Your Favorites

I'm working on some new recipes for upcoming My First Kitchen classes, and I'd love some ideas from anyone interested in sharing!

What's your standby ingredient that is always in your kitchen? What do you love to cook with? Or better yet, what do you love to eat?

I want to focus on dishes that use popular, easy-to-use ingredients, so help me figure out what those are!

Soundtracks

Do you ever feel like you're in a movie? Music does that to me. It transports me to a New York street in the fall waiting to meet my long lost love. It puts me in a car, driving down a thickly tree-lined street to a home I haven't seen in years. It comforts me after a loved one dies. It makes me stop, close my eyes, smile, and think about how music is one of the most emotionally powerful mediums in my life. It goes beyond something fun to sing or something sentimental to listen to. A moment can be perfectly identified by a lyric, a note, a voice. I cry listening to music more than I cry about real life problems. It just speaks to me in a way that nothing else does. It's abandonment and quiet and rest. It's love and death and courage and hurt. It's perfect.

My Favorite Day

It's 1:11pm on a Wednesday, and I'm still in my pajamas. Granted I have been working all day, but I haven't taken the time to change. That FlyLady lady would be quite angry that I don't have my shoes and my face on. But there's something about pajamas. They're cozy and soft and warm and safe. Nothing bad happens when I'm wearing them. I'm not self-conscious (unless a neighbor drops by... oops), I don't feel bloated after I eat because of precious elastic, and I can crawl back in bed without worrying about wrinkles... on my clothes, not my face. Just to clarify.

So why am I sharing this? I have no idea. I'm just happy right now! I just ate a tasty lunch, I'm warm and comfy in my pajamas, I'm working but it's mindless, I'm halfway watching season three of LOST, and I am deeply loved. It's just really nice.

I like this kind of day.

A Great Uncle

Let me tell you about my Uncle Rex.

I told him I'd start my blog that way. Who knows if he'll actually read it. Still, I'm a woman of my word. So here's a post dedicated to my Uncle Rex.

He's my grandpa's brother, so I guess that makes him my great uncle. He is that... a great uncle. You know those people that you just feel totally comfortable with even if you don't see them but once every year? It's like Anne Shirley looking for her kindred spirit. I found one of very few in Uncle Rex.

My grandpa has been in the hospital for the last month going through triple bypass surgery and subsequent surgeries and therapies to help him recover. Over the four weeks, I've only gone a couple of times, but every time I've gone, Uncle Rex has been there. He sits and waits. Even on days where seeing my grandpa is hours away, he sits and waits. He's quiet and consistent, and silence is okay. And he's got my website in his favorites on his computer which I think is sweet.

And he teases. Goodness, does he tease. He loves to take little jabs at people he likes. Today I opened an issue of Entertainment Weekly in the waiting room, and Uncle Rex said, "You can read?" He does that. He loves to tease. But that's one of the reasons why I love him. I love that when he questions my mom's cooking ability and work ethic, he's really saying that he respects the woman she is. I love that when he tells me to keep my mom in line, he's really saying that he likes the fact that my mom and I love each other and love each other well. I'm glad he teases me, because it means he likes me. And I sure do like him.

So, Uncle Rex, if you're reading this, I did what I said. I wrote about you in my blog. I hope none of the words are too big for you.

Restaurant Review

Kaz and I went to Fincastle's Diner last night. You should, too.

I was going to cook, but you know how it goes (or try and remember how it went pre-kids). You have a dinner plan; ours was baked potatoes and salad. Not the most exciting thing, I know, but it works on days I don't feel like cooking (yes, there are days I don't feel like cooking). Somehow though, baked potatoes didn't seem like the fun Friday night dinner young couples unsaddled with families are supposed to have. So we went to Target. Not to eat. To buy shaving cream and dish soap and to think about what we wanted to eat.

Quick note on the dish soap. I almost got the "green" version to help save the environment a little. I picked up a bottle of Seventh Generation, took a whiff, quickly put it back on the shelf, and grabbed a bottle of good ol' Dawn. Stuff smelled like old dish water with a few lavender petals thrown in. Gross. I'll have to figure out another way to save the planet. Okay, back to dinner.

