You read my post about the why I'm making lard, here is the how. I (mostly) followed the directions in Karen Soloman's book Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It.
To start off, I called up a great butcher and ordered 10 pounds of pork fatback; ten pounds translates to a big old bag of fat.
Chop all that fat up into small pieces and get it into a very large pot over very low heat.
Turns out that for ten pounds of fat, you need two very large pots.
Now settle in, because this is a very long process, here it is after the first hour.
And after it's cooked three hours.
And here it's rendered for seven hours- looks about done.
A tasty byproduct I didn't except (as a first timer) was the pork cracklin's; crispy, super fresh pork rinds. Sprinkled with salt and cayenne pepper they make a great snack, just take it from me, don't snack on a handful followed by three martini's and call it dinner. I learned that one the hard way.
Day 2 I woke up with a little hangover and got back to business, melt and filter the lard and then, sort of like magic it turns into this luxurious creamy solid that looks just like- well, just like lard.
For me- pie is all about the crust! I used to be nervous about making crust, and it never turned out quite right, not light enough, not flaky enough. Well this weekend I discovered the magic ingredient, and I'll never buy a frozen, pre-made again.
I'd had my fill of pie on Thanksgiving- Josh and I buy our pumpkin pie from our favorite bakery, Lovely in Wicker Park in Chicago, IL; instead I made these "Toaster tarts" from Karen Soloman's book Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It. They are really just homemade pop tarts, but man, are they about a million times better.
The dough for the crusts is rolled out thin, and pinched shut around a little filling, I used some cherry preserves I had in the fridge. The tarts are baked just until they are mostly done, then finished off in the oven or toaster right before you eat them.
They are sort just little pies that could fit in your pocket, they're light on the filling but they're a great recipe to showcase an outstanding crust.
About that crust; I'd been looking for an excuse to make some lard for a while, and this baking challenge gave me just such an opportunity. You can read all about the lard making process here, and it is a process, about 2 days worth of work, but let me tell you that it is worth every minute.
Over the course of the past year I've been changing my cooking habits. It all started out easily enough, Josh grabbed Miracle Whip instead of mayo at the store one summer night when I'd grilled up some artichokes. The thought of dunking those prickly leaves in garlic-spiked Miracle Whip made my skin crawl a little so I pulled out the good old MTAOFC and whipped up some mayonnaise.
And let me tell you, if you've never had fresh, real mayonnaise it was life changing. Nothing like the gelatinous white stuff you find on the shelf at the Jewel, this was thick, creamy, pale yellow and full of flavor. And it cost about $0.15.
After that day I started looking at what I bought at the grocery store with a more critical eye. If homemade mayonnaise was so much better than store bought, what else was I missing out on for convenience sake? And really, the convenience factor is kind of a moot point for me, as I love food projects- sort of a combination of cooking and science, my favorite things.
Pasta was old hat for me, but I had some successes with a few new foods, my homemade butter and cheese were waaaaaaaay better than the store bought goods.
Here's where things might start to seem a little out there. A few years ago (turns out it was December 2005) I read an article in my favorite food porn mag, Food and Wine, about the so-called "comeback" of lard. For many years we've heard all about the dangers of lard, how fattening, how bad for you, and we all switched over to vegetable oil. But the thing is, we didn't know then what we know now, that vegetable oil is loaded with hydrogenated and partially hydrogenated fats. Turns out lard has less saturated fat, more unsaturated fat and less cholesterol than butter and unlike margarines and vegetable shortenings, lard contains no trans fat. That's not to say that it's a health food; it's still loaded with fat and calories; it is fat after all, it's just, sort of good fat.
There is a catch; the lard you can buy in the grocery stores? Hydrogenated so it can sit on the shelves and not spoil.
So what to do? Well, if you're a science/cooking nerd like me I think the answer to that question is pretty obvious.
I called up a great butcher and ordered 10 pounds of pork fatback.
Last night Josh and I went out to dinner and to one of his clients' holiday parties*.
