Contentment is a pop tart

I've developed such a strong affection for food over the years firstly, because it is sustaining and essential. Loving the things that we need to survive is pragmatic and rewarding all at once. Food nourishes our bodies, it pleases us, and is subjective. I may love one herb, and another person may not. They may avoid this herb like an infectious disease and view it with furious disdain. BUT, we will not war over it as our disagreement is not polarizing. In these turbulent days of division and labeling, this is a powerful attribute. 

The pastry dough was flaky, truly delightful. I used the recipe from the "Megpie" feature in Sweet Paul's Fall 2014 issue. 

Secondly, it reminds us of who we are and the memories we've made over time. Some bad, others joyous. Pangs of hunger during difficult times or the abundance charactertistic of holiday gatherings and festivities. I can swear I recall the cake I had on my first birthday. This is highly unlikely and I have been heavily influenced by the pictures I have seen from the event, but the notion is the same. We remember where we were, who we were with, and what we ate. 

I live with James in my late grandmother and grandfather's home where my dad grew up. We called them Nonny and Homer. Nonny, the gentle Calabrese grandmother, and Homer for his days as a baseball player. The amenities in the kitchen are not elaborate, but what they lack in modernity they more than compensate for in memories.

I adapted Joy the Baker's pumpkin pie filling around what was in my pantry and spice preferences. 

The counter top, a vintage swirly pattern, is worn away in the corner closest to the sink as Nonny likely did the majority of her preparation there. As a young woman, she came to this country not having known English or ever attending school. She made a great life for herself and her family, and fed them generously despite being far from wealthy. (My dad, her son, is 6 foot 3, 290 pounds, so I would say he was nurtured adequately.) 

There is no dish washer. In the evenings, and sometimes the mornings depending on what is cooking, I stand firmly in front of that sink and wash away. Often it takes an entire hour to finish them all as James is a chef and creates lots of dirty dishes, and I follow in close second as his sous chef. I let the dishes air dry, so if you visit for a meal there may be water streaks on the glassware. As a person that is hard on myself, I like these pockets of vulnerability in my life to affirm that flaws are beautiful, and make us relatable, even more appealing. 

I've taken to rising early in the morning to spend time alone in the dimly lit kitchen. The sunlight pours in the windows in front of the sink. I sip on coffee and plan the meals for the day. If I had my way, there would be a warm cake every morning; I settle for three days out of the week. Standing where Nonny would have stood, I affix a small garbage bag to the utensil drawer, like she did, to prevent walking back and forth to the garbage pail. There is always an excess of vegetable peels, egg shells, and packaging so this little practice she left with us is ingenious. The people that leave us, never truly do.

Recently, I made a childhood favorite as a reminder of my upbringing: pop tarts! They were also inspired by my time living in DC, frequenting Ted's Bulletin on Capitol Hill and eating copious amounts of their to-die for pop tarts. I cut the dough into hearts with a large pancake mold, filled them with pumpkin pie filling, and topped them with a maple glaze. The fall flavors have been in full swing in this house. 

After distributing to family and friends, one lone pop tart was left for me to enjoy. I had it with a cup of coffee served in one of my prettiest mugs. Nonny was tasting it too I am sure. 

Falling slowly

“Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.”

— Lauren DeStefano

With all due respect to the other seasons, Fall is a special beauty. Everything bursts with its last beauty. She is fleeting and vulnerable. Once she shows her very best, it is just as quickly gone. Her hues are rich and earthy, temperatures crisp and desserts cinnamon topped. The mums arrive, the leaves turn, and darkness creeps in steadily. 

I've fallen for Fall; really I've always been intrigued with her. When I was younger, she marked new beginnings at school. These days she provides respite from the Summer heat and hectic merriment. She is patient and nurturing. As she has finally arrived, I'm reminded of the lovely tune from Once, called "Falling Slowly."  (Have a listen, it will give you chills.) This past month, I became engaged, to a man I have been falling for over the last three years. Fall will always mark this special moment in my life. We will also wed in the Fall, and my already pronounced adoration will flourish. 

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To welcome this beauty, I've given one of my favorite treats some Fall flare. It's mightily easy to prepare, difficult to ruin, and ever indulgent. On top of that, there are only five ingredients! I give you a Pumpkin Icebox Cake. 

You'll need:

• 1 cup heavy whipping cream
• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 3 tablespoons canned unseasoned pumpkin puree

And one sleeve Famous Chocolate Wafers.

