Bloom.

The Farmers Market and The Library’s premise is based on advice my mom gave me when I was an unemployed newlywed who had just moved to rural Indiana. I write about this summer often and how hard, but good it was.

Less written about is the job that I finally got that fall. In October of that year, I became a local school district’s Food and Nutrition Director.Like the summer, when I was in it, it was hard. But, looking back on it, it was also really good. My role was managing the cafeteria’s, developing lunch menus within nutrition requirements from the government, and maintaining relationships with the students through marketing efforts and the school corporation as I was actually the employee of a global food service company contracted into the school system.

After six months of not working, I was so excited to have a job. I also was really excited to have a job in a school system. A part of me always wanted to be a teacher. (Truthfully, I still do.) I imagined myself a little bit like Ms. Honey, having great relationships with the students, and a little bit like Ms. Frizzell as I shopped Modcloth prior to my first day. I was excited to make it fun, engaging, and to work with students.

Within two weeks, I worried I had been so wrong. The nutritional rules with rigid and hard to implement and also won me no friends with students or staff as favorites disappeared from the menu. The staff I managed in the cafeterias presented me with countless challenges. Many of them had been working in those kitchens longer than I had been alive. Taking direction and feedback from 24 year old me was… well? Unappealing. And, the amount of outstanding lunch balances I inherited was in the thousands of dollars. Many afternoons were spent working my way down the list asking for money, hearing sad stories that families couldn’t get out of, stories of parents who just didn’t care, and sometimes even just getting cussed out. I had a lot of hard days, not just in tangible ways. But, in mentally taxing, soul crushing ways.

By the start of the New Year, I was imagining getting car wrecks on the way to work. Nothing major, of course. But, something that could get me out of a week or two.

Also in the New Year, a 4th grader boy started following me around the lunch room. I would try to be in the lunch rooms during service and would often stop at random tables to see what the students thought of the food or if they had any suggestions. This young man caught onto my habits and what my role was and did he ever have suggestions. I would try to go to another table and he would leave his class and walk with me rattling off things his mom made for dinner or or snack he made at home or about something he saw on The Food Network or asking if I had ever had pomegranate, kombucha, kohrabi, or, or, or…!

I remember thinking, Wow. A pomegranate? That’s out there for a ten year old in rural Indiana. I told him I had. So had he! And he loved it! We should have it at school.

Soon this boy started visiting my office, before school and even during class. I asked him if it was okay that he was out of the classroom and he explained that he had gotten an idea for lunch and his teacher had let him come share it with me. After a couple times of finding this kid in my office, I checked in with his teacher. It became clear that as early at fourth grade, the students had been sectioned apart: the “good,” smart students in a class, those lagging behind in another, and finally this class. This was a group of students that no one expected to make it to high school graduation, let along college. This older teacher filled more of a caretaker role, than educator. His goal was to keep the class undisruptive versus interested.

I kind of hated this.

And, I kind of loved this kid.

He was annoying in the way a persistent, precocious ten year old is, but he was clever and excited. He knew so much about food and cooking already. I loved our chats about restaurants he likes and what he was watching on the Food Network. I remember asking what he wanted to be when he grew up. His answer came easily and with more certainty that even I could muster about myself at 24.

“I am going to work at an auto shop. Like my brother. He is seventeen.”

So many concerns and question marks ran through my head for this kid and even his brother. Not that working at an auto shop is bad… but, at seventeen a boy should still be in high school. And, it may have been my overly optimistic, niave twenty something mind, but this kid could still dream, try, and do more.

“Well, I think you could be a chef,” I said, with a touch of “what do you think about that?”

He dove into how, no. He was going to work on cars and why and how. But, I kind of tuned him out because an idea came to me: Maybe he could be a chef… now.

I had a kitchen and an idea and honestly those two things have served my creativity well time and time again, not just in this boring and bluesy job.

I went to the teacher and together we developed a curriculum for his class where his students would share recipes for me and if I picked them, they got to prepare it for their class for lunch with me. The stipulations because even though some people had already given up on these kids academically, I had not. They had to hand write the recipe, ingredients and actions in full sentences. They had to scale it to serve their class, but also convert their measurements because I told them I wasn’t going to measure a tablespoon more than 3 times. (90s kids, remember “Gallon Man?” He became my unofficial sidekick in teaching these kids how that works.)

The boy who followed me around loved the idea, but demanded he got picked first. I figured he sparked the idea so I could stack the deck and make him my first “Chef for a Day.” Together, we made salsa from scratch in the elementary school kitchen when he arrived to school so it would be ready by the lunch service. He served it to his classmates in stout plastic bowls with tortilla chips. He delighted that his peers came back for seconds. His teacher was thrilled and excited for the special treat in the lunchroom. I let him take the extras to his previous teachers and the school’s office.

Later that afternoon, as I made it back to my office after check in at the high school and middle school kitchen’s, an email came across my inbox from the primary school principal. She wrote received a cup of salsa from the student and loved it. But more so, she loved seeing that young man shine. She said how she had not seen him so excited and proud of something in a long time. “He was on Cloud Nine” she wrote.

I worked with that teacher in the next year and had a few other groups of “little chefs.” That young man was a part of my every day at that school corporation. Even as he moved up to fifth and then sixth grade– in the middle school– he still flagged me down in the lunchroom, needing to share his thoughts, make his suggestions, and desire to get out of class and come cook with me again. It was little projects like this and my involvement with Farm to School that made that job bearable and they taught me a good lesson about how I had the power, ability, and creativity to take a poor situation and make it something not just enjoyable, but pretty cool.

Maybe I helped do that a little bit for this guy, too?

I don’t know.

On my last day in late 2013, before I headed off to a new job, I wrote thank you notes to my professional peers and also to this young man. I told him how thankful I was for his suggestions and his ideas. I told him he helped me make the kitchen better, but also he made my work days better. At the end of the note I told him that he better remember me when he is a famous chef on the Food Network.

I don’t know what became of that young man. I don’t even remember his last name to look him up and check on him. But sometimes I wonder, which I think is a universal feeling for anyone who spends time in a school. He was 10ish in 2011-12ish, making him the age now where he is well on his way into adulthood. Perhaps he is a college graduate? Perhaps a chef? Maybe he working at the auto shop?

No matter what, I hope he still is able to find ways back to his own version “Cloud Nine” like the day he made salsa with me.

Easy Salsa Recipe

Note: The knife skills needed here are great for a ten year old with supervision.

• 4 ripe tomatoes, cored and quartered
• 1 red onion, peeled and quartered
• 3 garlic cloves, peeled
• 3 jalapenos, stemmed and seeded
• 1/3 cup fresh cilantro
• 3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
• 2-3 teaspoons ground cumin
• 2-3 teaspoons sugar (optional)
• 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
• 15 ounces crushed San Marzano tomatoes (1 can)
• 4.5 ounces diced green chiles, mild, medium, or hot (1 can)

Instructions

• Place the fresh tomatoes, onion, garlic, peppers, cilantro, lime juice, 2 teaspoons cumin, 2 teaspoons sugar (if using), and salt in a food processor. Pulse until the contents are fine and well blended.
• Pour in the crushed tomatoes and green chiles. Puree until mostly smooth. Taste, then add more cumin and sugar if desired. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

This little project of mine has proven to be more challenging than I thought. Despite lots of planning, many mental drafts and so many little notes here there and everywhere, I am backed up on posts. It’s annoying and frustrating to me because I put seemingly easy parameters up with posts on Tuesdays and Fridays and, well… that has not happened.

It’s also annoying because I have had this mapped out for a year. It’s not like I didn’t know what I was going to say. I told Sara– my writing buddy– I was making plans for this last summer. I told Rachel about the story I wanted to tell about her mom’s cookies when we were in Napa in August… 2022. I tried to get this up and running this time last year, but couldn’t. There was still some really raw grief making it hard to move through creativity and thoughts… and we also decided to move to a new home. A project like this was rightfully put on the backburner.

But, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So, I tried it again in early 2023, thinking it would be a nice way to mark one year since Danny died. I told my dad about it when together in Florida over the winter. But, I still couldn’t get it off the ground.

I thought, okay. Let’s really get our ducks in a row and get it going in August. I really liked the framework of August to Christmas and you will see my reasoning by the end. In an effort to prepare, I wrote handwritten drafts for most of the food stories before bed in a notebook in the early part of summer. I got a small calendar and checklists created. I had grand plans for poems to go with every post and even made up a social media strategy with supporting content. I was going to *really* do it.

And, here we are one month in. I did it. We have lift off; but, it’s been shaky.

I don’t love being a writer who complains, or even just writes, about the hardship of writing. There are lots of modern books where the author dedicates a chapter to how hard the book was to write. They go on and on about they hated getting their butt in a chair day after day. How staring at a blank screen is the worst. How it is hard and scary to share. As a reader of essays like these I am often left feeling a mix of “well, Geez. Sorry for even wanting to read…” and “Do you know how amazing it is to get to write?!”