This is what I wore- kind of fancy, but this was a fancy kind of party. The client makes these amazing hats- they cost upwards of $500, and every year at this party his customers show up dressed to the nines in their hats and zoot suits. It's kind of amazing.
And it's the kind of party where Josh, dressed in his best (OK, his only) suit felt UNderdressed.
We got to The Black Stone hotel at 7 on the dot, took the elevator to the 23rd floor and grabbed a little booth- inset into the wall with this amazing view of the city.
We listened to the band for about an hour, did some prime hat-watching and headed for home. I'd love to go to a party like this on a Saturday night; get all dolled up, drink wine and dance, dance, dance to the music.
*Yes we broke the cardinal rule of Eisenbergia- no going out on weeknights- for good reason. We don't go out on weeknights because of my job- it's just not cool to be tired and hung-over at work when you work somewhere that people routinely get seriously injured or worse. I would much rather be alert and aware and go home alive than risk it. But. Josh's work is important too, and this party was an important work function for him. So we compromised, went to the party and were home by 9pm.
11.24.09 Coming Soon- To A Bungalow In Congress Park
Big things often start out small. Then they roll along picking up dust and dirt and getting bigger so gradually that you don't even notice them growing.
My post yesterday was like that. It all started one night when Josh and I were sitting on the couch, I was watching the new Lady Gaga video (over and over and over again) and I thought about how much I longed for a dance party. I was picturing Rock Bar in Denver, this terrible hipster dive bar/dance club whose only redeeming virtue is a room with three fully mirrored walls.
It gathered dust when we spent a hung-over Sunday lying on an air mattress in the living room watching movies and eating pizza.
It got even bigger yesterday when I tried to put that feeling into words.
The feeling that my girlfriends are irreplaceable; the feeling that while I'd love to make new friends, I don't want to sacrifice my friendships just because I'm 1000 miles away from the action.
It occurred to me that it's been 6 months since I've been to Colorado, and 9 months since I've been to Denver; I started to get that antsy-in-my-pantsy feeling that is usually a prelude to plane ticket buying.
I talked to some ladies, made sure everyone was going to be in town, cleared it with Joshy and now I'm Denver bound.
And it gets better.
Josh and I had decided to exchange the traditional first-anniversary paper gifts. He was planning on giving me a paper plane ticket home to visit my girlfriends. I guess he could see this coming before I could.
I moved to Chicago over a year ago and I still haven't made any new friends. I work in another state, and all of my coworkers are men, and almost all of them are two decades older than me.
I tried joining some meet-up groups and while it was sometimes fun; I wound up dreading going out more often than not. I felt like I was squandering my precious free time. On the weekends I want to spend my free time with Josh.
I've met a few women, friends of friends, and even a few women I've hit it off with, but relationships always fizzle if you don't out in some serious effort, but I find that I'm just not motivated to do that.
It might sound stupid, selfish and self-defeating, but I really want my friends. My old friends, the ones I already know. The relationships I've put the time and effort into nurturing; the girls who know me, and around whom I don't have to be on any kind of best behavior. The ones who know the stupid and embarrassing shit I did and tease me about it mercilessly.
I think that's probably the exhausting thing about making new friends. The comforting thing about spending time with people who know and love you is that you can be yourself; you can let down your guard and welcome them into your weird little world, just as they welcome you into theirs. When making new friends it is exhaustingly like dating, but without the explicit understanding that everyone is on their best behavior. The pretense is that you are friends, but it isn't quite true, and in the end, it feels like it.
Growing up my mother didn't have any woman friends. She is an amazing woman, and I never understood why until now. She loves my dad and me more than anything, and while she had tons of hobbies (she played on several sports teams), she spent most of her free time with us. I sort of get that now. To be honest, I prioritize my time with Josh over any time I might spend with strangers. As long as I do that I probably won't make any new friends, and I can't imagine I'll change those priorities ever.