So we thought walking around Target would inspire a dinner plan; it did not. We sat in the parking lot for a couple of minutes throwing out ideas. Nothing. We don't eat out much, so we wanted to make this meal count; we take our food seriously. We landed on Napoli, a little Italian place on State St. that's actually quite good. We went there for lunch a couple of months ago and decided then we wanted to try it for dinner sometime. Was tonight that sometime? For four and a half minutes, it was.

Then sitting at the intersection of Cornwallis and Elm, we had a brainwave. We've always wanted to try Fincastle's! It's a little burger joint on Elm St. downtown that's been open for a couple of years. Now a word about downtown... Kaz and I don't feel cool enough for downtown. There are restaurants we want to try and we realize we're the last people in Greensboro to have never gone to the Greenbean (one word or two?), but Kaz's glasses aren't cool enough, my coat is too "soccer mom," and we definitely don't walk like we know what we're doing or where we're going. But despite all of those anxiety-producing facts, we decided to try Fincastle's. So glad we did.

It's a little narrow restaurant with maybe ten tables and a long counter. They serve perfectly simple burgers, freakishly awesome onion rings, and ice cream that I will try the next time we go. The service was casual and prompt, the decor was fun and diner-y, and the food kept us from talking for awhile because we just kept cramming it in. We liked that there were kids and older folks and college kids (and us) in the same restaurant. The jukebox makes the place a little throw-back. The prices are great. We got burgers with fries/onion rings, Kaz got a soda, and it was just under $14. Sure, you have to leave a tip on top of that, but that's just a buck or two more than dinner for us at Panera. Totally worth it. And parking in the deck a block over is free at night.

So go to Fincastle's. It's fun no matter who you are. And seriously... get the onion rings.

Words.

I just spent the last thirty minutes reading the thoughts of my dearest friends. They're people I admire, people who say funny and profound things, people who make me feel the most myself. I throw a little party when I see a new post or even their comment on someone else's post. I'm that obsessed with their words.

I love words. I've always loved words. Ever since my mom started butchering my English papers with her merciless red pen (when I was twelve, people!), I've had an appreciation for what people write. Umm, I've never been all that interested in what they say; is that terrible? Yes. Yes, it is. Cut me some slack though - I'm working on it. Anyway, I got an English degree to feed my love. My parents spent thousands of dollars so that I could read the words of others and write about them for a grade. I adored it. Every paper. Every book. Well, except Heart of Darkness. And The Sound and the Fury. And I loathe the publisher who took a gamble on anything by James Joyce. But other than that, I loved it all. I was trained to read with a discerning eye, write with an introspective tone, and critique with grammatical perfection. Just try and misuse a semicolon; I'll come after you.

You know what stinks though? All I wanted was to be a good writer. Scratch that... a great writer. I can't tell you how many times I have sat down with a pen and legal pad ready to write the world's next American novel. This again started when I was twelve. But I never got there. I never wrote a novel. I never even got through a short story. Up until just a few minutes ago, I've called myself a failure in writing. Even in the blog world, I have freakishly high expectations of myself. If I don't make myself laugh or cry or think or act, I've failed.

Then I read the words of my friends. In these wee small hours of the morning (is 1am considered wee though? and is that even how you spell wee?), I laugh, cry, think, act. My love for words is touched by those I love. Tonight, for the first time, I realize how valuable that is. Because my words are valuable, too. They allow me to keep trying, to share more of myself, to not give up on that twelve year-old's dream. Their words give my words life because who they are enriches my life.

So thank you, friends, for feeding my soul with your stories and vulnerabilities and perfect views on the world. Perfect because they're genuinely you. And perfect because you wrote them.

Just remember - I don't like it when you talk. KIDDING.

In Good Company

A couple of days ago, I watched Masterpiece Theater's Persuasion by Jane Austen on PBS. I'm pretty tolerant of anything based on Jane's work, so my expectations weren't terribly high. It's usually all pretty good. This movie was definitely fun to watch, and I'd watch it again in a heartbeat. And because of the miracle and lifeblood that is DVR, I can. My favorite part of the movie though wasn't the story or the acting or those perfect empire waist dresses...

My favorite part of watching Persuasion was listening to my friend Kate watch Persuasion.

The dashing male lead character is named Captain Frederick Wentworth... sounds so noble. He's not supposed to be crazy hot or anything like Mr. Darcy or Frank Churchill, but he should be fairly nice to look at. Well, I think Kate thought he met the hotness quota.