Writing for fun and about life and memories is such a gift and privilege. I am in a new season of life where I have both as my kids are now both in K-12 school and my career is on hold to make space for our family as Adam tries to really grow his business. I can do this and remind myself that I should– for special and practical reasons as well as ability. But, not gonna lie: It isn’t easy. The blank page thing is real. And, even with all those drafts in my mind and on notebook paper, something changes when it gets to the computer screen.

There also is a weird bit of brain work happening where things I was convinced I knew for years are now things I am not even sure I believe in anymore after trying to wrestle the lesson down into an essay. And, truth of the matter, the vulnerability hangover of just simply sharing something is real and sometimes temporarily debilitating.

Oh, and life is just sometimes “lifey,” derailing even the best of writing intentions.

And yet, the purpose remains: To do the thing. Do it now!

And so, I guess, so does persistence; but, with a little wisdom and minor pivoting.

When I was eleven, my family went to Colorado to ski with friends, The Wilsons, from Chicago. We had never been on a ski trip. Danny was only just four, so my parents had been kind of relegated to beaches and Disney in the years of pregnancies and babies. In preparation for the ski trip, I got lessons and put in my school sponsored ski club.

Ski Club. In Ohio.

I took to it quickly and well. (See also: It was skiing in Ohio…) I felt ready and very excited about our trip to ski out west. I proved myself to be pretty strong on the slopes bouncing up to a more advanced ski school group in Breckenridge. By the time The Wilsons joined us on the Colorado mountain a couple days into the trip, I felt confident to ski with them– longtime skiers– while the rest of my family, parents included, stuck to lessons.

On one run down mountain, dense squalls of snow came through causing a white out. I couldn’t see and got scared. I started to question if I was good enough to keep up or if I might get hurt. I eventually worked myself up to the point that I just stopped, freezing mid pizza wedge stop. Mrs. Wilson, sensing my nerves, called up to me to see if I was okay. I told her I couldn’t see well and that I was scared.

She calmly asked, “Well, what can you see?”

I hesitated. There wasn’t much. Even though she wasn’t far, she seemed to be just a gray outline down the mountain from me. Her features unclear and her own kids long gone from my limited view. “I don’t know,” I responded. “I can only see about five feet in front of me.”

Just as calmly again, she said, “Well then, take it five feet at a time.”

I took a breath. I really wanted her to have said, “Well, okay then. We gotta stop.” Or, work some parental magic that I still believe existed that could fix it. Like a kiss on a bumped knee got rid of the pain, somehow a mom could just make the snow cell go away or piggy back me down to the base of the ski lift.

I loosened the pressure on my pizza wedge, but still kept my tense position as my skis moved slowly through a few powdery inches. Then a few more as I slowly snaked my way down the five feet to her.

“Take it another five feet,” she instructed.

Again, I wasn’t sure I could. She told me I just had to do the exact same distance I just did. I had done it once and it was fine. I could manage it again.

And so I did.

Every five feet, we started over at another five feet. We didn’t look at it like getting all the way down the mountain, but rather just getting five feet.

Eventually, we did make it down the mountain, back to the bottom of the chair lift where the sun was shining and Mrs. Wilson’s ski jacket was bright colors again. I was tired, but also wired: I had learned something so important about myself, but more so about life and hard things.

I remind myself often to take it five feet all the time and I am again with The Farmers Market and The Library. I am trying to not get too bogged down in the big, whole project; but rather, stay in the place where it’s just one essay. One blog post. To do that, I had to let a few pieces of the project go and that is okay. It is good and wise to start small and just take it five feet at a time.

Where this has also show up:

• I shared the great book “The Lazy Genius Way” in the most recent “Left Over’s” post. The Lazy Genius motto is to be a genius about the things that matter and to be lazy about the things that don’t. The author, Kendra, has established a handful of principles to get really clear about how to approach so much in your life from organizing your house to meal prep to relationships. The recent Left Over’s post talked about the principle of “asking the magic question” the “what can you do now for future you” question. Another one of the principles and one that Kendra often argues is the most important on her podcast is to “Start Small.” Don’t organize your whole house, start small and organize a drawer then the cabinet under your bathroom sink then your bookshelf and on and on. Start too big and you will never do anything. Start small and take it five feet at a time.
• And, also emotionally. Grief is hard and, as the cliches go, a process. Hard emotional stuff can feel overwhelming. So can change– big and small. All could cause us to just freeze. Maggie Smith, a poet and Columbus, Ohio native, wrote the book “Keep Moving” in the wake of her divorce. It’s part poetry, part lyrical essays, part narrative as she moved through that first year, but all the thoughts end with the instruction to “keep moving.” Sometimes it feels like it’s really the only thing you can do is keep up with the mundane obligations of life (making dinner, carpool, going to work…), but it’s the best thing you can do. Those little actions add up. Keep moving.

As mentioned, I plan to do two “Left Over” installments each month. The goal was to do this on Sundays… but, I got behind. This was intended for the last Sunday in August. On Left Overs, one Sunday will feature a leftover “meal” story that is important, but maybe was more like an idea or doesn’t really have a recipe attached it. Not true “essay worthy,” but is still worth sharing. The other will be a quick bite of actual advice.

As I have already shared, the “What I Know” essay’s are not “advice.” They are stories from my life where I learned something or noticed something that I believe is worth sharing because maybe you can glean something helpful in it for your own life. Or, maybe it can help bring to life moments that taught you lessons in your own life. As the reader, you get to determine when something is just is a nice story or what might actually be helpful to you.

With these advice leftovers you should practice the same self awareness. But maybe also keep an open mind because this is when I will be sharing really tangible things that are helping me in real time.

In real time, it is now September. September is synonymous with back to school and new routines. I get New Year vibes from this time of year and find myself considering new processes in our life and home. A lot of, “We are going to get organized!,” “We are going to simplify!,” and “We are going to be on it!” roll through my mind and leave me looking for all the life hacks.

One of the best books I have found on “life hacks” is The Lazy Genius Way. Author and creator, Kendra Adachi, has complied her principles on determining what matters to you and presented them in an easy to digest and implement way. This book has stayed with me for years and these principles have legs, growing to help me more and more as I stretch my “lazy genius” muscles. One of these principles that I revisit over and over is “Ask the Magic Question” which is “What can I do now that will make life easier later?”

Here is the thing… in this question, we are not talking, like, investing or getting control of your health. (Though good for future you and not bad advice.) These are small things and often “later” here can be as soon as the next 24, 12, even couple of hours.

So in the spirit of new routines and getting life in order, here are some of the things I do– often daily– that make future me very grateful I did. Little “Life Hacks,” if you will.

• Program and prepare the coffee maker the night before: So simple, but having coffee ready to go in the morning is not just helpful, but feels like a bit of a treat.
• Make the bed: I do it every morning. I am one of those people. But, I love, and almost require, the moment at the end of the day when I get into a bed that just feels fresh and ready for me to relax and recharge in it.
• Go to bed: Stop scrolling, don’t watch another episode, and don’t make another drink.
• On that thread, if out and over the age of 25, don’t order another drink. Get water or even a Diet Coke. Or, go home to go to bed. If under 25: Get another drink, flirt with the DJ, and enjoy your youth!
• Get Gas the night before: Just do it. You know what you are in for if you don’t.
• Run the dishwasher and do laundry– if not daily– often. Don’t wait until you have a mountain of plates or you are out of socks.
• Learn to Meal Plan- Plan out your week, decide once, and shop once.
• Go for a walk.
• Take a shower.
• Make out with your partner.

Feeling Good? Here are a few bigger ones that may take a weekend to set up, but are so helpful:

• Organize Your addresses
• Curate your social media feeds– You can “hide” people you don’t necessarily care to see and unfollow brands, influencers, or celebs that are no longer serving you.
• Take the pile of stuff you don’t use to a shelter
• Call a loved one and catch up
• Back up pictures, print a memory book, and keep taking lots and lots of photos. Future you will be so thankful.

What are your little life hacks?

There are rituals and little habits to friendship and, lucky for me, many of the rituals that I have with my friends involve food.

I know my friends favorite ice cream flavors and if they prefer Diet Coke to La Croix, gummy or chocolate candies, white wine to red. With a few of my friends we have habits of seeking out a cupcake place wherever we travel and I know which pal to enlist if there are multiple flavors of cake at a wedding and we want to try them all. Even when apart, I can try a food or even just see a menu item and know I need to snap a pic and send a text letting a friend know I am thinking of them because of it. I love how food isn’t just something we have enjoyed while together, but it is also something that has connected us and become a part of our memories together.

It’s hard to play favorites with my food memories with friends, but if I had to pick some of the best it’s the food memories I have made with Rachel and Laura.

Fate had the three of us land in the same fifth grade class all as “new girls.” We became good friends quickly, all the oldest daughters of families of five. Our parents became friends thanks to putting us in similar activities in the neighborhood and at school. Even our siblings became pals, each set close to each other in grades as well.

Truthfully, writing about Laura and Rachel is overwhelming.

