Don’t worry, this just sounds impressive and like it will require a lot of effort. It won’t. (But other people will think it did and that’s okay.)
A few weeks ago, I gave you a recipe for homemade balsamic vinaigrette on my post for roasted vegetables. Then I made a video of how to make it. And forgot to post it.
So just ignore the part where I said I shared this recipe with you last week, because it was actually a month ago. Better late than never. Go make yourself some salad dressing, people.
The first time I came across the entry in her food log – “Texas caviar” – I didn’t think too much of it. After all, as a Northerner transplanted to the South I’m used to coming across things in my clients’ food logs that I’m not entirely familiar with. Succotash? Butter beans? Banana pudding, fried okra, and even barbecue – all culinary creations I didn’t know existed until I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line.
Then I saw it everyday on her log for a week. ”Is she eating caviar EVERY DAY?” I finally asked and she turned over the recipe.
Turns out the very same recipe is one of my best friend’s “go to” dishes for potlucks as well, only she calls it by the slightly less PC-term “Redneck Caviar.” Whatever you want to call it, it’s easy, it’s delicious and best of all, it’s healthy.
The fixins:
1 can of black-eyed peas (15 oz)
1 can of black beans (15 oz)
1 pint cherry tomatoes, halved or quartered
1/2 onion, chopped
1 bell pepper, chopped
2 jalapenos, chopped
1 bunch green onions, chopped
salt + pepper
1/2 cup light Italian dressing or Lime dressing
Everything gathered!
Chop the Toms
And the Onions
Give it a stir....
Add dressing, salt + pepper... and chill!
In case you’re not a visual learner:
Chop tomatoes, onions, green onions, jalapenos and green pepper. Combine.
Add rinsed black-eyed peas and black beans.
Toss lightly.
Add 1/2 cup salad dressing, a pinch of salt and pepper and the minced garlic.
Allow it to chill at least 2 hours, up to overnight, to blend flavors together.
I like this just as “as is” as a side dish and with the beans in it, you could almost have it be a light meal by itself. You can also use this a dip, which is how it’s mostly common served. Of course, best served on a patio on a warm summer night with good friends and cold beers!
(When you look up the calorie count for this, you’ll find a range of 20 cals-200 calories per serving. This depends mainly on two things: how many servings you make out of it and how much dressing you use. Play around with it to figure out what works for you. If I’m eating it as a side dish, I get about 20 servings out of my batch at 140 calories, 10 g of protein and 9 g of fiber.)
I’ve been on a baking kick lately, which is highly unusual for me as I much prefer the less-precision-required art of cooking to the scientific act of baking. However, I had a container of blueberries that were getting just past their grab n’ eat stage, and I thought scones were the perfect way to use them.
This is a recipe from my go-to cookbook, The All New Good Housekeeping Cook Book. It’s not a fancy cookbook or specific to any type of cuisine or diet or chef, but it’s got all the basics in there as well as good pictures. I also like that since it was my mom’s copy, it has notes from her written in the margins and inside cover.
If you buy it, yours won’t have these lovely notes until you lend it to my mom for a year or so.
So, where were we? Scones! I didn’t take pictures of the how-to process, because it was a spur of the moment decision to make them. And in fact, it wasn’t until the FINAL piece was left that I remembered to grab my camera.
This is the basic scone recipe, you can add whatever fruits or nuts you might desire after you’ve mixed all the other ingredients together.