But I can't deny that I'm lonely for... something. Lately I've been homesick; maybe not homesick, but friend-sick. I don't miss Colorado as much as I used to, but I really, really miss my friends.
I'm in the mood for a girl's night out. I want to drink martinis and dance to pop-hits. I want to faux-flirt with too-young boys and play caps in my friend Suzie's kitchen. I want to wake up with a hangover and spend the day eating pizza and recapping the night's shenanigans.
These aren't things I'd do with new friends, even if I had them, it just wouldn't be the same, and it would probably end up feeling like more work than play...
Yesterday Meg, at A Practical Wedding, re-ran our wedding and said some very, very nice things about it. I was tickled because, well, I haven't thought much about our wedding since, you know, our wedding. It was nice to be reminded of just how lovely it was, and also it is wild to think about our wedding from someone else's perspective like I get to when reading through the lovely comments left by strangers.
What happened to me yesterday is while I was looking at those pictures I remembered a story that Josh and I often laugh over, but I don't think I've ever told anyone else.
Josh and I wrote our own vows. We aren't religious and we were married in a bakery, and we're us so going the traditional route didn't make much sense. I spent days drafting my vows, writing them over and over and Josh threw his together that morning. When it was time to exchange our vows he pulled out his note card and read me something truly beautiful, and when it was my turn I kicked myself. I'd left my note card on the kitchen counter in our apartment. I was incredibly grateful that I'd written them over and over because in doing so I'd effectively memorized them, and was able to "wing it."
Afterward I was sipping champagne and laughing with my mom and I asked her how I'd done. She replied that I was "fine, but you never said 'I Love You...'"
Of course I told Josh about that right away because that statement is typically my mom; well meaning but not without criticism, and we've been laughing about it ever since.
But here's the thing. In my draft of the vows I'd left at home on the kitchen counter? I didn't say I love you in them either. "I Love You" just isn't a statement that I really felt was necessary in front of my friends and family AT MY WEDDING. Why else would I be there?
I felt like my vow to my husband was more of a promise I was making on how I would respect and honor our partnership and how we'd grow together as a family. To me, the love part went without saying.
Not that I didn't say it at all.
In my own, subtle way I told every single person at our wedding that I love Josh.
I included this quote as a message to all of our guests: "And with a love like that, you know you should be glad."
As any Beatles fan knows; the title of the song is She Loves You
Look, I'm too busy and too beat to give you anything new today, but if you just can't live without your daily dose of The Maiden, head over here and tell me I look pretty.
So, Josh and I made this little deal when we got engaged. Well, actually we made it when we went out ring shopping.
I can't wear rings to work so that is automatically 72% of the time I couldn't wear an expensive, fancy ring. That leaves 2 days of ring wearing, but factor in about 1/3 of the weekend for sleeping, we're down to 76%. Plus, I don't know if you noticed, but even on weekends I'm usually doing something messy like cooking or gardening or god-forbid stripping paint. That takes me up to 90% of my life when I won't have on my wedding ring.
Those of you who do wear rings know it takes a while to get used to how they feel, and frankly, wearing a ring for only 10% of my life I just don't get used to it. And if I do get used to it, come Monday morning I have to take it off and I get right unused to it all over again. To be honest, I never wear it unless we're going somewhere fancy.
Factor in my super short attention span and it really didn't make sense to go the two-month's salary route on the ring thing.
What did make sense, to me, was to be a bit more frugal on the ring front, and then when I found another ring I liked, maybe something antique, or fun and sparkly, or well, whatever I was in the mood for, I could pick it up and wear it and mix things up.
Well I love costume jewelry, and so far I've found a few cheesy, super sparkly, in your face blingy ringies that I occasionally wear out on the town, I picked up a great little find I found antiquing little ornamental things I picked up for 5 dollars here, 15 dollars there... but until recently I hadn't found a real contender.