When Rachel’s husband died in 2019, so many people told me “Thanks for being such a good friend.” It was a fine and kind thing to say, but it made something inside me rage a bit. “Friend” seemed like too small of a word and almost like they had it wrong. That wasn’t what this was. That night I told my dad how much it angered– but also confused me. He reminded me that a “friend” really is a great, special thing. I knew this. I know this. But still, somewhere along the way there was a commitment the three of us made to each other that feels bigger than just friendship.

So what’s the word?

Many, many times deep, longtime friendship is compared to sisterhood. “We are more like sisters!” is a common refrain. Even this doesn’t sit right with me because the three of each have great sisters and I know that relationship to be something of its own. Sisterhood (or just “Siblinghood”) is an intimate, life long relationship where your life experiences are shared within the walls of a home and through your parents. It can be similar to friendship, and it’s really special when siblings become friends, but still it’s different. Laura, Rachel, and I shared so much–growing up together while being the same age at the same time; but, it’s not the same thing as what is shared together in siblinghood, a relationship precious on its own with it’s own unique dynamics that it deserves it’s own space and it’s own word.

But also, what does it all mean when in just one year, Laura and Rachel will have been in my life longer than my own brother was?

What is the word for a relationship that is not just the holding of each other’s hearts, but a complete understanding of it? A shared history and shared perspectives? A knowing that we are so linked making each others joy, stress, worry, sadness, love our own. There is love, a support system, and a belief in one another that is always there making us brave, smarter, and open in big ways and in small ways, too.

I don’t know the word. I sometimes say “sister-friend.” But, who knows? What I do know is that there is something here that feels like scaffolding, a stickiness, and a surge of power that is pretty unique.

When it comes to Laura and Rach, my sister-friends, there is so much to say and there are so many stories.

And, many of them involve cookies.

In the years before we could drive, we were at Rachel’s. She was the afterschool and summer caretaker for her sisters. During the school year, I would get on my bike, after checking in at home, and head to her house. Sometimes we would even just walk with her or take her bus back to her house, calling our moms with my change in plans when we got there. In the summer, we would head there after our early morning swim team practice at the neighborhood pool where the three of us would have shared a lane, lined up in a row, arms reaching out for each others toes with each stroke, as we got through the assigned workout.

Without parental supervision, things were a little looser at Rachel’s. Nothing crazy because the three of us were definitely oldest, high achieving daughters and we knew all our parents cared a whole lot. We would do homework… and also watch TRL (MTV not available at Laura’s or my house.) The basement computer had all of our AIM usernames saved and we would take turns logging in in hopes of hearing the opening door chime noting the arrival of that days particular crush. However, no matter what we were up do, there were plenty of trips out to the deep freezer to grab an iced sugar cookie (or three) for a snack.

Rachel’s mom made these sugar cookies that were more like cake with the way she was heavy handed with the icing. (We have already covered my affinity for good icing.) She would make big batches and store them in the freezer so they could be ready to go for an event. The problem is, we snacked on those cookies so often she probably still had to make them for any event that came up despite her well intended prep.

And yet, she never got on us about it, asking us to stop, or lecturing Rachel to tell us to cut it out. The cookies were always there in the freezer. And, at swim banquets. And, on our birthdays. And, at the Fourth of July fireworks. And, at graduation parties. And they were even there when we came back from college.

These cookies are a part of us, but more so Rachel’s mom’s legacy. They were “her” cookies. Say “Mrs. Roberts Cookies” and we knew exactly what that meant. Now nearly thirteen years since Mrs. Roberts passed away, we still know. Even Adam and my kids know.

To me, these cookies represent our girlhood and I can’t help but wonder if Mrs. Roberts knew that. We could have been sneaking a lot of other things, but we were sneaking cookies. She let us.

Sharon was a good friend, a good time, a hard worker, and a great shopper. She knew we were good girls and was quick to compliment us on everything from our creative, clever minds to our outfit. She made simple things fun and even sometimes let us break the rules. In her action, it was clear she wanted us to be smart and have fun, to love each other well, and be easily excited. And, we were.

And, we still are.

Despite all that life has thrown us, there is still such a big piece of girlhood that lives in us. We hold space for tears, anger, worries, and frustrations; but, are still quick to laugh, play, and be delighted. There is so much that could have changed us. We could be jaded, bitter, or reserved. Instead, I think because of the love and experiences we built over the decades together, we have the power to still be brave and to push one another to live big. Our hearts are still just as soft and open as they were twenty five years ago when we smelled like chlorine and were headed back out to the garage for a little something sweet.

Rachel has carried on her mother’s legacy in many ways so well, but especially with these cookies. She tested and retested the recipe to make them egg and dairy free for Laura’s bachelorette– an event in a season when Laura had some dietary restrictions.

I even got to help her ice the cookies the night before Laura’s baby shower just last fall. (Though Rachel says her mom would have kicked me out of the kitchen with my poor technique… It was just then that I learned that though Sharon was breezy about us snacking on them, she was very much a stickler about these cookies in other ways!)

(Note how their initials still include only maiden names in my phone…)

And, one my my favorite rituals of the Holiday season is when a box of “Mrs. Roberts Cookies” arrives in my mailbox in mid December, inevitably always on the day I need them the most. That little tin causes whirlwind and overwhelm of the season to slow and reminds me to take a beat… and a bite. It reminds me remember the festive magic of the season. They remind me of the delight and excitement in the moment and of my past. And, of course, of love and friendship.

(Or whatever this is.)

Sorry! You don’t get Mrs. Roberts cookie recipe. It’s Rachels to share, not mine. But, instead you get a second food story. Don’t worry, this one is lighter– in length and kind of food. (It felt a little redundant sharing another dessert so soon after birthday cake.) It’s about Caesar Salad and I chose it because that silly, classic salad always makes me think of Laura and Rachel, but also other friends who have grow into this same kind of sisterhood/friendship thing. It even links to Adam, another piece of my scaffolding, who also finds it to be one of his favorite foods, too. We make the recipe you will find below often in our home.

A note: This story is more so a story with Rachel and that is only because it happened in school hours. Laura went to the nearby Catholic school starting in ninth grade. (A reality I still have not totally forgiven her for since she told me her plans for high school in band class, where we were solidly second chair clarinets, in the spring of 8th grade. Our maiden names went down to the third letter in alphabetical order– I knew I wasn’t losing her as a friend, the stickiness was there then, too. But, I did feel a little angsty that I was losing my locker and homeroom buddy!) I feel it is important to make it clear here that Laura likely would have been right there with us had she gone to our school. (And, honestly, if you asked random acquaintances from our high school today, they probably would think Laura did go to our public high school for how much she was around. We often joke she should just come to our reunions. Don’t tell anyone. We may make her for 20!)

The AP History test was the Friday before Junior Prom. The test was similar to the SAT in the sense that it was hours long and semi-standardized test, with the exception of one essay. Students taking the test had to go to our school’s Athletic Complex in the morning, not the main building. We were told we would be released around noon after the test. School started at 7:25. Noon left us with two class periods left in the day, one of which for me was yearbook.

There was a lot of rumbling in the weeks prior to the test of students who wouldn’t be going back to school after the test. Rachel and I thought this seemed fair. It was a big test. We had to study and work hard in the weeks leading up to it. And really, we had worked hard for years. We were athletes, held leadership roles at school, and did well in aggressive courses. We snuck cookies, not beers. When it came to “risky” behavior like… I don’t know, cutting class? We were little cupcakes.

Well. That is until we played hooky the day before prom.

We walked out of the AP test bleary eyed, ready for a chill afternoon, and so excited for the weekend. Many people stopped at their cars on the way, but as we pulled out in Rachel’s Jeep Cherokee we didn’t notice many other cars heading out. In fact, everyone else seemed to be filing back in to school.

I recall a slight hesitation. Are we really doing this? But, we had a plan and we stuck to it. We hightailed it to Panera Bread for our regular order: Chicken Caesar Salad (To-Go. The better option. We had done the leg work and had *opinions* on that one.) and a caramel frappuccino and went back to my house, eating our salads in the basement, and probably waited for Laura to get out of school.

And then went to Rachel’s for a cookie.

Rachel and I have shared countless salads since then. But still, nearly 20 years later, everytime I eat a Caesar I giggle a little inside my mind at the memory of the one “bad” thing we did. (Well… until college.)

And, like I mentioned, a Caesar is a favorite of Betsy’s, my college best friend. As well as Adam. I love that this simple salad holds so much history with me and the people I get to love. These days, I make the best Caesar. And, it’s all because of this dressing that I now know by heart and taste.

Know that Anchovies freak people out. They may freak you out. Don’t be freaked out. They are so good. But, if you need a way to ease into the idea, they make anchovy paste which lessens the “slimy, tinned fish” thing and still works great.

Caesar Salad Dressing

• 2 small garlic cloves
• 1 teaspoon anchovy paste or three anchovy fillets
• 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice, from one lemon
• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
• 1 cup mayonnaise
• ½ cup freshly grated Parmigiano
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Place all items into a food processor and process until smooth and creamy. Adjust amounts for taste. (I often find I can get to heavy handed with the acid in the lemon and the worcestershire balances it really well. More cracked pepper often helps, too.)