2 cups all purpose flour 2 Tbsp plus 2 tsp sugar 2 1/2 tsp baking powder 1/4 tsp salt 1/2 cup cold butter (1 stick), cut into pieces 3/4 cup milk 1 large egg, separated
1. Preheat oven to 375. In a large bowl, combine flour, 2 T of sugar, baking powder and salt. With pastry blender or knives, cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. (Note: I don’t own a pastry blender and have never been very successful at the two knives thing. I usually use my hands here, and try not to over mix.) 2. In one-cup measuring cup, mix milk and egg yolk until blended with a fork. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and pour in milk mixture. Stir until combined. 3. Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead 5-6 times, until smooth. With lightly floured hands, pat into a round cake. Transfer to ungreased cookie sheet. 4. With a lightly floured knife, cut dough into 8 wedges (do not separate wedges). In a small cup, lightly beat egg white. Brush scones with egg white and sprinkle with remaining sugar. Bake until golden brown, 22 to 25 minutes. Separate wedges, serve warm or cool on a wire rack.
I feel slightly bad that my Mom just emailed me for this recipe….because she would have it if I hadn’t stolen her book. Sorry, Mom. Next time I see you… I’ll make you some scones. xoxo
Sitting on the car seat next to me is 3 pages of detailed, hand-written notes. I keep eye-balling them suspiciously. They’re coming home with me but I haven’t fully decided what happens after that. These are notes I took today during a call with a dog behavioral trainer named Karen. I could tell immediately when talked to Karen that she knew what she was talking about and that the program she was walking me through would work. You know, your gut will tell you when someone is being a snake charmer and when they are truly passionate and knowledgeable, and Karen was definitely the second.
If you read the “life” section of my blog, then you probably know about my dog Buddy. We got Buddy as a five year old rescue last year, not fully realizing the extent of his separation anxiety. It’s been a challenging year – cleaning “bio-hazardous” materials out of many surfaces of my home, putting my sewing skills to the test to repair curtains, filling scratches in dry wall and last but not least, repairing teeth. (I did not repair the teeth, of course… paying for them to be repaired.) We’ve tried many different strategies, including both medicinal and multiple behavioral strategies but hadn’t had a great deal of progress in the year we had owned him. And of course, we had fallen head over paws in love with him so there was no going back – we’re pretty desperate to help our Buds.
I could tell immediately upon talking to Karen that her plan had the potential to be very effective. So why was I glancing over at my copious pile of notes with something that could only be described as hesitation?
To tell you the truth, Karen’s plan sounded like a lot of work. Not hours upon hours and not “miss a day and fail” but definitely consistent, daily effort. It would require a lifestyle change. And I couldn’t help but wonder, were Matt and I ready to commit to that kind of change? But wait… didn’t we desperately want this outcome? Didn’t I say I would do anything to make this happen? Didn’t I swear if Cesar would come visit me, I would pay for his plane ticket from LA?
It occurred to me that perhaps what I was feeling was similar to what many of my clients might feel when it first dawns on them that the outcome they so desperately want, would do anything for is going to require consistent, daily effort. A lifestyle change.
Whether it’s weight loss, a career change, creating a less stressful lifestyle or altering an anxious doggy’s behavior, we know intuitively it’s going to take effort. So how come when we hold a plan in our hot little hands we often balk?
At first glance, it seems a simple cost vs. benefit analysis. Do I want the outcome (benefit) bad enough to invest the time, money or effort (cost) that it will take to get there? The urgency of our desire weighs into that equation – if you have 10 pounds to lose, do you want the outcome less than someone who has 80 pounds? Maybe. Maybe not. And some of it depends on the cost: if it took 10 minutes a day, would you be more willing to move forward more readily than if it took 40 minutes a day? Maybe. Maybe not.
I’ve seen both of sides of that equation surprise me: I’ve seen people move forward at great cost, and halt at seemingly trivial costs. I’ve seen those with little sense of urgency blaze forward, and the most desperate freeze up. It leads me to believe there’s more at play than a simple cost vs. benefits.
I think what really determines whether or not we move forward with a plan is our readiness to face something big: the fear of failure. What if I invest the time and the money and the effort… and it doesn’t work? What if I fail miserably? What if I disappoint myself? What if I disappoint others? Embarrass myself? Frustrate myself? Fear of failure rears it’s ugly voice and says: “It won’t work. It won’t be enough. It won’t last. Don’t try it.”