Last weekend we were out and about and I popped into the same jewelry shop in Wicker Park where Josh and I both bought our rings. I was looking for something a shiny, but not too shiny, and something a size larger than my wedding ring. In the spirit of full disclosure, my finger has fattified in the past year, and that unused-to wearing a ring feeling is only exacerbated by a ring that's too small.
Back to last weekend, we were out having cocktails, ever so slowly winding out way down through Wicker Park to a party and doing some shopping along the way. Josh was, as is his nature, completely shopped out, so he grabbed a beer while I popped into the jewelry store where we bough our wedding rings. It is a funky little shop with the coolest jewelry, not really your traditional "let's go buy wedding rings" place, but bear in mind my wedding ring is made of black ceramic powder coated stainless steel. This is the kind of place that has exactly what I'm looking for. They also happen to be one of Josh's clients, and I love stimulating the economy of local small businesses.
God, this has turned into a really long story to which the moral is really just: Hey, I bought a pretty new ring.
(Sweet picture, huh?)
And I guess the other moral is: do what you want. What works for you might not work for me. And vice versa.
You know when you're drunk? I mean, like really, really drunk? And you have a fight with your husband and you know in your righteous heart that you're right and he's wrong and no amount of "oh honey, you're drunk" will convince you that you're overreacting?
You're overreacting.
In the morning you won't remember what you were fighting about.
Then you'll start getting little flashbacks, and you'll realize that you were right after all, but the appropriate lever of anger would have been more like a "dude, that's not cool" as opposed to the "I'm leaving and don't try to follow me you asshole!" level of anger you actually experienced.
Especially when you see this picture and your husband explains what story you were telling when this picture was taken.
And really, that's not a story you should tell people. It's funny and all, but only to you in a private, confines of the marriage only type of way.
You might shrug sheepishly and feel bad for a minute, but then you remember you have the ultimate fall back excuse.
"Do you know how drunk I was?"
As an aside, why am I always talking people into feeling me up whenever I have more than three cocktails?
Just when I was fleeing all warm and smug and thoroughly grown-up, Josh and I went and fell off the responsible adult wagon.
We'd planned to spend Saturday playing in the city; we woke up, had breakfast, and jumped on a train. We had drinks, lunch, went to our eye exams thoroughly tipsy and then went out for more drinks. We had a little food and a lot to drink before we went to a party around 8.
Some time around midnight we grabbed a cab and had a knock down drag out drunk fight about some stupid shit in the backseat (sorry driver!) then finally passed out at home.
It was a really fun day peppered with a couple stupid drunken arguments and wouldn't have seemed quite so bad except that the next morning neither one of us could get out of bed.
God the hangover! I don't drink all that often anymore and when I do the hangover is such cruel punishment. After an hour or two of pathetic misery we managed to drag our sad sack asses out of bed, after I threw up we headed out for provisions. I got us Gatorade, Coca-cola and apple juice, Josh went to get us a nice big pizza. We blew up the air mattress in the living room and settled in to watch movies and recover.
A couple of hours and lots of pizza later we were beginning to recover. Until I went to find the camera so we could laugh at our drunken shenanigans from the day before.
I couldn't find the camera with my stuff, and I couldn't find it in Josh's stuff and I was beginning to panic when Josh got a text message from his buddy who said he had the camera.
I felt better for just a minute before I remembered.
See, last weekend Josh and I went on a little weekend getaway. And it turned out that we were in a super creepy hostile little town with not much to do. So we went back to the hotel room, and well, we had a "sexy" photo shoot. And the pictures? Well, the pictures are all on that camera that we left at the party.
And they had to figure out that it was our camera somehow.
Yep. I think it is only safe to assume that every single person I've met since I moved to Chicago has seen me camping it up for the camera in a negligee and bright red lipstick.
Today I'm daydreaming about a dance-a-thon girls night out fueled by cocktails and powered by Gaga...
Not going to happen, since my ladies all live a thousand miles away. Instead Josh and I have fun plans to go run around the city tomorrow, a party tomorrow night that we're looking forward to, and, as always, some serious weekend snuggling with the little fur-beasts who share our apartment.