My siblings were really great athletes so, growing up, a lot of the family’s time and resources were spent on sports. Despite plenty of, yet terrible efforts, I was not an athlete. In fact, I wasn’t really “great” at much. There is a joke in our family that my parents didn’t really know what to do with me so they just sent me abroad every few summers. 

The really funny part of the joke is that though I was the kid who got sent to the other side of the planet at thirteen, I am the one that ended up Midwest Obsessed. (What can I say? I like driving, Chipotle, and a Super Target. All three things I missed— and still miss— immensely when abroad.)

Jokes aside, the time abroad was important to me. There was a perspective gained on the size of the planet and its population and me in it that was impactful. As a kid with family in the DC area, seeing just how young America is compared to many places in Europe blew my mind— and still does. It was good for me to spend time with art and architecture, to participate in everyday moments on streets and in towns, and to be alone and away from the trappings of Dublin, Ohio, AIM, and YM magazine. And, as with any travel to another country, food made a significant impact.

I am lucky because I have so many abroad food memories. Because I was a thirteen year old parentless in Australia, I remember thrilling at the freedom to get something at the gas station when our tour of young teenagers needed to stop. As a family, we never got to get a snack from the gas station— let along a full sized candy bar. I remember delighting in the freedom to choose whatever I wanted and fell in love with this chocolate covered peppermint crisp bar that only exists down under. There, I lived with a family and went to school for a while. My host mother asked if I had any requests for dinner and all I wanted was traditional Aussie meat pie, a delicious dish that as I understood it was as ubiquitous as America’s hotdog. They are even served in individual sizes at sporting events. She obliged, but I do remember feeling a little eye rolling (honestly something i would probably do too if an Australian kid came to my house and asked for a hot dog…) She also didn’t make it herself. I accompanied her and her children to the store to pick it up one afternoon after school. Not gonna lie, it was fab. I would eat one now.

At sixteen, it was off to Spain with my Spanish class. It was a trip I probably shouldn’t have even been permitted to attend, based on my bombed Chemistry final. But… my mom overlooked it, likely knowing that getting me out of my element was better for me than Periodic Elements. Spain was special because it was my first trip to Europe and it is where I finally had that moment of “awe” realizing just how old things were there compared to “old” objects and historical buildings in American history. 

I also had a few moments on that trip that felt like growing up in real time. A painting of a matador I bought my parents hangs in their foyer still today. Every time I look at it I am back on the streets of Barcelona where I picked it up. It was our last night there and I wasn’t satisfied with the few souvenirs I had purchased for them. There was an art fair on an avenue nearby and, in the small window between tours and getting ready for our final dinner, I ran out of the hotel with the first boy I would love to check it out. There was something there about being on our own, on the busy street as the day slipped into evening, exploring, and shopping half a planet from all that was “normal” to us at 16. It felt like not just a glimpse of adulthood, but actually having one foot in it.

On that trip, there are so many good memories, but the food memories are extra… special?

Early on we visited Madrid and our tour guide offered to arrange a paella lunch for anyone interested. It wasn’t part of the school provided meals and we had to pay for it out of pocket. Being a “try it all” kind of gal and flush with cash from the first couple weeks of the summer at the pool, I believed it to be worth my hard earned life guard dollars. I went with a small group of us to a dark restaurant and there, without the watchful eyes of our Spanish teachers, we were served not just delicious paella, but also pitchers of Sangria. Turns out, teenage me liked both! A lot. Combine the meal and the wine with some jet lag, and I was nearly asleep at our next stop of the day, the Prado Museum. 

A quick Funny Note here: I kept journals and notes when I traveled and the note about this meal is just bullet points and is so funny to me. “Shrimp with eyes!”

We also had an eventful dinner at a hotel in the Basque region near San Sebastian that came complete with heaping trays of salad served family style at long tables. After the meal, the staff broke down the tables and all the guests danced. The night was wild fun and bit of a blur, but the next morning the dust settled and it was determined that well over half of our group had food poisoning likely due to lettuce in those big salads. (Not all food memories are great ones…!)

Three years later, I was nineteen and off to Switzerland where I did a lot of the cooking. I was there for the summer for a hospitality program taking courses for culinary skills, wine, ethics, and franchising. This was an interesting time because: 

1. I was at an age (and/or maturity) where I had a stronger desire to spend my cash on wine than food (leading me to resort to a box of Cheese It’s I smuggled in my suitcase for a meal often). 
2. Social media was coming on strong and I could see what my peers were up to. Many were at home and many others studying in Spain, Paris, London, and Italy. All of these places were sunny and warm. My friends were tan and donning cute sun dresses whether at a country concert in Ohio or on Las Ramblas, the road on which I had had my magical moment in Barcelona just three years earlier. In Switzerland, the weather was gloomy and I was in often in my dorm, wearing the same grey sweatshirt and too big chef pants everyday, and subsisting nearly exclusively off of cheese in many different forms.

I kind of make the food and life in Switzerland sound a little underwhelming. Maybe I was too young or just did it wrong. Maybe the “blue” feeling I had for much of 2007 was actually a little more like actual depression and we just didn’t have the tools or words or wherewithal to call it that then. 

Or maybe it’s because I went to Italy for a weekend to meet up with my friend from high school, Nicki, and poor Switzerland just couldn’t even hold a candle to what Florence had to offer. That night, was Nicki’s last in the city so she had “dining dollars” from her university’s program that she had to use up. The university had restaurant partners across the city and Nicki still had a ton of cash to use. We dined al fresco at a little trattoria and splashed out on a meal of pastas and pizza, fresh salads, wine and even dessert. At the end, it was all less than 10 euros when the check finally came. The meal lasted hours as we laughed and caught up. The food was fresh and bright and flavorful and started my love affair with Florence. Maybe it was being with an old friend or maybe it was just Italy, but I finally felt like myself.

It’s a little funny that the best meal of my *culinary* Switzerland study abroad wasn’t even in Switzerland. 

But, it’s makes sense. I have now been to Italy three other times since that weekend with Nicki and all of them have been magical, but also just felt so right. I know I am an Irish and English girl, but I think there has got to someone deep in my lineage that linked up with an Italian. When there with my family the summer I turned 21, we even joked that I look the part!

Jokes aside, I get that Italy— especially Italian food— is easy to like. It’s super fresh pasta and thin pizza. The produce is local and seasonal making it the best it can be.

On that trip to celebrate my parents 25th anniversary we had an amazing meal in the mountains above the Amalfi Coast complete with a Limoncello toast for us all at the end that goes down in the Sullivan Family Top Ten Meals of All Time.

To celebrate our “last hurrah” before babies in 2015, Adam and I planned a trip. I documented much of it on here. Still to this day, Adam and I will still talk your ear off about the butcher shop in Tuscany where we had beef every way we could have it. It was a rockus place with rock music blasting out and signed photos of Antonio Bourdain visiting on the walls. We will tell you how the fried calamari in Monterosso was seafood perfection and that we ate so many anchovies in Cinque Terre that my wedding rings actually were a little snug for a couple days because my fingers swelled from the saltiness. If you ask, you will hear us go on and on about green olives and prosecco are, in fact, the perfect snack on a hot day in Florence.

But, if you asked for our favorite meal of the trip on a week like this, you would be in luck because there is a good chance that we recreate it for you in less time than it takes to tell the story.

In the planning for the trip, I found Eating Italy Food Tours on Pinterest. The company offers a couple different tours as well as cooking classes. The Twilight Tour peaked my interest because it sounded like a neat way to do dinner. After a quick look on Trip Adviser, only to find overwhelmingly positive reviews, I knew we had to do it. Read more about the tour and our time in Rome here.

The tour took us to an idyllic part of Rome called Trastevere, which our guide said that many guests compare to Greenwich Village in New York City.  It reminded me Broad Ripple or Mass Ave in Indianapolis thanks to it’s laid-back vibe, pretty ivy covered walls, cute cobblestone streets and amount of restaurants and nightlife.

We visited ten different places on the tour and it was similar to a progressive dinner where we had just a bite of something every stop. And, it wasn’t just restaurants that we visited, but also bakeries, butcher shops, street food trucks, and a gelateria.

The tour started strong at what would be our favorite of the whole night, Da Enzo Al 29. The vibes of the restaurant were so sweet as it looked like it was straight out of an Italian movie. (We tried to eat there for a true meal later in the trip, but it was booked.) It was also home to the sweetest, local cantaloupe which was served with prosciutto and burrata cheese. My notes for the trip’s journal remind me that the cantaloupe was from the south of Rome and considered to be very special.

However, at first glance I thought it sounded strange. And, to be totally honest, I am not much of cantaloupe person. I actually am not much of a fruit person. But, I am a “try it all” kind of girl and I know that when in season, and with the added note that it was “very special,” fruit— even the fruits I don’t love— can be super.

And that is exactly what this was. The sweet, salty, and creamy tastes and textures of each simple, fresh ingredient complimented each other so well. Adam and I both looked at each other wide eyed in delight as we took our first bite. The salad was served with crisp Prosecco that bubbled and danced on our tongues in between sweet bites of more melon.