The guy playing Wentworth was named Rupert Penry-Jones... sounds even more noble. Everytime he came on the screen, my friend would sigh or say under her breath (or very loudly), "Oh my goodness, he's just so beautiful!" Yes, he's cute; she's not telling a lie. But I had such a good time watching the movie, hoping that Wentworth would appear, not to move the story along but to hear what Kate would say about him.

Today's lesson learned from Austen? I recommend watching movies with friends. If I had watched it by myself, I would've enjoyed the story and moved on. Watching it with Kate gave it another dimension that brought a lot more joy than without. So grab a friend, pop some popcorn, and set your DVR for this Sunday at 9pm on PBS... Mansfield Park is on.

Risotto Therapy

You should cook risotto sometime. It does take about 45 minutes from start to finish, but standing in one place stirring for half an hour, watching rice slowly absorb the warm stock (sounds rivetting, I know), truly is so calming. Add a glass of wine, and you're in a dreamy place that only Norah Jones could enhance. So take some time to make risotto next weekend when you're not as rushed, and if you have kids, send the husband out on a pre-dinner walk with them for a little while. Pop on some Norah, pour a class of Sauvignon Blanc (you have to use it for the risotto, so you might as well drink some while the bottle's open!), take some deep breaths, and patiently stir creamy risotto. I promise... it's worth it on so many levels.

Here's a recipe if you want to give it a try. This will make two huge bowls or four regular ones.

First heat up 7 cups of chicken stock in a saucepan. That's just shy of two boxes of stock. Keep it at a low simmer while you make the risotto. Dice a small yellow or white onion into pretty small pieces, season with a pinch or two of salt and pepper, and cook it in about three tablespoons of butter over medium-low heat in a heavy-bottomed pot for about three minutes. Stir the onions every 45 seconds or so so they don't get too brown. Lower the heat to low, and stir in two cups of risotto (also known as arborio) rice. Stir it constantly for about two minutes, and make sure that every grain gets coated with some butter. Pour in one cup of white wine (this is when you pour yourself a glass, too), and stir for about a minute. Now comes the fun part! Get a ladle, and pour in the hot stock one ladle at a time, stirring constantly over medium-low heat. Don't pour the next ladle in until the liquid from the first has been absorbed. You basically want to see the bottom of the pan when you stir before adding anymore. So take your time with the ladles of stock. It will get creamy and translucent and decadent. Once all of the stock has been absorbed, stir in about a cup of freshly grated Parmesan cheese (please... don't use the green plastic can stuff), a half a cup or a good handful of chopped Italian parsley (the curly kind doesn't have the same flavor), and the zest (the yellow part of the lemon peel - use a grater or better yet a Microplane to get it off) and juice of one lemon. Season it with a little more salt and pepper, and immediately pour into shallow bowls and serve. Risotto isn't the same if it sits, so do your best to eat it right away.

Enjoy the calming effects of risotto, friends. It's cooking therapy at its best.

They're Just Like Us

So they've canceled the Golden Globes. Well, the big ceremony at least. No dressing up, no posing with your back to the camera with the head slightly turned so as to make the waist look smaller than my knee, no schmoozing with other celebrities and pretending like you don't think Tom Cruise is crazy... none of that is happening. Instead we're getting a sixty minute news conference announcing the winners, most of whom won't be there so that they can support the writers on strike.

I must admit that I'm sad about it. I love award shows. They're the perfect combination of celebrity and list-making. The nominees, the winners, the best and worst dressed, and the hope of a show of the Top 100 Red Carpet Mishaps on E!. It's fun. Silly, but fun.

One of the reasons I dislike celebrities though is how perfect they all look all the time. I mean, PERFECT. Flawless skin, amazing proportions, and they always seem to have their own lighting crew following them around. But I recently happened upon a website (once you're there, click on portfolio) posted by my friend, Emily, that made it all better. They're not all perfect. Not even close. Just look at the pictures. (You actually have to click on and off the pictures to see the difference. And what a difference, let me tell you.)