I go through hard core phases. I'll get in the mood for something and it is all I'll be in the mood for until, well, until I'm in the mood for something else. I feel like I am really always forming crushes on something or other.
Goyoza, miso soup, one of the chef's choice sushi plates, snowballs (little balls of rice topped with white tuna, white truffle sauce and scallions) and unagi jalapeno tempura for dessert. Yum!!!
Origins High Potency Night-A-Mins
I slather this on my face every night before bed; it is really thick and saturates my face so that I still feel moisturized when I wake up.
Community (On NBC, Thursday)
I adore Joel McHale, he's been on my "list" as long as I can remember. His new show is so stupid and so funny- Josh and I watch it before anything else on the DVR.
Lady Gaga
I'm a little late to the party on this one, and in fact Lady Gaga's appearance on SNL a few months ago really confused me. This new video completely won me over though. I keep watching it over and over and over. I know Josh would actually like me to knock it off.
My 401-k
So, my investment portfolio is in the crapper just like the rest of America, but my 401-k actually performed well. Looking at my recent statement makes me feel remarkably grown-up, despite the fact that I just this week got around to opening up a savings account independent of my checking account.
Homemade Ginger Syrup
For cocktails and homemade sodas. I'm really trying to eliminate all things high fructose corn syrup from my life. With that as my excuse (see, it's healthy!) I made ginger syrup by thinly slicing a huge knob of ginger and boiling it in 1 cup sugar and 2 cups water. Once that mixture has thickened I turned the heat off and let it steep for an hour or so before straining out the ginger pieces. I like it served with vodka, lime and soda water; like a Moscow Mule. The bonus is that the ginger pieces once strained and rolled in some sugar granules are exactly like expensive ginger candy. Oh, and the whole thing costs about three bucks.
This Mara Hoffman Dress
It should be arriving any day, now I just need an excuse to wear it!
It was just a matter of time until we carved Pumpkins- Halloween comes every year. Last year we had a party and got drunk and our pumpkins went un-carved, this year we actually carved them and I got another one of those surprises when I discovered Josh's hidden talent. He is a master pumpkin carver. With just a spoon and a paring knife he created a masterpiece.
My cousin's wedding last month provided the perfect excuse to finally make that trip out to visit my Grandma. How I wish we lived closer so I could visit more often.
My first wish-list failure. I wanted to surprise Joshy with an apple picking adventure because he so wanted to go- what a romantic guy. But Alas! I waited to long, and by the time we made it out to the country, the season was over. Better luck next year!
21. Start a separate savings account
I've been pitifully saving money in my checking account; I finally got around to opening up a money market savings account. I am a bit ashamed that it took me this long to do this most basic of grown-up things. Josh and I also started up a savings account so we can begin aggressively saving for a belated honeymoon/ pre-baby making vacation late next year. Every time I put some cash in that account I can feel the sand between my toes...
I'd better wrap up Autumn before it's too late. This is going to be a sort of odds and ends post...
I keep meaning to introduce Phil; though he belongs to the downstairs neighbors the pets have seemed to come to an understanding that Murph gets free reign or the downstairs while the cats (Phil and Kitty) get dominion over the upstairs. That is to say, Phil rules our roost. He is the boss and whenever Kitty, Murphy Josh or I get out of line Phil lets us know it.
Oh my stars folks, look at those eyebrows, they are irresistible.
Josh and I went out to dinner with an old college buddy of mine last week and on the way out of the house Josh snapped these extremely adorable pictures of yours truly. I almost forgot how gosh darn cute I can be when I do little things like, you know, shower and get dressed.
And check out that sweet ass.
I've felt a little let down by the soggy brown leaves all around our neighborhood. Inspired the amazing colors of the leaves we saw during our trip to Maryland last month I made this garland to bring a little autumn color into our dining room.
What do you do with your pumpkins the day after Halloween? Some people make sweets, my folks put them out back for the birds, but I like to take the unique opportunity to make an entire winter worth of pumpkin ravioli filling.
