Make new friends, but keep the old.

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I invited some dear friends and former coworkers over this week. These ladies helped me through one of the darkest stages of my career, at a place where we each experienced all manner of hell and persecution. I know that everyone has had an unpleasant job of some sort before — but whatever you’re picturing, quadruple it. To survive the day-to-day, we leaned on each other and cooked, ate, laughed and commiserated together. We all shared a love of food and fellowship, which led to plenty of potluck lunches and flurries of emails and conversations about recipes. I found many of the food blogs I read today through their recommendations: Pioneer Woman, David Leibovitz, Brown Eyed Baker, Smitten Kitchen, Orangette. Even though we don’t see each other every day anymore, like soldiers who fight on the battlefield, I will be bonded to these women for life.

It’s been several months since we had quality time together, so everyone came to my home to catch up with wine, heavy hors d’oeuvres and stories about ridiculous work escapades. Their visit served as a good excuse to pull out a few dishes already in my repertoire but also to experiment with some new ones. For appetizers, it was bruschetta three ways: fig-mozzarella-prosciutto, classic tomato (my good, ole standby) and smashed pea with mint.

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Using what you have on hand.

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I have entered the week quite exhausted and out of sorts — the drama of the fire on Saturday didn’t help, then I classically overscheduled myself on Sunday. I had committed to volunteering in the afternoon, which I always enjoy, followed by a Super Bowl party that evening. Somehow I just ran late all day, leaving me distracted and mentally tired, both at those events and in easing back into the work week. The good news is that I perfected a new recipe and have been able to feed my stress with sweet, spicy, chocolatey goodness.

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Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth.

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I was watching television on Saturday afternoon when I heard some sirens that sounded a bit louder than those we hear from the main roads. I wondered, but didn’t think much about it. About 30 minutes later, Oliver and I went out for a walk. As we climbed the hill up to the main street, there they were:  at least five fire engines, three police cars and countless onlookers.

One of my neighbor’s homes was on fire, seemingly from the furnace in the attic. I felt really uncomfortable about obviously gawking at it, so we walked around the back way to another courtyard, where I ran into some neighbors I knew. That put me in direct view of the fire, though, from about 50 yards away. Disaster clearly brings people together, as I met at least five more neighbors standing there. One even brought out snacks while we all watched the firemen try to save the house.

The whole time I had a really sick feeling thinking about the family that lives there. I don’t know them directly, but I’ve heard about them and know neighbors in common. I suspect they were the ones huddled with another group in chairs on the lawn immediately in front of the house. Fire is just about my worst fear — so much so that I often run back upstairs (and even turn the car around) if I think I might have left the iron, the stove, the coffee pot on. So to watch my neighbors’ home be destroyed was gut-wrenching. I steered Oliver toward home, but stopped to talk to another, elderly neighbor who had come outside to watch. I was turned away from the home, until she exclaimed, “Oh, there it goes!” The entire roof was seriously ablaze, and flames were shooting out of the attic vents, threatening even to jump to the roof next door. That was it — more than I could take, and we headed back to the safety of our own home. Keep reading »

Culinary Bucket List: Rhubarb

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Somehow in my more than 30 years (ahem) on this planet I have missed (escaped?) a run-in with that lithe, fuchsia vegetable known as rhubarb. Sure, I know what it is and what it looks like. I know people bake with it, and that it is often married with strawberries and featured in things called “slumps” and “grunts,” or more familiarly, crumbs, crisps and pies. I’ve never actually had the pleasure (?) myself, though.

I sort of despise celery, unless it’s well cloaked in soup or sauce, so avoidance of rhubarb in its resemblance to pink celery could have been unconscious. That certainly doesn’t endear me to it.

But people seem to speak of rhubarb with a certain reverence — as a plucky little vegetable that transforms from a crunchy and bitter stalk to a tart, soft compote. It creates desserts that we associate with our heritage, like those old English puddings and American-settler era fruit crisps. I’ve heard rhubarb described as “what tart would smell like, if tart were a smell.”*
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A cure for what ails you.

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I went to the grocery store yesterday, which is a frequent but not especially momentous occurrence. But this was my shopping list:

Because my name is Sicky McGee.

For the second time in two months, I am wrestling with that unpleasant affliction known as “the common cold.”