I'm not perfect either though. Well, that's obvious, but I mean none of us are perfect... in anything. We fail all the time, even those we love more (or hope to love more) than ourselves. It's part of life, but it's in those imperfections that we realize we are absolutely nothing without Jesus. NOTHING. We're beautiful to Him, and His blood has made us righteous. So awesome. So let that be a reminder to all of you trying-to-be-perfect-people out there; no one is perfect, not even celebrities. And better yet, there's a God whose perfection is all you'll ever need.

Okay, I'm going to go back and look at how they edited out the creases on Naomi Watts' thumb.

Culinary Risks

I used my crockpot for the first time last night... yes, the first time. I made a Mexican flavored rice and beans thing that we topped with cheddar and fresh cilantro. It was pretty good. But I used a new ingredient (which I like to do as often as possible) that I thought I'd share with you... all three of you.

Chipotle in adobo. Say it with me (chi-POLT-le in uh-DO-bo).

They're smoked jalapeno peppers, and they're spicy and taste a little like barbecue sauce (hence the smoked part). I chopped one of them up and threw it in the crockpot with the chicken, black beans, rice, salsa, chopped onion, some spices, and water. The chipotle pepper gave it a nice smoky kick, and I highly suggest you try one. I also learned that when cooking with chipotles, combine it with something sweet. I didn't have anything sweet in my crockpot, and next time I'll throw in some canned tomatoes instead of salsa (didn't need the extra kick) and some frozen corn. That should be just enough sweetness to balance the smoky spice.

Here's another idea; I haven't tried it yet, so don't get mad if it isn't good. Throw the following in a gallon plastic bag: chicken breasts or thighs cut into small pieces, a chopped chipotle, the juice from a lime, a squeeze of honey, about a half a teaspoon of cumin, a quick drizzle of canola oil, and a couple pinches of salt. Squeeze out the air, seal the bag, and mush it all together. Let that hang out in the fridge for about thirty minutes. Cook the chicken over medium-high heat in a nonstick pan (the honey will be a beast to get off otherwise), stirring pretty frequently until the chicken is done. It'll probably take about four or five minutes. You can serve the chicken on some lettuce with some mild salsa and cheese or wrap it up in a flour tortilla with some lettuce, cheese, sour cream, salsa, or whatever you want. It would also probably be pretty good thrown together with some pasta, fresh tomato, and fresh cilantro.

Okay, there you go. Go grab a can of chipotle in adobo sauce. You can find a can (yes, a can) at any grocery store in the international foods aisle with the Mexican ingredients. And now that you know how to say it, asking for help won't be a problem.

Happy cooking.

Counter Space

I got a KitchenAid stand mixer and a Magic Bullet for Christmas. For real, people, I'm going nuts. The only question is... WHERE AM I GOING TO PUT THEM!?!?

I need a bigger kitchen.

This Is Why I Love Christmas

Tonight was the Extended Family Christmas Party, and it was rowdy. I think it was the alcohol. Not an excessive amount, but a glass of wine for most of my family members definitely takes the edge off. Or maybe it was the family Bingo with a couple dozen envelopes filled with cash for the prizes. And I'm not talking a buck or two. I think every envelope had at least a Jackson in it. (That's a twenty for those of you unfamiliar with your presidential flashcards.) It was intense. Lots of fun but definitely intense.

On the ride home, groaning from that last piece of German chocolate cake and a few too many bites of crab dip, I thought about my family. Sure, we've had problems; every family does. But tonight, I realized how much I really like them. They're sweet people, and they're mine. My grandpa said it best: "I'm just glad you're my family."

Agreed.

And the four Bingo envelopes didn't hurt anything either...

Words from Indigo

I take myself way too seriously. My mom is probably chuckling about that revelation (since she's been saying the same thing for years), but it's true. Sigh. I take myself too seriously.

I make lists about everything. I make lists about what I should make lists about. I document how well I did on sticking with my list and berate myself if I didn't completely follow through. Everything is quantified and justified and rationalized. Then the guilt starts.

In all honesty, it's not terribly calming to live life where you experience some measure of guilt everyday from self-inflicted tasks and self-inflicted consequences. It's pretty exhausting actually. I'm tired of being the drill sergeant to myself... and yelling in my own face has proven to be quite difficult. I've lived my whole life that way, and it's a tough habit to break. I don't leave myself any room to fail. And anything close to not doing what I arbitrarily intended equals failure. But there's no real reason for it. None.