We now recreate this meal every summer when melons are in season in Indiana, throwing in a touch of arugula from the garden to make it a salad and call it a whole meal. We used to be able to get great burrata from Market Wagon, an online farmers market in Indiana. But, now it’s a little harder to find. It can be at grocery stores, but if not fresh mozzarella is a perfect substitute. We look forward to this dish every August to remind of us that great trip, our love for Italy, and what the Italian’s philosophy is when it comes to food– that so much is in line with our own: Use what is local and in season. Sprinkle in some nostalgia and always savor meals with loved ones.

This dish also brings to life one of my favorite kitchen/life mottos: In August, don’t cook. Assemble.   

Oh. And, don’t forget the Prosecco!

Melon and Prosciutto

1 cantaloupe melon, diced in 1 inch chunks or slice long

4-5 ounces prosciutto

1 8 ounce ball burrata

Olive Oil

Salt and Pepper

Optional: Arugula, basil, balsamic, honey

There are many ways to arrange and add flavor to this salad. I often make a light layer of arugula, place small chunks of melon on top, tear prosciutto into smaller pieces and place around melon. Top with Burrata and drizzle with good olive oil and some salt and pepper. Pop the burrata so that it can ooze out and enjoy!

“Find the farmers market and the library” was not the only bit of wisdom my mom shared with me that sad summer when I lost my job as a newlywed in the country.

No, my poor mom fielded what was likely many downer phone calls from me Summer 2011. On one I shared how not just one, not just two, but THREE rejection letters from potential employers arrived in my inbox in one afternoon. It was a Friday and I was waiting for Adam to get home from work. We had a wedding that weekend for college friends— something we did often that year. It was very fun and busy; but also, expensive and, more important to me at the time, a scenario primed for surface level conversation. A lot of: What do you do for work? Or, what have you been up to? Or, how is life in the country?

At the time my answers would have been: Nothing, nothing, and not great.

I sighed as I went to sign off with my mom. We chatted about what to do about the rejections and what opportunities and responses were still out there and I tried to interject some humor (a bad coping skill of mine that still persists). I said, “I don’t know. The Powerball is sixty eight million. Maybe I can just win the lottery and not worry about this any more.”

And then, there was my mom, so calm, wise, and quick with a, “I don’t know, Claire. I think you have already won a few lotteries in your life.”

___________________

Gratitude is kind of “hot” these days.

And, while I don’t love the commercialization of it with all the journals and the adoption of it by powerhouse self-help gurus, I get it’s popularity. 

The science is there that it helps with depression, satisfaction, and self esteem. I also love the studies that proves that its great to receive gratitude— reminding me to show appreciation for friends, coworkers, my kids, and Adam often. Kelly Corrigan, a writer and podcast host I love, often has her guest share their “Plus 1’s,” the people that they are thankful for and that have helped them along the way.

As a kid in Sunday School, I remember hearing “What if God took away all the things you didn’t thank him for today?” This lead to frantic prayers from me to the big guy late at night rattling off: Mom, Dad, Kerry, Danny, my house, my friends, etc., etc., etc.

As an adult, thinking of gratitude more like “little lotteries,” and less like a threat as I once did, makes me more optimistic and also content.

On that sad summer day, I didn’t have a job and I didn’t have sixty eight million, sure. (I likely didn’t even have sixty eight hundred.) But, I still had a lot.

First, I saw the big stuff: My family. Adam, a new husband who loved me. A house. Adam having a job that covered our finances while I was unemployed.

But, the more you use the gratitude muscle, you start to see the little things— things you have for no good reason. Like, my health. My parents heath. A brain that made learning the normal kind of challenge it is and permitted me to be social, able to work, and even live on my own. The privilege to be born in this time as a white, female to parents like mine. In a body that is capable of so much.

Some philosophers feel that you cannot be grateful and unhappy at the same time.

I am sure they have their reasons, but I am not sure that is totally true. This interview with Anderson Cooper and Stephen Colbert is my evidence. Both men lost fathers and brothers when they were young. Stephen lost his father and two brothers in a plane crash when he was ten years old. Anderson lost his father also at ten and then a brother to suicide ten years later.

In a conversation about gratitude and grief, Stephen shares “the importance of learning to love the thing that you wish had never happened.”

He went one to say, “To exist is a gift and with existence comes suffering.”

So to love your life and be grateful for your life, you have to love and be grateful for all of it. Not just the “good” lottery wins.

When Dan died, my dad shared that “to love is to suffer.” He was the quickest of us all to be so grateful for the time we had with Danny. He even eulogized him by way of a “thank you” note. (Dad’s Eulogy starts at the 38 minute mark.)

In it he shared his gratitude for the lessons Danny taught us all, but especially for the influence he made on my parents as their child—something that is often over looked as we focus so much on how parents impact children. It is just as significant the other way, too.

I know this to be true from another moment of suffering. I didn’t know I wanted or would be changed for the better in parenting; but, through the hard stuff in Theo’s birth and my postpartum challenges, I was. For that, I am so grateful.

And, even from from that hard time in the Summer of 2011. I wish I had not lost my job, but I love what that time taught me. There was new knowledge about myself— my interests, passions, and skills as I explored my mind, heart and in my community (ahem.. at the Farmers Market and the Library). Through conversations and good work on perspective and grace I learned how there really was always something to be grateful for.

But, all of it has given me the awareness of other peoples loss– big and small. I now can make connection quicker and deeper because we all suffer. Knowing this allows us to love people in a deeper way.

My dad and I are reading “Life Worth Living” that is based on the Yale Happiness course and written by its instructors. One of the big themes is that most lives are not at risk of being to weighty or “too much,” but actually too light. When it comes down to it, I don’t want a light life. I am thankful for this weight.

Growing up, at our dinner table we used to sing the Johnny Appleseed prayer before every meal as “grace.” Because, being Episocpalian, we didn’t say grace… we SANG grace.

Sometimes we would sing grace nicely. But, sometimes it just the siblings at the table and we created a bit of a remix. 

We would rush through the lyrics. Singing as fast as we could go, giggling hard at the end. Sometimes we would think it was silly to sing as slow and low as we could. We would shake and wiggle our arms like we were playing a weird game of Red Rover as we sang, trying to break the other person’s grasp. Or, squeezing their hand as hard as we could watching them take the pain, be strong and sing the whole way though. Sometimes we would sway and tug to the rhythm of the song. We would hold random words a note- or seven- longer or much higher. 

And, even when it was just two of us at the table, we would sit across from each other, hold both hands and sing the words: 

The Lord is good to me

And so I thank the Lord 

for giving me
the things I need
the sun
and the rain
and the appleseed
the Lord is good to me 

When I planted my first garden that sad, jobless summer, I felt something in the dirt. Though years away from actual “church” there was something spiritual in the act of growing plants. Planting a seed deep in the darkness of the dirt and with a little water and some sunshine, it would thrive and become something totally new. This reminded me of this song we would sing around the table and of me.

I would find myself thinking about the Lord or the universe or whatever and how good it was to me and this little garden of mine. Giving this garden exactly what it needed: sun and rain. 

That garden, that summer, and all the other great and hard things have given me more than I could ever want- let alone need. Even sometimes giving me things I didn’t think I needed. 

So many times it has been pure sunshine. 

But, there also has been lots of rain. 

I am so thankful for both.

Little Lotteries all around.

This week of The Farmers Market and The Library will have double headers because I didn’t share a “What I Know” or “What I Ate” last week. I got a little thrown off my game last week.

1. It was the start of the kids school last Tuesday. Starting on a Tuesday and then having a big wedding to attend out of town on Friday made the week short and jumbled. Not to mention, I got in my feelings a little with Savannah off to Kindergarten. Easing us all into school became my number one priority. 

2. I had a different post planned for “What I Know” last week, but I couldn’t wrestle my thoughts down on it. I kept contradicting myself and I now I have myself rethinking even if it is something I believe in. 

And 3. I got sucked into #rushtok. Again.

I have followed Alabama’s sorority recruitment since it became a phenomenon in 2021. That year, I was influenced and bought not one, but two, athletic skirts from Lululemon. Last year, I was sucked right in again with the preppy, colorful outfits and bubbly girls again. But also because, last year, the buzz and the conversation around it all leveled up. It was reported on in major news outlets and there were thought provoking pieces like this that asked “Does rush ever end?” and is Alabama Rush so “camp” (the exaggeration of gender— think drag) that it’s actually art? Both were really thought provoking and interesting to me because it drove home an idea of “performing femininity.” 

I have seen this so much in motherhood spaces or through conversations about influencers— the performance of an idealized woman based on socially constructed standard on social media.The idea that a mom should look like and act like “this.” Or, a woman in corporate America should look or act a certain way.

Or, in the case of #rushtok, a young woman should, too. 

(Side bar: this is not just a female thing. More to come some other day on “Ken’s.”) 