First roast or sauté the pumpkin flesh until it breaks down into a puree, add some cream or half and half and some butter and season to your taste, I like sage, tarragon, salt and pepper.
Make your favorite pasta recipe and roll out sheets for filling.
Once it is completely cooled, drop in spoonfuls of the pumpkin filling, cover with another sheet of pasta and seal. You can use a pasta cutter to make neat pretty pasta, but I always like to leave them very rugged and not waste the pasta by trimming it off.
Let the ravioli sit while you prepare the sauce, and then drop in boiling water for just a few minutes to cook. My favorite sauce "recipe" is below but a simple sage and brown butter is also very complimentary:
Sautee diced shallot or onion and garlic in butter until soft, add about 2 cups chicken stock and reduce sown to ¼ cup. Add cream or half and half (about a cup) and reduce until liquid is ½ the original volume. Strain out the bits of shallot and return the reduction to the saucepan over low heat. Whisk in a few tablespoons of cold butter, allowing the sauce to thicken and serve immediately. Garnish with crispy sage leaves.
This weekend Josh and I went away on our first ever, Eisenberg only weekend getaway.
Can you believe that? While we've been away many times, we've always stayed with friends, or family, or friends and family. We've shared hotel rooms and crashed in spare bedrooms and once, spent one horrible night shivering on my friends Mak and Kate's hardwood basement floor a scant 6 feet from the cat box.
If you have a dirty mind and can read between the lines this means, that's right folks, we've never had hotel room sex. Tragic, I know.
Now the weekend wasn't about sex, well, it wasn't just about sex, it was about getting away from the internet and the television, the chores and to-do lists, and after more than a year's worth of traveling for wedding and family visits, it was about taking one little weekend for ourselves.
Josh planned this whole trip and kept all the details a surprise, telling me only to keep the weekend free for "Operation Get out of Town," and I was all too happy to oblige.
We ended up in a tiny town called Petersberg, population 2300. It was a lovely, picturesque little town, high on its own little bit of Lincoln history.
We checked in to a quaint little B&B which we soon discovered was infested with Ladybugs (I know that sounds cute, but I'm talking INFESTED) and smelled like death and cat piss. Believe it or not, these two little cons were hastily negated by the fact that Josh had gotten us a huge suite with a bathroom and the entire town was a within walking distance. We got the lowdown from the innkeeper and set out to explore.
We'd planned on having a nice dinner, strolling in the moonlight, and relaxing in a bubble bath. Sounds romantic right?
Well. That level of romance is all contingent on our being reasonable, grown up, mature adults. We are instead hyperactive worrywarts.
First, the nicest restaurant in town was the local pizza joint, so we didn't bother changing in to our frippery. We had a few drinks at the one of the local taverns where the bartender made a big deal out of checking our ID's and announcing that we obviously weren't from "around here" (obviously). One of the fine local gentlemen took that opportunity to hit on me in front of my husband. His suave opening line? "I like your eyebrows." After a few cocktails (Kettle and soda? $3.25) we headed to the nicest restaurant in town, a pizza joint with screaming children running around unattended to nary the blink of an eye. OK.
After dinner that moonlit stroll. Well, we heard some live music so we moonlit strolled our way over to a dive bar. So far so good, but then, well not so much, a dive bar I can feel, a smoke-filled neo-nazi dive bar? Not so much. I'm not going to lie; this is kind of where the night sort of fell apart for us. We got scared. Then when we left and one guy followed us to another bar and sort of stared at us? We got really scared.
We ran back to the B&B. I'm being literal here, we ran back to the B&B. I felt better, Josh felt worse. What if the hotel is haunted?
Do you think I'm kidding? The first time we go on a mini-break and we encounter white-supremacists (real) and ghosts (perceived).
We had really worked ourselves up to a fever pitch; Josh wanted to pack up the car and drive home that minute, when we had a little bit of a reality check. The skinheads couldn't get to us, we'd locked the door, and while I found them threatening whilst we were in their bar, surely they had better things to do than follow us and harass us. Surely.