The one place where I seem to allow myself freedom to fail is in my kitchen. When I cook, I can't go wrong. Sure, I make food that doesn't taste as good as I had hoped, but I don't beat myself up over it. I laugh, eat it anyway, and think about the next thing I get to cook. Why do I give myself such freedom with food? I don't experience that anywhere else, and that's the feeling I want to transcend my life and everything in it.

The irony here is that by writing these words, I'm making a serious situation out of taking myself too seriously. Can't I just move on from a problem without documentation? Ask the twenty-seven journals I have in various drawers around my house; right now, their answer is a clear no.

The best thing you'd ever done for me/Is to help me take my life less seriously/
It's only life after all
-Closer to Fine, Indigo Girls

Dirty Dishes

I just taught three people to make pizza. It was a lot of fun... and made a lot of mess. I wish I had taken a picture, but I don't think to capture images until about three hours later. But trust me, there were lots of dishes. Pots, pans, plates, cutting boards, pizza paddles, mixing bowls... it seemed that half of the merchandise at Sur Le Table was on my counters.

I've cleaned my kitchen so many times; my mom and sister often laugh at the fact that I'm either cooking or cleaning up what I recently cooked every time they call me. My dirty kitchen doesn't really scare me. But today was different; this kitchen very much scared me. I wandered aimlessly, circling my island several times with no real purpose. I was moving just to feel like I was doing something, and that strategy doesn't accomplish much. I'd throw away a crumpled napkin but ignore the three right next to it. I'd rinse a dish and put it in a dishwasher that was full of clean dishes. I'd try and wipe down a counter that still had dirty plates on it. I'd put food back in the refrigerator... one item at a time. I seriously think I opened the door to the fridge a dozen times in a ninety second span.

My life was once like that. I had so much clutter and so many dirty dishes in my life, and I had no idea where to start. Which emotions do I take care of first? What wounds do I tend to before others? What relationships need to be put on the shelf and which ones should stay out for everyday use? That's a bad metaphor, but you get the idea (hopefully). I was trying to clean my kitchen on my own, but instead I just wandered, always moving and doing in the hopes that movement gave the illusion of progress.

I managed to get focused on my real kitchen but still didn't want to deal with it. Then my sweet husband came over to the sink, took over the cleaning, and sent me to the couch to sit down and read Real Simple. He does things like that. And it got me thinking...

Recently I realized that I can't do anything on my own. Not one thing. My Savior is the only one who can clean up my mess, and the crazy thing is that He wants to. He's like my husband, taking over because He knows that the best thing for me is to just let Him do it. He knows what I need, He knows who I am, and unlike my husband who just stacks the clean dishes on the counter, Jesus knows where everything goes. He's not overwhelmed by my clutter; in fact, He welcomes my weakness because it shows how strong He really is. His weakest point is still better than my strongest, and let's be honest... He doesn't have any weak points. There's no reason not to trust Him with my mess, especially when He's proven over and over and over again that He knows exactly what to do with it.

My kitchen is clean now (thanks, honey), and I'm still enjoying my Real Simple. It's full of Best of '07 lists... it can't get much better. Well, yeah it can. Remembering my Jesus in the context of clean kitchens and Real Simple is definitely better.

My Tree

I put up my Christmas tree last night. Not a lot of fanfare; I did it by myself. The husband and I decided that when we have kids, putting up the tree will be something we do as a family, but right now, let's just get it done. So I did it yesterday. I climbed the attic ladder in socks (not recommended by the way) and prayed with every step that I wouldn't fall to my death. I brought down all of the ornaments and lights and little Santa figurines you put in the guest bathroom and on the mantle. (If I may go back to the lights for a moment, there were a lot of them to bring down... and then I realized we had purchased a fake tree this year... one with lights already on it. Excellent news. I just wish I had remembered that before the treacherous ladder descent.) So I started decorating the tree with these cool ornaments I bought at Target last year (half price after Christmas - score!), and I love them. They're just brightly colored roundish ornaments in different sizes and colors. So cute and simple. I put them all on the tree and then started to pull out the hodgepodge collection of ornaments to add - homemade snowmen, pictures of my nieces framed in colored felt, my grandmother's old but so precious glass globes, the little dancing nutcracker that I loved as a kid and that my mom so graciously gave me when I moved out... so many memories.