But, what pulled me in this year, is that it felt like the internet’s interest turned into surveillance and the conversation was less smart and more snark. A little “yucking of someone else’s yum” as my sister in law wisely has taught her kids– and mine. And, I didn’t like it.

Look. I get it. There are a lot of problems— historically and currently— about Greek Life. But, there also is a lot of merit to Greek Life. I was a member and had a corporate career supporting Greek Life, and I still volunteer with my local chapter. I can speak on this with tons of knowledge, nuance, experience, and expertise.

I would also be remiss to not mention my struggle with young women dancing, while showing off their bodies in the name of empowerment, at schools in states where their bodily and human rights are being actively denied. 

In a word? For me? It’s tough.

However, I found myself sticking up for them a lot last week finally combating comments of “Why are they taking this so seriously?” and “This is ridiculous/dumb” and “I don’t get it” with “Because maybe it’s fun.”

This summer has been one of the more “fun” summers that I have had in a very long time. Our kids are five and seven making them able to play and participate in so much. We moved to a neighborhood with a park, a pool, and so much ground to cover on bikes. The ice cream truck comes to the end of the driveway. The kids went to camp, digging up old camp songs, tie dye skills, and friendship bracelet knots from the deepest parts of my brain. We fished a lot and played in the sand at the creek making drippy Christmas trees. We danced at the Eras concert and in the kitchen. We snuggled up on rainy days watching my old favorites like The Parent Trap, Momma Mia, and The Lizzie McGuire Movie. And we even went to the movie theater more times this summer than I have in the last ten years.

This summer I felt so connected to a younger me and it was just fun.

Years ago on Pinterest I saw a quote that read, “I love pretty things and clever words.” It’s attributed to no one and it’s not massively profound. It didn’t give me chills, like some quotes can do. And yet, it has stuck with me. I even made it my “cover pin” for my “Favorite Quotes” board years ago.

I do love little pretty things. Little nick-nac’s at Anthropologie or a gift store. Flowers from my garden or a pretty dress. I do love smart, clever words. The banter in a self aware sitcom like The OC or a really sharp song lyric. I like op-eds and well researched think pieces. And, I love a good chill inducing quote. Especially if it’s styled up in a pretty font on Pinterest. Clearly. 

There are so many more important things to love or even just like; but, pretty things and clever words hit me with a jolt of “Same. I really do.”

I have shared how there have been times that I have worried my interests are too unimportant, too girly, too superficial or even made me “dumb.” I have even hidden or numbed my own love for things in order to feel and be perceived as more serious.

In light of #rushtok, I have had great conversations this week about femininity and I think it’s a great conversation to close out what has arguably been one of the more feminine summers thanks to Taylor Swift Eras’ Tour, The Summer I Turned Pretty and the Barbie Movie. I love the light that is shining on femininity right now, showing its strength and also that feminine does not also mean not feminist. And also not anti-man. It’s a special posture of love in showing up in a way that is great for us all.

This is why the snark at the young woman on #rushtok maybe made me get fired up and want to protect them a bit.

The stats are out there: A girls confidence plummets at age ten. Some studies are even showing as early as 8. It’s because this is when a girl starts to notice how the world perceives her. It’s a realization that maybe others are not interested in her for what she likes and does, but she is being surveilled for what she likes and does. Are they culturally and socially “appropriate?”

A question I ask often in so many different ways is: Is this my inherent nature? Or, is this the way I have been socialized?

Do I like to work out? Or, do I do it because I know I should?

Do I enjoy The New York Times? Or, do I read it because I feel like I should?

Do I like putting together an outfit and wearing makeup? Is it fun for me? Or, is it because I feel like I should? And, here’s the flip side: Should I not care about this because caring is vain, superficial, maintaining toxic beauty standards?

Like America Ferrera shared in her monologue, it’s all a bunch of mental gymnastics and I don’t know a lot of the time. I don’t know what the “ideal” woman is, but I am trying hard to always keep finding the “ideal” me.

And, that’s not some “optimized” me or “best” me; but rather, it’s a me that is “so me,” just like the quote “I like pretty things and clever words” felt “so me.” A me that doesn’t feel that surveilled or as Barbie says, “I feel conscious. Of myself.” It doesn’t feel ashamed for liking something that may be seen as unserious. (… and also doesn’t snark on others for liking whatever it is they like, too.)

Because, I do know that I am a girl who set down my Barbie one day and never picked her back up in favor for eyeshadow, a Nokia cell phone, and YM magazine. Who then saved all her life guarding dollars for a suit at Anne Taylor and asked for a plain black purse and a plain gray coat for “work” for Christmas. Who hid her pregnancy under tunics and her motherhood as she pumped in closets at the workplace. 

A girl completely missed the release of the Reputation Album, because who has time for a pop star’s feud when there are babies to feed and businesses to build, only to listen to “Lover” front to back on a whim as it made buzz just after it’s release. That day in 2019, I rolled the window down, basking in the late summer sun and warm breeze, as I turned the pop songs up. On the way home, I ran into the grocery store for a tub of hummus and bottle of rose (my girl dinner of my early 20s), and remembered who I was before all of them and all of it.

I do know now I am a girl who writes in a moody dark room, with a pink disco ball hanging in the corner next to a wall of frames of all the things I love: my people, my kids art, Lake Michigan, The March House at Christmas, peonies, pink, hearts, quotes about love, poems about death, and lyrics about creativity in swooping calligraphy and bold letter prints.

I am a girl who will fight for girlhood, fangirls of all kids, femininity, and advocate always that the seemingly superficial is actually so much more. 

Or, maybe it’s not. 

Maybe it’s just fun.

I am a girl who loves pretty things and clever words.

Here’s a very small collection of Pinterest Quotes and Poems I love and have collected on this:

“Promote what you love, don’t bash what you hate.”

“Growing up, I hated the color pink.

I thought that girly was 

synonymous with fragility,

and loving things that were pretty 

meant I lacked strength.

So I spent my girlhood running wild

with bare feet and scraped knees,

surpassing the softness 

that lives inside of me,

I avoided lip gloss and glitter,

and anything that shimmered

because to be a woman is to be 

condemned by anything feminine.

and I still don’t like the color pink, 

but I am learning that 

embracing my femininity

does not make me weak.

• Kalliope Kay

“The human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.” John Keating… and also Robin Williams as John Keating in The Dead Poet’s Society. This has been in my Facebook Profile “Favorite Quotes” section (this used to be kind of a thing) since… 2006?

And, if all else fails: Ms. Swift on the subject—

@gaimanglobal

“The worst kind of person is someone who makes someone feel bad, dumb or stupid for… like being excited about something.” – @Taylor Swift TTaylorSwiftS#SwiftieSSwiftiesMMidnightsTTSMidnightsLLoverEEvermoreFFolkloreRRedFFearlessRReputation11989MMotivationGaimanGlobal

♬ original sound – Max & His Movies 🎥

Welcome to Leftovers! These are mini blogs that are sort of like “bonus” content for The Farmers Market and The Library. I will be doing two each month, arriving every other Sunday. These are food stories or lessons that were “left on the cutting floor” in my planning of this project. The food stories don’t necessarily have a recipe, but was still worth sharing in hope of getting you to think about your own history with meals. And, on the weeks I share a lesson, I will be flipping my parameters on “The Library” part of the project and will actually give advice— or at least, share the things that are really working for me.

Growing up, late summer always included a trip to Lake Michigan. My parents fell in love with the area as “DINKs” (Duel Income, No Kids) in Chicago in the eighties. They would take long weekends across the lake and even travel there in the winter’s for cross country skiing. When kids came along, the trips continued to small beach towns like Saugatuck and Pentwater every summer.

We loved the small town’s classic ice cream shops, mini golf courses, and dancing to outdoor bands in gazebos offering family friendly summer entertainment. There were excursions for a sand dune buggy ride or a visit to an orchard, but for the most part, we just stayed at the rental house on the lake my mom would have coordinated. 

A family of water bugs, the beach was all we needed to be happy. We would build sand castles and ride the waves, if it was breezy, or just float on the days the water was glass. Most nights included a fire on the beach as we watched the big ball of sun sink lower and lower over the broad horizon, until it was just a sliver, and then gone entirely. 

Because of all this time at the house and because it was a house, we rarely ate out. In fact, we rarely ate out as a kid at all. Even on “bigger” vacations from Disney to Breckenridge, Palm Springs to Kiawah, there were maybe one or two “fun” dinners planned; but, we were often in a house rental/time share situation there, too. (Because of this, I still thrill at just the idea of a poolside snack bar french fry.)

Instead, most every vacation we took, included a big grocery shop. And, what a thrill these were, too.

There was something exciting about being in a new grocery store. Especially if it was a different, regional brand of grocery store. (Bonus points for a funny name like “Piggly Wiggly.”) Normal grocery shopping “rules” were sort of thrown out the window for this shop. My parents didn’t put up a fight on sugary cereal, fancy ice cream novelties were always secured, and we all got to pick out the kind of chips we wanted. As the house that was normally stocked with “weird food” like blue corn chips, fruit leather, and almonds this was very, very exciting. 