What holds us back is not our lack of urgency, not the size of the goal and not even the cost, be it time, money or effort. What holds us back is our fear of failing. Look deeply into whatever change you’ve been desperately wanting to make. If you’ve stopped and started, or never started, or started and wavered – peel back some of the layers and look fear right in the eyes. (It often backs down when you do this.) Ask yourself, what do I really have to lose? Maybe some time. Maybe some money. Maybe some ego. But if I succeed, what do I gain? Not just the outcome you want, but that swagger that comes from moving past the boundary lines you’ve drawn for yourself.
If you don’t try it, then you can always blame being in the same place on that – not making any effort. You can always hold the thought in your back of your head “well one day, when I’m ready…. But until then, at least I know why I’m here.” If you try a plan and it doesn’t work, then what? What if you invest the time and the money and the effort and it’s not the right one? THEN WHAT?
A week ago, I didn’t know Karen existed. I thought I had exhausted every behavioral strategy (and medicinal strategy) for treating a dog with separation anxiety. I felt like I had read every book, every article, every perspective on rehabbing an anxious dog. I was wrong.
If the approach you try doesn’t work, it’s not your last hope. It doesn’t mean you are doomed forever to be stuck in the same position you are now. But do you know what will doom you to stay there?
Doing absolutely nothing at all.
And if you stop to think about it, that’s even scarier than feeling. Which means you really have nothing to lose if you move forward.
When my mom was cleaning out my grandparent’s house, she came across a huge stash of doilies that were made (crocheted?) by her grandma, or my great-grandma. She brought them back to her house, and while I was home for my HS reunion, I went digging through the box. I came across these two, which were sewn on to powder puffs. I immediately had an idea what to do with them, and asked her if I could have them.
I snipped them free from the powder puffs, and started sewing them to a t-shirt. It took a little longer than I thought it would, because I wanted to make sure they were secure but the stitches were hidden so I did lots and lots of tiny stitches. Hello, neck cramp.
I was pleased with the end results. It’s just a little detail on the shirt, but I love it. I love imagining my great-grandma working on these, and never thinking that one day they’d up in her great-grandchild’s hand.
(Excuse the cheesy self-portraits. It’s impossible to do these without feeling totally awkward.)
Then, since I was on a sewing roll, I tackled another project. Awhile back, I had chopped up t-shirts that Matt and I had worn for a softball team, and turned it into this shirt. I never liked the way it still looked like a t-shirt though, and rarely wore it.
Chop, chop, stitch, stitch. Voila, sleeveless shirt. I had a little trouble with the seams on the arms but it turned out okay. I like it much better than way.
Self-timer pics leave plenty of room for creative expression.
I’d say I need to get a hobby, but clearly I’ve got that part of life covered.
But I love them. I love cleaning out closets, I love thinking that stuff I no longer have any need or want for will find a new home, and of course, I love making some extra moola. I was very thankful my mom was here to help me – we spent Friday night in the sweltering heat of my garage setting up and pricing. Saturday morning, I rolled the door up early – 6:15 am – to drag some things out on to the driveway and the first car pulled up at 6:37 am. 6:37!
The sale was listed to start at 8 am. But you know what? I love early birds. We had the most business from 7am-8am, and then again from 10:45am-11 am while we were packing up. In fact, one lady made out like a bandit with a bag I had ready to go to Goodwill. I’ve always heard people say that clothes don’t sell at garage sales, but the two we have had down here in NC, I haven’t found that to be the case. I always wonder if I’m going to be walking around Wal-mart one day and see someone rocking some of my former duds.
We wrapped up by 11 and dropped off the leftovers at Goodwill by noon. It’s nice to have my guest bedroom back – I had twenty boxes of “garage sale” stuff piled up in there for almost 2 months getting ready. Doesn’t it amaze you when you start getting ready for a garage sale (or when you go to move) how much stuff we seem to continuously acquire? I pride myself on regular trips to Goodwill, consigning or Craigslisting but I am still continuously boggled by the amount of stuff we own.