As for the ghosts, well that was a harder sell, but one little thing went a long way in distracting my husband from the possibility of ghosts in our room... the promise of that elusive hotel room sex.
I had an amazing day yesterday sitting back and reading your comments.
My readers are witty, smart and funny; they are great cooks, great moms and grandmas, and amazingly loyal friends.
They laugh loudly and proudly.
They are proud of their beautiful eyes, their rockin' bods, and their shiny hair; their dimples, eyelashes, profiles and noses.
They love their skin, their legs and their amazing asses.
'Fessing up to your patience, smarts, and talent are just as important as being able to admit that you have nice boobs, and sexy full lips; but still so many of us have a tough time.
One thing really surprised me about all this, and I want to take a minute to talk about it.
Most of the comments were left by women I know in their late 20's and early 30's; women I know who are in fact, gorgeous, funny women with beautiful children or without, wicked senses of humor, loyal, compassionate, witty, intelligent... I could go on but I don't need to. What struck me about all of you amazing women is that most of us share that feeling that we aren't all those amazing things, or at least, we can't admit to it. Sadly, I was not surprised that it was so hard for most of us to find things to be unabashedly proud of; that's what inspired me to write Wednesdays post in the first place.
No, what I was surprised by were two comments left by Kate's mom Liz and my new mom Jenna. Liz and Jenna's comments were both without that struggle. They know what they love about themselves, and they weren't afraid to say it. They weren't held back by that misguided impulse to downplay what makes them feel amazing. I'd like to think that means that one day we won't be so hard on ourselves anymore. That one day we'll appreciate ourselves and be as kind to ourselves as are friends are to us.
And finally, if you'll indulge me just a bit longer, I believe that one day we'll look back and wonder why we tortured ourselves for so long. Why we struggled and fought and tried for so long to squash those little voices inside telling us that yes, we are beautiful, and smart and that there isn't anything wrong with that.
Yesterday I sent my friend Jill an email telling her I thought she looked great in her Halloween costume. Her reply?
"aw shucks. gotta go on a diet though...started today."
Which prompted my immediate reply
"The diet... I can't believe how much going off the pill has done for my bod. When you were visiting, and we had all the jeans, I was pretty bummed because the only ones that fit were the size twelves and they were pretty tight, now I'm down into the 8's. TFG. I still look all chubby, and my fat girl arms are out of control, but I think I'm going to just deal. "
As soon as I hit send I remembered a post by Sarah earlier this week on Yes and Yes.
Go read it, I'll wait.
Done?
Well the rest of the emails went thusly:
"That's good...I was just thinking I don't need to wear a leotard year-round...do I look pretty tubolicious? I'm kinda embarrassed."
"Not at all, actually I'm wondering why my comment that you looked great inspired your immediate declaration that you were going on a diet and my subsequent reply that I had fat girl arms and I'm chubby."
"What's wrong with us? Why can't my saying that you look pretty simply mean you look pretty? Because you do; and not tubolicious at all, actually you have nothing to be embarrassed about. Why are we conditioned to respond immediately to a compliment by putting ourselves down?"
You see, I'm still wondering. Jill is the most beautiful girl I've ever met in real life, and frankly, I may not be a size 4 anymore, but I'm pretty easy on the eyes my own darn self. Why are we conditioned to focus on the arm fat, the soft belly, the... well... the whatever.
I think starting today I'm going to focus on this:
Jill has the most stunning eyes; they are a sort of icy blue/grey, she's thin, tall, blonde (and not an obnoxious blonde, actual honest to god blonde) she has a great rack and seriously sexy arms. She tells the worst jokes in the best way and she's an incredibly thoughtful friend.
I have great hair, straight white teeth, and beautiful eyes. I'm smart, funny and a hell of a cook. I'm adventurous and spontaneous and I have the best friends, which makes me think there's something to be said about my ability to be a friend in return.