(By the way, I’m not totally sure what the celery is for. Maybe I thought I would make soup. Or perhaps a medieval poultice sounded like a good idea. Who can know.)
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Reveling in my happy place.

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It’s January, and Oliver and I are wrapping up our last day at the beach. That may sound pretty incongruous, to spend a winter weekend at a summer destination. But this beach, not just any beach, is my happy place.

Sure, I’ve spent every minute huddled inside, save for an hour-long walk in the sun a few days ago, but that’s what makes it the most relaxing place I know. It’s quiet even at the height of the summer season, which to many would be quite boring. I find that I don’t rest and relax at home simply because there’s always something to do. When I find myself elsewhere, with no projects or places to go, I truly let my hair down. And that’s just good for the soul. Plus, where there is no obvious fun, you can bring your own.
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On the road again.

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Happy New Year, everyone! I hope 2012 has been treating you well so far.

My past several weeks have been spent relaxing, communing with family and friends, baking, clearing out the DVR and being generally productive during my days off. As is always the case at the holidays, I’ve also spent most of that time on the road. I’ve crisscrossed the Carolinas several times to see a friend’s new baby, to stay with family at the holidays and this weekend to recuperate at the beach after one week back at work. (Because, wow, it was a slap in the face after so much vacation.) Those are roads and routes I regularly drive, and I’ve usually been content to call friends or listen to whichever radio station is in service to help pass the time. Until now.

My friend Angie is an avid consumer of audiobooks, and frequently buys or rents them when she makes long trips. While I’ve always been a book reader, I was never all that interested in audiobooks. When I flew for work a couple of years back, I did take advantage of some free Audible selections and sporadically listened to them on my flights or on walks to work. But I was never hooked. There’s just something about a real book, holding the paper in my hands, absorbing the words on the page and completely concentrating on the story as I build it in my head. I viewed audiobooks as unnecessarily expensive, intangible, listened to while multitasking and, worst of all, abridged.
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Reflections of the way life used to be.

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I have just realized, as we head toward Christmas and another turn of the year, that 2011 has been quite a transitional year. Most of my pursuits and priorities in December were actually unfathomable to me back in January.

I mean, Oliver joined me in March.

I went to South Africa in May — and if you had told me that I would cross the equator twice to Australia and South Africa in one calendar year, I would have rolled my eyes at you.

I got a new job in July.

Then a couple of weeks ago I (finally) finished my MBA after 3+ years of nose to the grindstone and personal sacrifices. I will desperately miss the learning and the family I found there … but maybe not for a few more months.
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South Africa, Day 10: Headed home.

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Well, this is it, the last post on the last day in South Africa. For those loyal readers, thanks for sticking with me — I’ll miss telling this story, which only means I have to go on another big, fabulous, exotic trip soon! Stay tuned.

Miss a post, or want to read from the beginning? Click here.

We were awakened again at 5:00 a.m. on our last day at Entabeni. As I sat up in bed, I started to feel the tell-tale scratchy throat that comes with the common cold. Nah, I said, it’s just the dry air. Uh huh.

We caught a vehicle and headed for coffee and biscotti at the lodge before the morning game ride. But on the way we encountered a herd of 3 or 4 giraffes, just grazing on the trees there in the dawning light. It was too dark to get a great photo, but they were still a sight to behold. So beautiful and awkward yet graceful.

Giraffe, in the dark.

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South Africa, Day 9: At Entabeni.

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Miss a post, or want to read from the beginning? Click here.

The guides woke us at 5:00 a.m. on our second day at Entabeni, and we dragged ourselves out of warm beds into a chilly draft. Even with our heated blankets, it was cold overnight, and given our wooden hut we were afraid to leave the space heater on. We dressed, climbed the precarious staircase to the top of the cliff and were shuttled in game vehicles to the lodge for coffee and biscotti.

Sunrise over Entabeni.

Gareth was our driver again on this morning ride, though it was too early and cold to be too excited about that. Entabeni rock, the lodge and sleeping cabins are on a flat plateau, but the ride was to take us down the mountain into the valley to see more animals. Departing the lodge, we saw more of the same wildebeest and impala. Gareth spotted some elephant tracks and followed them for a bit, to no avail.
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