Which is interesting, considering a conversation my mom had with a neighbor across the street before the sale. He’s an antiques dealer, with a garage packed full of goodies, so of course he had to come over the night before and see if I had anything worth anything. (I didn’t. Because the world didn’t end in 2000, so my Y2K Beanie Baby is not worth the millions my 18 year old self had hoped it to be.) He and my mom were discussing the kinds of things he sold, and he commented how much the antique world had changed since he got his start in 1982. He was talking about the phases of collecting he’s seen, and in particular mentioned baskets. Oh my gosh, BASKETS. I can remember my mom going through a basket stage. She even took a basket making class. She was so into baskets. Anyways, he and my mom were saying how people today don’t really collect like they used to, and they have less interest in family pass-downs.
I know this to be true. My mom recently cleaned out my grandma and grandpa’s home, where they resided for 63 years. She texted me to ask if there was anything I wanted. I haven’t been in their home since my Grandma’s funeral in 2005, so I had a hard time remembering anything that was there, so I just asked her for some sewing notions. She brought me a few sewing notions, and a cookbook notebook in my Grandma’s hand and a book of poetry written by my Great-Grandfather. And that was the perfect amount of stuff. I’m certain there were so many things she put her hands on before putting them in a box – to be put in her basement, to go to Goodwill, to go to her garage sale – and held a particular memory in her hand in that moment. But what to do with all that stuff? She and her siblings homes are full, and their children (myself, my siblings and cousins) are of the Pottery Barn generation: neutral palates, less is more surfaces and maybe one or two interest pieces – a fabric covered last name letter, a few hardcover books, maybe a framed portrait – per room. No tchotckes in curio cabinets for us.
But we still acquire and we certainly do accumulate en masse. We preserve the memories in jpeg formats, in blog posts, in facebook status. We acquire facebook friends, Twitter followers, and external hard drives to hold the 800 digital pictures we took on one vacation. (This post is not self-reflective at all.) Our shelves may be mostly bare, but our drawers are filled with boxes of chargers and cords and software discs, the remnants of the shiny new whatevers.
I imagine that growing up in a time when stuff was not as cheap and plentiful as it can be today (see: Wal-mart) made the acquisitions of possessions a careful and deliberate process, and the parting with said possessions done with even greater care and consideration. My grandparents, who lived through a Great Depression we can’t even begin to fathom, probably saved every item they spent their hard earned dollar to acquire.
Meanwhile, I am practically impulsive in my willingness to Ebay an item, but will give excruciating consideration to deciding to un-friend someone on Facebook, even if they are the friend of a friend I met at wedding, got along with great under the guise of too much chardonnay and have never spoken to since. (Call me! We’ll do lunch! Someday!)
I guess what I’m trying to say (in my always so succinct fashion) is that the desire to acquire and to keep must be part of human nature; it is simply the means of doing so that varies from generation to generation. My grandparents saved every material possession they owned. I saved every IM conversation I had in college. Is there a difference? Does “don’t let the things you own, own you” apply to packrats and hoarders alone, or does it apply to my digital generation, smug at their sparsely decorated apartments, while hastily saving every moment in an 140 character blast?
While you think about that one, I’m going to finish backing up my blogs about July 2010. My grandkids might want these one day.
My sister found her wedding dress today! She had narrowed it down to two by the time I got down there today. I knew instantly when she put the first one on that that was the dress. But I was very curious about the second one… I couldn’t imagine her looking more radiant than the first one. It was a tough competition – the second one was just as gorgeous and she looked just as lovely. (Can feel the eyes getting a little prickly right now thinking of my baby sis walking down the aisle. Scuse me for a second, while I do the Southern Lady eye fan and regain composure.)
Both dresses were made for her, but the first one was it.