As far as meals go, we had a bit of a vacation playlist. Mom and Dad knew what didn’t require too many ingredients and wouldn’t produce too many leftovers. The menu included easy to prepare meals and were things that were kind of the “high hits” of the things we ate at home so that everyone would be happy. Think things that were great for grilling like a protein and veggie or two that mom might pick up at the farmers market on her own while we all swam. There was often burgers and some sort of pasta night. I have memories of tacos and the occasional take out pizza for the last night there… left overs as the next morning’s breakfast before heading home.

Finishing off some ice cream the morning we flew home from Palm Springs.

For lunches, it was simple stuff. Our fun chips, seasonal fruit from the local farm stands that mom would seek out, and just deli meat sandwiches. But, there was something so satisfying and something that hit different in a turkey sandwich on vacation than at home. 

It was part normal, part novel. Maybe it was its simplicity. Or, maybe it was because after a morning of playing on the shores of Lake Michigan, a break for a meal (and for our sun kissed shoulders and swimming-tired legs) was needed. Maybe it was because a meal like lunch was hardly every shared with all five of us together— our normal days busy with our own worlds of work and school.

I think that is why, despite some very special meals out when traveling, these vacation meals stand out the most. We were together from the shop to the dining. The meals were fun, relaxed, and lingered as we laughed and talked. We could be cozy—needed after a long day in the sun— instead of on our best behavior out waiting for a table at a restaurant. At these meals, we were permitted to just be us, but more so… us together. 

Meals as a family are rare. You can do your best, but in the whole, big scheme of life there are only a handful that you get to share with your parents and your siblings. And when those meals don’t have the noise of other people, work, practice, and homework there is something there that is so special. 

When I think of those few years I got to share meals with my family, I my mind often takes me to a table on the screened-in porch, the sound of gentle waves hitting the Michigan shore, and dappled light lowering through the trees. Maybe it’s a burger or piece of salmon on my plate. Maybe it’s just a turkey sandwich. It doesn’t matter. It’s still one of my best food memories.

No Dad in the picture… a sign of the 90s! And, look: Hot Dogs. That’s all it took.

As mentioned, part of the magic I make on my birthday is making sure there is champagne and cake.

They are both part of the very long list that make up my favorite things and on “my” day, they have to make an appearance. I have felt this way for years. And, truthfully, I get it honest. My grandfather was the same way. In fact, cake became so much a part of his lore because he had firm rules to not let that cake make it to the next day. It had to be finished that night.

… I grew up with Ms. Trunchbull so this is not part of my belief system. Not to mention,  I see no problems in cake for breakfast the day after a party.

When I turned 30, I kind of wanted a party. It was thirty after all. But, I had a one year old and was very pregnant. It was hard to go “out” and “party” for many reasons.

In the spirit of “making my own magic,” I invited friends from Indy, Chicago, and our small town. It was 2017 and we were deep in the creation and building of our small farm, participating in local markets and growing so much food. That night, I planned a fun meal based around the flavors from the farm. Lots of August tomatoes and big punches of garlic and herbs. A beef tenderloin would be the main course accompanied by a warm goat cheese potato salad. There would be drinks, and I knew that at 30 weeks pregnant I could indulge in a glass of champagne, nursed slowly throughout the night. But, for pregnant me, a lot of my attention was on the cake.

I wanted something beautiful and grown up. Something that said: “Thirty.”

Growing up, everyone in my family had “their” cake. Homemade Chocolate Mocha for my Dad, Kerry, and Dan (More on this guy another day). A Chocolate Bombe from Pistacia Vera or Strawberry Cake from Treemont Goodie Shop, both in Columbus, for my mom. But, surprising everyone, I was a grocery store cake gal.

I loved standard white on white. Sprinkles were great. Big, buttercream icing flowers were better. Opportunities for a corner piece were especially ideal.

But, I was turning thirty. 

It felt like it needed something… different.

I scoured Pinterest and Instagram, and fell in love with the simple, beautiful “naked” cakes popular in 2017. These were a cake where you could see the layers and crumb because the sides were just barely iced. The neutrals of the white icing and golden brown cake were so pleasing and elegant. Many were topped with pretty flowers or even sugar crusted fruit, adding just a touch of color and shimmer. But, it was mature. Nothing too glitzy or bold. Just a quietly gorgeous cake.

All the things I wanted to— and thought I should— be. Especially at thirty.

I called up a local bakery and placed my order. I even made the cake lemon and the middle filling berry because it sounded good. (Lemon desserts are also a favorite of mine.) But, also because adding fruit to a dessert seemed grown up. It was time to move on from the juvenile flavors and looks of birthday cakes past and bring in a little sophistication for my thirties.

A few days before the party, my friends texted saying they were excited to come and that they would be bringing cake.

I am not proud of this reaction to their offer, but I was annoyed. 

I had such a vision for my cake and what it represented. I had even placed an order already. And, bought a gold cake topper on Etsy to complete the beautiful, simple look.

“Let your friends buy you a cake,” Adam advised, knowing when things matter and when they don’t.

And so, still kind of upset, I cancelled the order.

Saturday came and our home filled up with friends. Small gifts and cases of La Croix- the pregnancy equivalent of bottles of rose- were gifted. All things pink for the new baby were also included in the gifting. Drinks were made and bright flowers decorated every corner of our home after we did a workshop with a neighboring flower farm. 

But, the main event, in this vibrant, colorful evening was my cake. 

My friends arranged for a huge, bright, sparkly unicorn cake to be made just for me. (Another trend of 2017!)

It was so far from the cake in my mind. But, it was perfect. It made me laugh out loud and also made me think.

The time before this party that many in those friends were in my home together was just after Theo was born. I was broken from birth and new motherhood and all my expectations of both. Then, I felt muted. I felt dull and dark. I remember wondering so clearly if would I would ever sparkle like they all seemed to again.

But, there they were, the girls who knew me best, reminding me who I really was: Bright, vibrant, and sparkly. 

I probably will never be that elegant, sophisticated woman that I thought I should be by now. I like cute stuff like little cartoon animals (even on cakes!), hearts, rainbow sprinkles, pop songs, colors, too much icing, and glitter. 

This is who I am. 

This is who I always was. 

I am so glad that I have friends who see it and were able to reflect it back to me on a big birthday, like thirty, in a season when already so much felt jumbled when it came to my identity.

That night we all sat on my patio, laughing, and telling stories. Adam gave a toast as I nursed my single glass of champagne all evening, savoring every sip and pop and every moment and bit of love shared. It felt so fun, full, sprinkled with bold color, and a little sparkly. 

So did I.

Writers note: Grocery story white cake has changed. Rarely do they use buttercream anymore and it’s a true tragedy. Buttercream is the superior white cake (and many cake) frosting, in my opinion. In the pandemic years, I started following and using “Chelsweets” recipes mainly because on Cherry Bombe’s podcast she shared her opinions on buttercream being the best for cake. She has a neat story of being in finance, but loved to bake cakes after-hours. She would share them on Instagram and take them to her office or to the local fire department. That is fun and clearly kind, but what really made her stand out (besides the buttercream love…) was her precision in her recipe development. She cares so much about getting it right. And, with this funfetti that I have made for my last three birthdays… she nails it.

Funfetti Cake

recipe adapted from Chelsweets

Funfetti Cake

• 2 cups + 2 Tbsp all-purpose flour (276g)
• 2 cups granulated sugar (400g)
• 1 1/2 tsp baking powder (6g)
• 1/2 tsp fine salt (3g)
• 2/3 cup unsalted butter, room temperature (150g or 1 1/3 sticks)
• 2/3 cup pasteurized egg whites from a carton or about 5 egg whites, room temperature (155g)
• 1 cup buttermilk, room temperature (240g)
• 1 Tbsp vegetable oil (15g)
• 1 tsp vanilla extract (4g)
• 1 tsp almond extract – optional (4g)
• 1/2 cup rainbow jimmie sprinkles (90g)

Vanilla Buttercream Frosting

• 1 1/2 cups unsalted butter, room temperature (339g or 3 sticks)
• 2 tsp vanilla extract (8g)
• 1/2 tsp fine salt (3g)
• 5 cups powdered sugar (625g)
• 2 Tbsp heavy cream or whipping cream (30g)

6-Inch Funfetti Cake Layers:

1. Preheat oven to 350°F/175°C. Line three 6-inch pans with parchment rounds and grease with non stick baking spray.
2. Mix 2 cups + 2 Tbsp all purpose flour, 2 cups sugar, 1 1/2 tsp baking powder and 1/2 tsp salt together in a stand mixer with a paddle attachment or hand mixer until fully combined.
3. Mix in 2/3 cup of room temperature, unsalted butter slowly into the dry ingredients on a low speed. Continue to mix until no large chunks of butter remain, and the mixture looks like moist sand.
4. Pour in 2/3 cup of egg whites and mix on low until just incorporated.
5. Next, mix in 1 cup of buttermilk on a low speed.
6. Add in 1 Tbsp of vegetable oil, 1 tsp of vanilla extract, and 1 tsp almond extract and mix at a low speed until fully incorporated. If you want to color these cake layers, add in the gel food coloring with the oil and extracts.
7. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula, then beat on a medium speed for about a minute to make sure everything is properly mixed together. This also helps lighten the texture of the cake layers a bit.
8. Fold 1/2 cup of sprinkles into the cake batter using a rubber spatula and mix until they’re evenly distributed
9. Fold 1/2 cup of sprinkles into the cake batter using a rubber spatula and mix until they’re evenly distributed.
10. Divide batter evenly between the prepared cake pans. I like to use a digital kitchen scale to weigh my pans and ensure they all have the same amount of batter. This guarantees the layers will bake to be the same height.
11. Bake for 30-33 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out with a few moist crumbs. Allow the pans to cool for 10 minutes, then run an offset spatula around the perimeter of the pan to separate the cake from the pan.
12. Place cake layers into the freezer for 30 minutes, to accelerate the cooling process. Once the layers are fully cooled, carefully flip the pans and remove the layers.
13. Use a serrated knife to level the tops of the layers, and then frost as desired.