But I didn't put any of them on the tree. I know! It's terrible! Isn't that part of the fun of setting up for Christmas? The nostalgia and the memories and visual reminder of what once was? But I didn't put them up. Not one. My tree is the simplest tree - lights, a string of silver beads, and colored balls. Not one wood and glass memory. There's nothing on the tree that's sentimental... unless I count the reminder of the fabulous deal I got on the ornaments. But that doesn't seem to be in the Christmas spirit all that much.

But you know? It's okay that my tree is simple. It's okay that the other ornaments are back up in the attic. (It'd better be okay; I don't want to have to bring them back down and flirt with death again.) It's okay that I put the tree up without my husband. All of that is okay. My tree is simple which reminds me that Christmas is simple. It's about Jesus. I get to remember that my precious Jesus came to earth to save me because He loves me. So simple but so amazing.

I'm keeping Christmas simple this year. And I'm starting with my tree.

Settling for the Just

My husband and I work with high school kids at our church, and last night we had a bunch of kids from years past come over for a little party while they were all home for Thanksgiving break. I had a number of conversations with kids in different stages of college life - the freshman who loves college except for the fact that he's failing college algebra, the student teacher who gets to go to space camp with her seventh graders next week, the grad student who is getting married in a few months... those were the days.

One of the girls is struggling with choosing a career... and she has only six days of college class left in her college education. She told my friend and me that she "just wants to be a wife and a mom," but people at her school don't look favorably upon that decision, especially since she's really intelligent and capable of doing so many things. My friend who is just a wife and a mom said something to the effect of, "Just is not 'just.'" In other words, just doing something sounds like we're settling for what's here even though there's something better beyond.

That really got me thinking. I don't want to just do anything. I don't want to just be a wife. I don't want to just teach small cooking classes in my house. I don't want to just work with high school kids at my church. God didn't create me to just do stuff. "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart as working for the Lord, not for men." I'm working for my Father and bringing Him glory in what I do, just by being. Just by living. Just by allowing Jesus to live His life through me. So I'm a wife. I teach people how to cook. I spend time with high school kids because I like them. And I let Jesus do it all and get all the glory.

That is as far away from settling as I know to get.

The Calm Before the Storm

My friend is having a baby tomorrow. So weird. She has to have a scheduled c-section, so she's had the date set for awhile now. What do you write on your planner? Baby Day? Surgery? The Day My Life Changes Forever?

I don't have kids yet, but I'm not an idiot; I know that life with kids in no way resembles life without kids. I personally think that's awesome. Kids are fabulous. They're little pint-sized truth-tellers walking around with adorable curls that look cute even when they're frizzy and untamed. They're also completely exhausting; just ask my friend Emily who can't get her kid to poop in the potty. It's a crisis, and that's not to be funny. Life changes. Life changes a lot.

So what do you think the night before The Change? Do you sit around and watch Amazing Race and eat popcorn like usual? Do you walk around the house and take pictures of everything as it appears this very moment to document for eternity? Do you try and have a date with your husband since you'll never have one again until Date Night becomes part of...ahem... regular life (which never seems to happen terribly quickly)? Or do you do what I think I'd probably do and just sit on the couch and stare into space, afraid out of your mind?

Well, My Pregnant Friend, whatever you're doing this night, I know you're going to be a great mom. Go ahead and stare and be afraid, but remember that you're only a mother by the power of the greatest Father ever.

The Love-Hate Relationship

I love winter. LOVE it. Especially in the summer. When it's warm, I think about how it's fun to be cozy and sit on the couch holding a mug of hot tea. When it's blazing hot, I think about how much easier it is to look cute in the winter and not resort to just a t-shirt and shorts. During the Fourth of July, I dream of Thanksgiving and Christmas and my birthday (two days after Christmas) and how much fun it is to celebrate with family. Now it's finally winter! How fun... right?

Wrong.