Before whipping, chill the bowl in the refrigerator. Whip the cream, vanilla, and sugar in a stand mixer with a wire whisk until stiff peaks form. Gently mix the pumpkin into the cream. You'll notice it takes on a lovely orange tint. 

Place a piece of wax paper on your work surface and begin to stack the chocolate wafers alternatively with dollops of cream. Arrange as you wish; I make a long log but I've also made a round cake from five piles of wafers.  

Once you have used all the wafers, spread whipped cream to cover the outside of your cake. 

Roll the wax paper along the sides of your cake to seal and chill for three hours.

Slice and serve. Happy Fall y'all. 

On Criticism

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.” - Teddy Roosevelt (1910) via Brené Brown

Since joining the digital sector as a project manager, I have been doing my fair share of reading to get acquainted with the nuances of the industry, best practices, and opinions of the practitioners who so generously share their knowledge. At this moment, it escapes me how I found this writer in particular, but I am grateful I did.  Paul Jarvis is proficient in web design, sure, but I am especially fond of his weekly newsletter, the Sunday Dispatches. He has a knack for relating business and design concepts to practical life lessons, and I find his weekly reads enriching from both a professional and personal vantage point. I highly recommend subscribing.

 A few weeks back, Paul wrote about managing critics, or "trolls" as he called them and it struck a chord with me. As a sensitive person, I am especially, well, sensitive, to criticism. While others' comments aren't always relevant or constructive and I would be better off to disregard them entirely, they still register. I hear the words, I internalize them, search for any truth behind said words, and then hold on to them if they evoke enough negative feelings.

Unfortunately, as a fallible human being I have the ability/urge to be critical as well. As much as we hate criticism, we are all capable of doling it out, and sometimes do. Webster says to criticize is to indicate the faults of (someone or something) in a disapproving way. Criticism ranges from trivial comments about preferences in dress or music, to deeper value judgements about efforts, behaviors, choices, and beliefs. We can be critical without even realizing it, and I this may be due in part to our obsession as a culture with comparing and conforming, rather than celebrating what makes us special. 

The quote at the beginning of this post was shared by Paul, and I found great comfort in these words from our former President, as conveyed by one of the leading scholars in the fields of empathy and vulnerability research, Brené Brown. I would consider myself passionate, and full of life. I thrive off associating with others who are thirsty to explore, learn more, and live with their feet firmly planted in the beauty that this world, although broken, has to offer. Especially refreshing are people who acknowledge weaknesses, accept them, even become comfortable with this state of brokenness. Those that can encourage advancement and diligence but allow for the shortcomings that will undeniably arise on the quest to competence. "...who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly."

For anyone who has ever doubted themselves, been judged unfairly, or judged another person before considering the compassionate approach, you're surely not the only one. Personally, when I am critical of others or myself, it reveals an evident insecurity. I can only speak for myself, but I would go so far as to say it is beneficial to overcome the urge to criticize, when not constructive, as it serves neither the critic nor the judged. The great strength of humanity is that we have the free will to choose - actions that build up others or tear them down. It makes choosing love and understanding all the more celebratory, and as a people we can learn from each instance of said love. 

(PS- Well worth your time is Brené's TED Talk, below, on the "power of vulnerability". If there were a curriculum for life, this in my humble opinion would be essential content.)

A Letter to Myself

This past Sunday afternoon, I made Ricotta gnocchi entirely from scratch. I was standing alone in my kitchen for a few hours, carefully mixing, kneading, and shaping. Entranced by that methodical rhythm, I had ample time to reflect. I cook primarily because I am truly present in the process of making, second only to cooking because well, I love to eat.

My mind wandered to years past. I took an inventory of all that I have come to believe today, as a woman, but would have gladly known as a younger person. As I shaped each gnocco, I retreated further and further.

I tend to show love with food, because food tastes better than words, but consoles heart and soul just the same. Oftentimes I search for meaning through making and sharing food. So with floury hands and a mess of dough and cheese, I crafted a letter; here is what I remember of it, jumbled but sincere. 

I harvested some basil from the garden and stored it in a mason jar. The inspiration from the gnocchi came from Food52, and they were paired with a hearty bolognese. 

Dear Francesca,

One of the only concepts you will consistently have to concern yourself with regarding your actions and beliefs is "are they honorable". Forget the remaining periphery. You do not have to seek assurance, or confirmation that being as you are is ok. Every nuance is another thread in your beautiful and unique tapestry. 

Hold on to your aspirations and views but do not try to change others. Not everyone is the same and they shouldn't be. It takes all kinds of kinds. Focus instead on the joy that remains, and the commonalities between you and the next person. There are more than you think.

