bedroom. Shortly, I would find out that the apartment was minimal, at best. His bed had a black (or charcoal grey, I can’t remember which) duvet, and his bathroom a clear plastic inner liner working as a curtain–you get the picture of a guy just out of college, working really long hours and badly needing a woman in his life to make something of this blank (or clear plastic) canvas.

Interestingly enough, the only color to speak of came in the form of his couch a neutrally-hued sage green fabric with a black weave pattern throughout, which he paired with (gasp) black throw pillows. The fact that he even had throw pillows should say something, but wow, not pretty. In the couch’s defense, structurally, it’s really comfy and cozy and something you want to sink into, which is certainly criteria for a living room and TV-watching sofa. The practical man he is thought to buy a sleeper sofa, which to me says just as much as the throw pillows. We spent a lot of time on that couch. It’s since made two moves, from his old apartment to our first apartment together in Midtown, to our first house in Ormewood Park. It’s slept countless visitors and sometimes even us when I beg to do a slumber party in the living room and watch movies and let the dog hop up, or one of us feels awful and turns it into a makeshift hospital bed.

But, this couch, it’s not us. It’s a dude living in a barren apartment sofa. And I’ll just say it–it’s ugly and has been since its purchase ten years ago. Enter my friend, my savior, design guru Heather Hogan Roberts, one half of H&H Home. I’m obsessed with everything the girls at H&H do. I’ve written about H&H here and here. Anywhoo, my friend Heather offered to get me a quote on a custom slipcover for this eyesore, then kindly went with me to pick out fabrics, and even sweeter, let me use her trade discount for what turned out to be a really reasonable fix. And then, had the generosity to gift me the Ikat throw pillow beauties to boot, natch.

The end result is this. I like the idea of still having that old, ratty, dependable thing under there, but surrounded in a sophisticated update. I’ve now fallen back in love with this couch and the boy who crashes on it. The before and after is pretty nice, yes?

 

Dragons, Fire, and Hornets

I started reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo last fall. I was traveling a ton and read a lot then and honestly needed an escape. It came in the form of Lisbeth Salander, the brutally flawed protagonist in Stieg Larsson’s bestselling series. Slow out of the gate (the first 100 pages or so I wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about) but stick with it, it’s worth it, and you’ll be clamoring for the next. I’m not alone, take a look around the terminal on your next flight and I’d bet at least a few people are buried in any one of his three books.

The writing itself, well it isn’t anything made of Jane Austen or even Emily Giffin prose. Not to be all hoity-toity about it, but I find it a bit basic (it could be the English translation), but no one can question Larsson’s ability to develop a thick and page-turning plot.

This isn’t a new story, but what I find even more fascinating than the series is the story behind the writer. Great article in The Times on it here. In short, Larsson died of a heart attack while climbing seven flights of stairs to his office before the books would become wildly successful (actually all three published posthumously). Side note: it’s also incredibly interesting that he apparently insisted on completing all three drafts before attempting to get published. His death occurred within months of the manuscripts being delivered to the publisher. Fascinating, conspiracy theory, you-can’t-make-this-up stuff. It gets deeper, you see, Larson was a Swedish political journalist who received threats often from neo-Nazi’s and far-right extremists because of his work, and he lived his life relatively in hiding. Allegedly not wanting to put her at risk, he never married his partner of more than three decades, architect Eva Gabrielsson.

Gabrielsson supposedly hasn’t received a dime off her late spouse’s estate since common law marriage is not recognized in Sweden. The drama ensues when an allegedly estranged brother and father claimed his computer, and to this day they are fighting over the intellectual property on it (supposedly his fourth book in the series). The computer, however, was left to his partner, but the royalties to his family since a will was never drawn up. Phew, and I thought my family had issues. But, seriously, these books are amazing. The backstory, just as much.

Little Lions

I forget sometimes that danapop has readers outside the confines of Atlanta. There’s a whole world of folks out there that don’t receive the rounds of professional chatter, twitter, facebook, or a chance to catch up at events in person. That things might be happening and before I know it two months go by and I realize I’ve left you with a bomb tease of 2011 starting with a bang and you’re just left wondering what exactly I’m talking about. To circle back, the bang is me leaving a freelance job (DailyCandy Atlanta editor) I’ve had for almost three years and starting a new one (community manager for MSN’s portal called Postbox), which officially began this week.

It’s a great fit all around, but sometimes change is quite difficult with the overlap of duties, learning curves, and settling in to a new routine. But, all of it was sort of my own doing. You see, back in December after reflecting on the past year professionally, I merely mentioned to my husband that maybe this year I should think about another steady gig to do alongside my existing one (or if the offer was strong enough, replace the old one all-together). That little whisper, that little lion’s voice, started the ball rolling and within days I was thrown into the ring of applicants for a job I didn’t even know existed. The Mumford & Son’s performance at the Grammy’s the other night sort of sums up the beautiful chaos I’m feeling these days. Man, I love those guys. So here’s to gathering the lion’s roar and settling into new adventures.

Forks Over Knives

I’ve been thinking about accountability a lot, especially when it comes to food. A couple of weeks ago I went to the screening of Forks Over Knives, a film about eating a mostly plant-based diet. Then, immediately following the documentary my girlfriends and I gabbed over wine, risotto, and trout at Kevin Gillespie’s pork-laden haven, Woodfire Grill. Such is my balanced life. All kidding aside, the arguments brought up in the film are solid when talking about the benefits of reversing the effects of most degenerative diseases including heart disease, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and some forms of cancer.