My love affair with winter has suddenly turned sour. I'm freezing cold right now. Freeeeeezing. The closest thing I've achieved to being cozy is huddling in a surprisingly small ball on the couch wrapped in a fleece blanket (filled with static, of course), afraid to move a muscle because I'll hit a "cold spot" on the couch or the blanket. I can't hold a mug because then my hands would be exposed to the elements. Oh, and my lips are chattering, too. I'm still wearing t-shirts. Now they just have a long-sleeved shirt underneath them. Not the cute seasonal makeover I was hoping for. And Thanksgiving is next week, and all I can think about is that I haven't done any Christmas shopping, I'm going to be 26 in five weeks (which totally weirds me out), one of my best friends is having a baby in four days, I have six weeks to plan and execute a New Year's Eve party for 150 high school kids, and I've started a new business that's beginning to pick up some speed. Oh, and I can't successfully shave my legs between October and March because of the crazy chill bumps that won't go away.

I'm losing my mind. And I'm starting to hate winter. But I don't want to! I still love the romantic idea of it, and frankly if I tell my husband (he's basically a sun worshipper) that I'm down on winter, he wins the argument of which season is best... and I am NOT about to lay that one down without a fight, even if I can't feel my fingers right now.

So, Winter, please woo me back! Remind me of hot chocolate and the fun of giving and staying in bed a few more minutes because it's so warm and cold noses that don't run and the smell of snow and how fun it is that my husband gets to be home for days at a time over the holidays. I want this relationship to work, Winter. Don't give up on me.

Pearly Whites

Yep, my mouth hurts. I haven't smiled this much in one day... maybe ever. Today, I helped my mom run her booth at an art show to display her awesome stained glass clocks. I think it was a great show, and Mom did pretty well selling her stuff. I was there to smile and talk to people and praise the clocks and make people want to buy them. I think I did a pretty good job, but for real, people... three hours into it, and I had mouth pain. My cheeks hurt, my lips hurt, even my tongue hurt. I don't think that's ever happened before.

It made me wonder... is my mouth so used to not smiling for six hours in a row that it causes pain? Am I not a smiler? I like to think that I'm a nice person, at least with strangers. I'm pretty intentional about being nice to cashiers and servers and toll booth ticket-takers and anyone who might not get kind interaction on a regular basis. (I haven't quite extended to telemarketers yet, but I'm working on it.) Anyway, I hate to think that I can't smile for six hours without doing awkward facial-stretching exercises.

Smiling is such a big deal to me. It's one of my favorite things about my husband. It makes me feel approachable to people. It's a way to encourage others without much effort. More than that though, I want it to communicate that there's something bigger in me that causes joy. I have a fabulous reason for smiling, a reason I want others to experience. I have Jesus living in me, and that's why I want to smile. Most of the time, that's why I do smile. And I don't remember those smiles causing pain.

So maybe at my mom's next show, I should think again about why I'm smiling. It doesn't have to be fake and just because I'm trying to sell clocks. Jesus is in me all the time, and He loves everyone He sees. That means I need to love on everyone I see, and that all starts with a smile.

I like her.

I called my sister this morning a little after 8am which is a bit early to be calling a college student, but hey... that's what voicemail is for. I was surprised to hear her groggy hello on the other end, and after I got past the few seconds of guilt for waking her up (even though she said I didn't), I told her that I had some food for her to pick up at my house that day if she wanted. Sadly, she wasn't able to come by. We said our goodbyes, and I'm guessing she went back to sleep.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, and she told me that her morning classes had been cancelled because her professors were sick. Yay! We cheered, and I felt guilty again - this time for rejoicing that someone else was in pain. But this left her with a free morning to do whatever she wanted. She could sleep more, watch Matt Lauer, go get a cup of coffee and enjoy the chilly morning, or even study (just in case Mom is reading). But she chose to spend her free morning with me. I hoped she would, but I was still surprised when she did.

We've always been buddies. Sure, we went through a couple of years where her only goal in life was to push my buttons and get me in trouble; she was rarely in danger of being in trouble herself because she was just so dang cute. She still is. Now we're allies. Now we get excited to tell each other the silly and the deep. We like being together for whatever reason, and we always seem to find some line of conversation that involves using accents. (Today she did an impersonation of a customer at her work, a lady from New York who was trying to get money for her dead mother's hearing aids... seriously; she had me doing the awkward donkey gasp laugh.)

I love my sister. I always have. But I'm really glad that I like her, too. She's great fun, a great friend, and she makes me feel special when she chooses to spend her free time with me. It's fun to share a language of words and jokes and looks that no one will ever be able to translate. It's nice to get a call from her asking to drop by or if she can tell me something funny that happened in the parking lot. Nothing is ever too small or too big. We're sisters. We're also best friends.