Has worrying changed your life at all? Has anything been different? No matter what you do and how you act, someone, somewhere will have a problem with you, and that's ok. Know your worth, but stay humble. You are no better nor worse than the next person. If you find yourself displeased, keep fighting to find what will bring you peace.

Let go of resentment and hostility as these emotions are tiring and harvest more stress and negativity. Re-evaluate your priorities and focus on what is actually important. When you are fifteen, life seems volatile but it gets better. A few eggs that crack become part of something bigger; it will make sense in years to come. 

Messes are lovely in their own way.

You're not perfect, but certainly not awful so lighten up on yourself. Know your audience, know your aggressor, and get to know yourself most importantly. Learn where you can thrive and where you should take a step back. This will take lots of practice, blunders, and awkward encounters. Remember to laugh in the process. Everyone wants to feel worthy. Everyone is striving to gain ground. 

Pause before leaping into hot water. 

Fatigue, discontent, anxiety, impatience, and sadness happen. Do not always attach a value judgment to them. They just are, and will pass like all things good and bad eventually do. Do not assume that fallibility is a weakness and the tendencies that make us most human are unacceptable. If you do so, you're holding yourself to impossible standards. Figments of our minds are the greatest rivals. 

Be content to experience things for yourself. The world is yours for the living. You are not exactly alike any other human being on this planet so why feel like you have to completely align with anyone’s sentiments. Not even the people you love. You can retreat into the depths of your mind every so often, but be sure to come up for air. Change the tune and go on.

Find the time to admire the fruits of your labor.

There is value in sharing experiences and communicating. More people feel like you than you would think; you're not alone. If you make a mistake, acknowledge it and move on. You are not entrusted with ensuring anyone else’s ultimate happiness. Only you can control your own happiness. Remember that when you are trying to please everyone else. 

Show the people who love you understanding and appreciation. They've walked in your shoes.

Today is another beginning, and the present is all we ever actually have. Everything else has already taken place or will in the future. Meet it when it comes, or think fondly on times past but do not neglect the present, it is fleeting. 

Lastly, make time for dinner with your family and friends. Coffee chats, games of monopoly into the wee hours of the morning, and summer nights with ice cream. They will affect you greatly and shape the woman you are to become.

Breakfast Cups

Alice laughed. 'There's no use trying,' she said. 'One can't believe impossible things.' 

'I daresay you haven't had much practice,' said the Queen. 'When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

- Lewis Carroll 

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I've been intending to become an earlier riser for some time now. Early enough to exercise, read, write, or better myself in some way during the dark, quiet morning hours. To believe the impossible. While I have not mastered the habits just yet, I've been more diligent about making breakfast at least. 

I am shamelessly fond of desserts for breakfast. Two days ago, I made a Cherry Chocolate-Chip Upside-Down cake from Food Network magazine and ate it in the morning with a glass of milk. It was a lovely mix of summer and sin; Food Network even showed some love on Twitter.

Fresh off that sugar high, I concocted a breakfast that reminded me of dessert (even used a cupcake tin) but contained traditional breakfast elements: Biscuits. Eggs. Taylor Ham. Cheese. 

I crisped up some finely chopped Taylor Ham. For non-New Jersey folks, Taylor Ham, or Pork Roll,  is a pork-based product that was developed in 1856 by John Taylor of Trenton and is only available in New Jersey and parts of Philadelphia. We put Taylor Ham on everything from bagels to burgers. At Little Town in Hoboken, they put Taylor Ham inside Arancini, or rice balls. 

Next, I grated some Muenster cheese and greased a cupcake tin. I stretched and arranged Pillsbury biscuits in the bottoms of the cupcake wells. Tomatoes, onions, grilled leftovers, and other proteins like turkey or sausage make fine toppings as well. 

Crack large eggs one at a time on each of the biscuits. I left a few of the cups naked, and topped the others with Taylor Ham and cheese (at the halfway mark). Into the oven they went and baked at 425 degrees. I tested the eggs for doneness at 11 minutes. I proceeded to cook the bites for an additional two minutes because I like a firm yolk. For a runny yolk, remove sooner. 

The breakfast cups popped out of the pan with ease, biscuit on the bottom and warm egg on top. I prodded them gently with a butter knife to free them from the tin. 

James leaves at 6 am for work, so I ate quietly by myself. One breakfast cup was filling enough so there were leftovers; I'll be enjoying them again tomorrow. Cheers to breakfast in Wonderland.