Vanilla Buttercream Frosting:

1. While the cake layers bake and cool, make the vanilla buttercream frosting.
2. Beat 1 1/2 cups of unsalted butter on a medium speed for 30 seconds with a paddle attachment until smooth.
3. Mix in 2 tsp of vanilla extract and 1/2 tsp salt on a low speed.
4. Slowly mix in 5 cups of powdered sugar on a low speed. Add in 2 Tbsp of heavy cream halfway through to make the frosting easier to mix.
5. Continue to mix on a low speed for a few minutes until the desired consistency is reached. 
6. If the frosting seems too thick, add in additional cream (1 Tbsp at a time). If the frosting is too thin, add in more powdered sugar (quarter of a cup at a time).
7. If you plan to color the buttercream, add in the gel food coloring once the frosting is fully made and beat on low until it reaches the desired color.

To Assemble this Small Batch Funfetti Cake:

1. Stack and frost cake layers on a greaseproof cake board using a dab of frosting to help stick the first cake layer to the board.
2. Add an even layer of buttercream between each cake layer.
3. Spread a thin coat of frosting around the cake to fully cover the cake layers.
4. Smooth using a bench scraper, then chill the cake in the fridge (10 minutes) or freezer (5 minutes) until the frosting is firm to the touch.
5. Add a second, thicker layer of frosting to the cake and smooth using a bench scraper. Then decorate as desired! I used a Wilton 1M piping to pipe large swirls on top of the cake.

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It’s my birthday week. 

Yes, I am a “birthday week” person.

I am also an extrovert. 

And, an Enneagram 7. The enthusiast. 

And also, a Leo.

So, when it comes to my birthday…? 

I could be a monster.

I am a birthday person, particularly a “my” Birthday person. It is my favorite holiday.

I know, I know. It’s not a “holiday.” But, to me, it is. To me, my birthday is like the good parts of the New Year, Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, and Christmas all rolled into one. 

But, I know it is only this way… to me.

And, the only person I expect to act accordingly is me.

To many, many other people it’s just a day. 

And, here is the thing, as I get older, it could be become the same way to me. I should perhaps be “more mature” or more like a “mother.” After all, there are no days off— even on your birthday for parents. And, I have had thirty five birthday’s already. Another one? Especially one as unnoteworthy as 36? Big whoop.

Instead, the older I get, and the more I have seen young, sudden, unexpected loss giving me all the more reasons that I really want to celebrate another year. It is a gift and worthy of some special recognition.

But, it’s on me.

I cannot—and do not— expect or rely on other people to make my birthday special. I shouldn’t even hope for it from the universe. It’s on me make my own magic.

Kate Kennedy of the Be There In Five podcast, a favorite of mine, used this phrase when she shared her own plans of planning a trip and inviting her friends to celebrate her birthday last year. If they could come, great. If not, no big deal. She is going and celebrating her.

I loved it. It perfectly summed up how I felt, too. If you want something special, make it happen yourself.

For me, on my birthday, it’s not too elaborate. It looks like me making sure there is cake and champagne. It’s connecting to nature and the season through flowers, tomatoes, and an eyes-wide-open walk. There is maybe a good work out, playing some of my favorite music, and a special cup of coffee. There is hopefully some productivity and creativity and rest. Maybe a stop at a book or plant shop, if there is time. (Maybe even the library and the farmers market!) 

If I want something more, I make it known.

Most of the the time I am pretty good on extras because this is so simple and satisfying. Adam and I are pretty good about just not doing gifts. But, if I am lusting something— and it has happened, especially in the Covid birthdays and magic was harder to come by—I tell Adam, I don’t make him read my mind.

Last year, it was a Saturday, and I wanted a bit of a summer party. So, I didn’t look for friends to take me out or open up their home. Instead, I hosted one. I invited new and old friends, telling them it was my birthday; but, it was just their company I wanted, if they were free. Kids were welcome because I love the chaos of noise and sparkle mixing together as dress up costumes are donned and babies are passed over the table. Together, Adam and I did the cooking. It was perfect and it was so fun! (Even though Koda, our dog, licked one half the cake on a counter surfing adventure when no one was looking. We still ate the other half— it was fine. Magic, even.)

I do this magic making of my own at Christmas, too. 

As a parent, the month of December can be a blur of To-Do’s and I can also get a little blue during the Christmas season, hyper aware of the passage of time and feeling like it’s lost its magic in adulthood. So to remind myself of that magic and to be very present in the season, I block a day in December for me. I get a Peppermint Mocha (more on these another day…) from Starbucks, head to Trader Joe’s and World Market for all things seasonal, and also go to the mall. Even if I don’t have to buy anything, I go because I enjoy the hustle of a mall in December. I love the windows and decor and the overall festive vibes. To me it’s like living in one of my favorite Christmas songs: Silver Bells.

Also part of the magic I make on these days, and perhaps it’s the most important piece of the puzzle, is just a mental touch base with me. No one else can do this for me. To me, it’s such a special connection with my heart and my soul. The tangible reminders of the things I love are great, but this mental practice is also the reminder that I am alive. There is a little taking stock of the year and the one to come and also just a celebration. That is what really makes these days feel “out of the ordinary” and a little bit like magic.

There is a piece of this magic that I try to sprinkle into many of my days. Not all days, because life is lifey and busy and it’s not always rainbows. But, knowing what makes your soul sparkle— even just the littlest of things and finding time for those things in your ordinary days does help to make things a little more magic.

Know this is not a message of putting on your oxygen mask first.

Nor is it a message of the importance of self care.

Not that I don’t think both are not important. You should care for you and I see no awards for being a martyr. These are key to surviving. 

Making your own magic is about thriving. 

It’s not just staying alive; but, the reminder that you are. 

And, it’s kind of great.

To Get Started: 

The Happiness Project was one of the first books I checked out from the library after my mom’s advice to visit the library in 2011. It was in that unemployed, newlywed, in the country season that it became very clear that my happiness was an inside job. It wasn’t the responsibility of Adam, my career, or my address. It was on me. The title drew me in and I reread my now owned copy every couple years.

The Happiness Project helps you consider what you love, even just like, and what makes you happy. What does your “magic” look like? It also breaks down things like the “arrival fallacy” or the idea is that happiness can only happen when you have done or accomplished or receive XYZ. I found that it helps me reflect, stop and smell the roses, and to remember to make room for the little things that make me feel alive (and so very glad to be). 

The exercise of knowing the things that make me happy and that happiness is something worthy, has also served me well as a tool in my tool belt for when life does get sad and hard. The final line of the book includes the line “the ruby slippers had been on my feet all along.” Tap them and make some magic in the mundane.

I also mentioned that this is not self care. Again, it’s not. It is something else entirely. Though, marketing will tell you otherwise, know that a bubble bath and glass of wine isn’t self care. It is making your own magic though— which is worthy, but not a fill in for real self care. 

There are many great conversations debunking “self care,” the commercialization of it, and what actually is “self care.” Real Self Care discusses the need for self reflection and understanding of systems like workplaces, racism, and patriarchy for real self care. The Gospel of Wellness is also a smart read linking how so many of us are trying to hack health and happiness in an effort to feel in control.

And, to get some ideas flowing:

I was with my parents this weekend and asked what they do to “make their own magic.”

My dad loves to take a drive. Even if it’s for an errand, he likes to get into his Thunderbird and turn on the music and just go.

My mom’s answer came quickly to both her and my dad: She loves a bath. She also talked about going to a craft fair a couple weekends before and how seeking out those kind of things are little delights. And, she too is a fan of a plant shop and a good cup of coffee.

All three of us agreed that taking a moment of self reflection is a great reminder of all the magic that is there and helps in moving forward to keep seeking it out and spreading it throughout your everyday.

Coffee+Crumbs also used to have a segment on their podcast called “Little Luxuries.” It was when the hosts and guests shared little joys and moments of magic. Some things could be bought, others couldn’t. Think of you own “little luxuries” and the ideas of how you can make magic in your days will come.

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