Forgotten Sombrero

Last night, we celebrated my mom's birthday. Deciding to take the theme route, my sister and I prepared for a Mexican fiesta. We had fajitas and brightly colored napkins and horns (in Spanish they're called cornes) and salsa music playing in the background. The music got slightly annoying, and the fajitas got cold since I didn't have any of those iron warmers they use in restaurants. But we still had a great time.

This morning while I was putting away laundry (a household chore that I LOATHE) I saw lying on the closet floor... a sombrero. I had a tiny pity party as I stood in the closet with an arm full of towels. I was going to have Mom wear the sombrero at least for a little bit during the party and then use it as a fabulous decoration that would drive home the theme... just in case the music and food and the singing of Happy Birthday in Spanish weren't clear enough. I was so bummed, and then I had a thought. The sombrero would not have made the night any better.

Not to sound cliche, but it's not what you serve or how you decorate or how much you plan. The best part of entertaining is just being with people you love... and it helps if you like them, too. My family and I laughed together over everything from Oprah's immune system to how my sister performed a personal version of Riverdance at her own birthday party. Those kinds of things can in no way be enhanced by sizzling table-side food and the forgotten sombrero.

The Wedding Day

In my business, I focus on almost-married and newly-married women, so I'm exposed to wedding plans a lot. Recently I started thinking about how everyone says the wedding day is one of the greatest days of your life. If that's true, life really isn't that exciting.

Don't get me wrong; weddings are favulous. My own wedding was perfect. The ceremony was beautiful, everything went off without a hitch, and minus a tiny candle wax burn on my hand, nothing even remotely tragic happened. At the reception, we were surrounded by so many people that we love, the food was fantastic, and I love looking back at the pictures that perfectly capture the day. But that wasn't the best day of my life.

The wedding is just a party to celebrate the most amazing journey of your life. If your expectations for your wedding are higher than the ones you have for your marriage, I want to tell you that your relationship deserves better than that. Marriage is phenomenal. It's ridiculously hard, but every single day is better than the one before. When you selflessly love the one you're with and allow them to love you back, the result is a relationship that makes you smile at your wedding day as a sweet memory but look ahead at the years to come with more anticipation than satin and canapes could ever bring.

Sigh. I love my husband.

The Best Pans Ever

Yes, I have found them. The best pans ever.

During a recent venture into Sunday paper advertisements, I saw a sale on Calphalon Contemporary Nonstick skillets. Never being one to shy away from cookware sales, I pulled the trigger and splurged on a couple. Wow. I am SO glad I did.

I didn't know that magic pans existed, but these are magic. They wipe clean like nothing I've ever seen. You can have a crusty burn that sits around for three days (yes, I've let my pans sit that long), and one dunk in soapy water and a wipe or two makes it look like new. Amazing. They cook evenly, the handles are sturdy, and they look sleek and professional.

So if you're in the market for some new cookware, I am apparently the new cheerleader for Calphalon Contemporary Nonstick Cookware. Now I need to go and clean my pans. It's only been a day, but I guess I don't have to test the three-day theory every time. Sad...

Guilty Pleasures

I just asked my sister her definition of a guilty pleasure. She said, "Something that you'd be embarrassed to tell other people but that you really love." Sounds good to me. Sadly, it doesn't take me long to realize that I have lots of guilty pleasures, one of which is about to become embarrassingly public in just a few hours.

I'm 25 years old, and tonight I'm going to see So You Think You Can Dance on tour. There are ten of us: seven college girls, one high school girl, me, and one of my equally embarrassed peers. We're even making shirts with cute little sayings from the show. I give you permission to shake your head in pity.

Am I too old for this? I think so, but for the next few hours, I don't care. I'm going to stand in a stadium with thousands of screaming teenage girls and yell, "I love you, Neil!" who happens to be my favorite dancer on the show. I'm going to look at the people around us and compare displays of fanaticism. I'm going to watch the DVD I made of my favorite dances from the season (yes, I made a DVD) before AND after the show to get the onslaught of reality-show dancing.

Yes, I'm going to bask in the joy that is a guilty pleasure.