Does that immodesty shock you?
Do you think it would still shock you if a dude said the same things?
I know that men have their own insecurities, but this bad habit of deferring compliments and focusing in on our self perceived flaws (with laser like intensity) seems to be predominantly a dudette thing.
When I say to my husband "Damn! You look good!" Does he say "No, no, my jeans are a little tight and my hair is doing this weird thing"?
Hell no! He says thank you damn it! And he means it.
Now, Jill and I aren't alone in this stupid, self sabotaging behavior. I bet to some extent you all do it.
I don't usually ask you (friends, readers, reader-friends) for much of anything, but I'm asking today.
1) Leave me a comment, and tell me two or three amazing things about yourself. Don't qualify them, or dismiss them, just lay them out there.
2) If you think I'm full of shit, tell me so, I'd bet that I can tell you a few amazing things about yourself if you give me the chance.
3) This is the big one. Stop. For 1, 2, 3 days or even a week, stop it. After that week, keep going. Just knock it off. When the urge to be so damn hard on yourself pops into you head, stop it. And for gods sake stop it before it comes out of your mouth. I read that doing something for 21 days can make it a habit. Let's try to break this habit.
I loved my husband's blog before I loved him- hell, before I met him.
I read it everyday. Usually first thing in the morning, but also usually when I came home from the bar at 2 in the morning- and don't think Suz and Jill let that slip away unnoticed.
If you have a crush on a website? Your friends will tease you mercilessly.
I had sort of and idea about what kind of man would write such a witty blog. It didn't hurt that he was as cute as a button. Well, when I met him he wasn't exactly what I'd expected, not quite as "cool" but that's probably a good thing... had he been as "hip" as I'd built him up in my imagination we never would have gotten together.
While he wasn't too hip, he was adorably bashful and seemed as smitten with me as I was with him.
Win-win!
My friends, upon meeting him were surprised that he was much mellower that his hyper singing-dancing alter ego; his Berg With Fries persona.
After we moved in together, and even after we were married, he still made his videos cloaked in secrecy, so I was as surprised and delighted as everyone else when I got to see them- after he posted them on him website.
I know this sounds kind of funny, but when he told me he was retiring his blog, I was actually sad. His was by far my favorite blog to read, and even though I get to keep the rest of him, I will miss the carefully constructed lists and videos and stories that made me fall in love with him in the first place.
N.B. He wrote his farewell blog post yesterday, and then last night something so shocking and blog worthy happened that he just had to write once more.
I will fully admit to my Halloween apathy. I just don't really care either way. A bunch of friends dressing up and going out? I can throw together a costume. Husband tired of going out three weekends in a row? I can sit on the couch. See? I'm easy.
That's not to say I'm a scrooge, I'll jump on just about any excuse to celebrate. For example, while we didn't venture out into that drunken abyss that is Halloween on a Saturday, I did pick up two good looking pumpkins, and rent a couple Halloween-ish flicks.
We carved pumpkins, drank cocktails (mango-pomtini's for me, gin gimlets for him) and danced the time warp along with Magenta and Riff Raff in our living room
(I carved a Josh-o-lantern, he carved the birds on a wire)
For this month's EBcO recipe I made Spicy Molasses Cookies. I have to admit, I was pretty disappointed at first; I'm not really a cupcake person and I hate the smell of molasses so I figured I had to pick the lesser of two evils in picking a recipe to make this month. I decided on the cookies because I was really, really not into the cupcakes.
These cookies were extremely simple and I was beyond shocked when I taste tested a cookie and loved it! I went on to taste test several more cookies just to be sure...
Modifications? Well, at my rinky-dink grocery store I was out of luck on the cardamom front and while the cookies were absolutely mouthwatering without, I can just imagine the little exotic something extra the cardamom would have brought to the bite. Next time (and there will be a next time, I now have an entire jar of that foul smelling molasses in my pantry) I will go out of my way to find some cardamom.