The core message delves into responsibility and accountability. It explores owning up to how we treat our planet and ourselves and not just taking a pill for whatever ails you. It proves that you can actually come off heart medications just by changing your diet … significant findings for a nation obsessed with prescriptions for everything.

For now, I’m trying to get past the gluttony and the all-or-nothing notions of our culture and fill my body with things that make me feel good. That includes, eggs, and yogurt, fish, and well, steak (all of which they don’t suggest). You can take the girl out of Kansas City but obviously it’s pretty tough to take the KC out of the girl!

I do think we owe it to ourselves to know what makes us feel good and figure out what makes us feel bad when we eat it (I’ve OD’d on Kettle salt and pepper potato chips before and never want be there again–vomit). Forks Over Knives hits theaters in May and will make you look at the foods you eat, portions, and why.

In with a Bang

Our holiday card last year said something about 2010 going out with a bang, and it featured the above photo. We felt like we were really giving the shite year (husband’s layoff, mom’s cancer) a proper sendoff. The beauty of it all is that without last year, we wouldn’t fully appreciate the wonderfulness that is now. You have to have scary to have sweet, heartbreak to have joy, life’s simple balancing act. Ah, therapy, you work wonders.

But, I didn’t realize that what we thought was sending 2010 out, is actually bringing 2011 in with a bang. I’m on the brink of change—and with any shift, I automatically go into scared shitless-manic mode, but trying (really, I am) to roll with it all and live each day fully and not worry about the rest—easier said that done. I may have broken a personal record last week for how many days in a row one can pass off yoga pants and a little girl’s-sized kung-fu fighter anime t-shirt as work attire, how many nervous belly trips to the bathroom one can take, and I’m pretty sure even my twin sister is dodging my anxious, talk-until-I’m-out-of-breath phone calls. Last week did not compile my finest days.

Unfortunately, all of this is too premature to write about, but hopefully, soon, I’ll be able to tell you about it all. Until then, I’m dodging bullets.

Pizza, Pizza

Pizza really is the great equalizer of food. It’s a rare exception when one doesn’t love it, especially when it’s homemade. The problem at our house is I’ve always been weary of dough. I’ve written about my mother’s incredible talent for breadmaking here, and it didn’t stop with just white loaves of baked goodness. It branched into bagels, crusts, yeast rolls, and sweet breads.

This Christmas I got a pizza stone. I’d been wanting one for ages, blaming the cookie sheet as the problem for me wrecking Trader Joe’s already-made whole wheat dough that’s a staple in our freezer. Taking on the challenge of making dough from scratch, I’ve been playing around lately with perfecting crusts and topping combinations. I’ve been using the crust recipe here, from Smitten Kitchen; it’s basic, good, and is the perfect base for piled-on toppings.

Pizza is the quickest, tastiest dinner I can whip together that everyone loves. From a last minute dinner party, to a weeknight meal, it can be as healthy and as satisfying as you want. Another thing I love—it’s timeless. No matter the season, you can load up a pizza on the spot to match what’s fresh. Summer—the classic Margherita’s my favorite with all the basil from our herb garden. I might even sub out tomato sauce with homemade pesto, a trick I got from a dear friend. Winter requires something a bit more substantial; the pie pictured in this piece was loaded with salami, arugula, spinach, and three different cheeses (goat, ricotta, mozzarella).

Happy noshing.

A Pause

Last week, many parts of the country came to an abrupt halt because of ice, snow, and the harshness of winter. It’s reported that 49 states had packed powder on the ground (including, phenomenally enough, Hawaii). I could write about the ridiculousness of how long it took to get streets plowed in neighborhoods and argue the points of city verses state roads and whom highways officially belong to, but I’m beyond over the political rhetoric and yelling, so the discussion seems unnecessary.

We were snowed in for days with rather ill preps (no wine on the rack and no beer in the fridge), milk and eggs dwindling. But, it allowed us to take a pause, which for me, was the point. To weed through the bare essentials, the work that truly needed to be done–the phone calls, the e-mails, the rainy day list of items on the metaphoric shelf to be done another time.

The snow days of last week allowed a wintry pause to just slow down. And for that, I’m not complaining.

I ♥ NY

This wasn’t always the case, me involved in a love affair with New York. No, my first few trips were like bad dates that you just keep accepting because you’ve got nothing better to do on a Friday night. Manhattan was overwhelming to me—the noise level, the grittiness and brashness, the crowds, the lights, and the neighborhoods—all of it made me just want to stay home in my stereotypical sweats and watch a Rom-Com while eating takeout. Because of this, I never got to know the real New York until very recently—the one without cab drivers trying to rip off naïve girls from Kansas the second they step off the plane with their sleek black town cars sounding like a good idea in lieu of a grody taxi, one without harsh winters or sweltering summers, and void of tourists that stop to gawk in the middle of heavily trafficked sidewalks like they’ve just hopped off the turnip truck that I couldn’t look past.

I’ve been to New York a fair amount. My first trip, I wrote about here, in Holiday Bound, recounting the first Christmas after my father died. Every other trip after that initial one was for work (since when I worked in television my show was based there), so I made the jaunt often enough. Through it all, I’ve discovered in no other place does where you live exemplify who you are. Atlanta has neighborhoods, but our ‘hoods don’t necessarily define you as a person. In NYC saying you live in Battery Park, Alphabet City, Williamsburg, Hell’s Kitchen, or Morningside Heights says more about you than what line of work you’re in, whom you date, or the shoes you wear.

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