My mom and sister arrive from New York tonight! I wonder if my Mom knows what she’s getting into.
It has been really, really, really hot here. Really hot.
I’m going to cook flat-iron steaks with a balsamic vinegar reduction sauce tonight. I really like saying “reduction sauce” because it sounds fancy, but it really just involves leaving something liquid on the stove for a long time until about half of it evaporates.
When you do that accidentally it’s called “getting distracted.” BUT, call it a reduction sauce and suddenly it sounds fancy.
My mom and sis will head on down to Charlotte on Wednesday, where they have wedding dress shopping plans all day. I’ll join them Thursday, to hopefully help narrow down some finalists.
Friday, my mom will return to me where I shall put her to work helping me get ready for our garage sale on Saturday. Like I said, I wonder if my Mom knows what’ she’s herself into.
I think some gene gets activated when you have kids that makes you suddenly and selflessly okay with doing what would otherwise be intolerable activities, all because your sweet precious babies asked. I mean, I adore the Budster but he’s never asked me to help him move, organize a kitchen, iron a shirt, pick him up from softball practice, quiz him for a spelling test, or make a grilled cheese sandwich. Now that would test my love.
Then again, I’ve never asked my Mom to take my crate out back and hose poo out of it every day for an entire year. So, yea. Gene activated.
Totally innocent. No idea what this “crate business” you have mentioned?
I laid in bed til almost eleven. ELEVEN! I kept dreaming of water boiled bagels from Brighton, and french toast from Midtown Dessertry and even, I think, a Bojangles biscuit.
I don’t even really like Bojangles biscuit but that tells you how delusional slash sleepy I was.
When I did finally get up, I had Dad’s homemade banana bread instead. I won’t tell you how many slices I had, but I will confess my luggage had two more loaves in it.
It’s hard to want to be in two places at once.
I had Pontillo’s for lunch one last time and continued working on cleaning out my room. I can only do a little bit at a time, because it’s hard for me to get rid of stuff.
Like slap bracelets.
And best friend necklaces.
And my parents’ pass to get into basketball games.
Those are memories, ya know? (I’m a bit of a packrat.)
Then I packed, and we left for the airport. Weekends at home go too quickly. My travel back was uneventful, but I’m thinking that I’m going to stick with driving more these days. It bugs me that ever since airlines made us pay for checked bagged, everyone is bringing ginormous bags as carry-on. Now you can even pay more to get on early to make sure you get overhead space, which at first I thought was totally stupid, but now I see is kind of necessary. And it’s becoming a vicious cycle of paying for more things and it annoys me.
I’d rather pay for gas, diet mt. dews, combos and roll up I-95 with the windows down, singing to myself at the top of my lungs.
(My biggest fear in life is that I’ll purse-dial someone while I’m singing “Don’t Stop Believing” at the top of my lungs and instead of hanging up when they realize it’s a purse dial, they’ll listen to the whole thing because my singing is so atrocious.)
(For real. Whenever I’m singing in the car, I check my phone compulsively to make sure it didn’t dial anyone.)
Travel makes me punchy. I got to Charlotte around 10:30, and drove up to Winston. Then, because I had started a really good book on the plane and was almost done, I stayed up til almost 3 am finishing in the book. File under “bad decisions.”
But, I did come home to a clean house. Swiffered floors, laundry put away, dishes done. That is the best surprise I could have ever asked for.
I don’t have any work to do until later today, so I’m having a slow morning. A few more slices of banana bread, and I might get going.
I adore this dress. Can someone please invent a party for me to wear this to again?
Or perhaps, I could star in an off-off-off-of-off-off Broadway production of Beauty & the Beast. (My sister and I spontaneously broke out into singing “Tale as Old as Time” when I put this on.)
I’ve given away every other prom dress, homecoming dress and bridesmaid dress. But this continues to take up prime real estate in my closet. I don’t know why I have such a hard time parting with it.
Real life should include more opportunity for tulle.
