I GOT AN APOLOGY

Blog Entry #2 for August 6th

The lady I buy my eggs from was so excited for me and my husband.  She's someone I've known for a really long time.  On an errand to send off a package, she ran into him.  He asked her about her family and she congratulated him on being a grandpa soon.  

She had no idea that I have no relationship with my father.  She was not privy to the details of our falling out.  When my dad sent me the text today congratulating me on my pregnancy, he said he had heard the news from someone at the Realtor's meeting.  It upset me so very much because it felt very much like what happened when I was about to get married.  

I had made the decision not to invite my father to my wedding.  It was not a decision I made lightly. Several weeks before I was to get married back in 2010, someone took it upon themselves to tell my father at the local Realtor meeting that I was getting married.  

Having my family in the real estate business used to be really nice.  People knew my family and knew me because of my parents.  It was nice when I was young.  As an adult, having grown up in the business, it got really complicated when my parents' marriage of 30 years ended.  We became gossip and rather than asking me about things related to my profession, folks wanted to know all the nasty details of our family drama.  I left the business for several reasons but a huge one was because our family Spanish novela was not something I wanted to be reminded of.  

So when my dad texted and said he heard my news from the local meeting, I was livid.  I was upset because it meant that even having been out of the business for a number of years, my life was still fodder for the town gossips.  

But it wasn't.  My father was just standing in a line and my egg lady saw him.  She made polite conversation and was just so excited about the news of our new baby that she congratulated my father on what was sure to be a point of pride for him.  

I had written a blog entry, a very frustrated and upset entry about how I felt.  That had gotten emailed out to everyone on my blog list... because the internet...  Very shortly after my post I got a lovely apology from the egg lady.  She told me her version of the story and it was clear she wasn't being a gossip, she was actually being quite sweet.  She was so excited for me and my husband and in turn my father.  

Her enthusiasm was kind and generous... and it certainly isn't her fault that this part of my life is a soap opera.  She was so very sorry I got hurt.  I was most relieved to find out it was the egg lady.  At some point he was going to find out and now, I'm feeling like this was the best way... because it was told to him from a place of real happiness for me and my husband and not from a place of gossip like I had originally thought it was.  

I can't stand it when people stir the pot on purpose, but when people are just expressing sincere joy, I think that's a good thing.  She's a really lovely egg lady.  

SOMEONE OWES ME AN APOLOGY

Someone owes me an apology.

I got a text from my father today.  He said someone told him at today's Realtor meeting that I was pregnant.  He wished me congratulations and said I'd be a great mom.

My father and I don't speak.  This is known quite well within the greater community.  We don't speak because my father chose to be a shit of a human being at several points in the last decade.  These choices of his weren't things like saying the wrong thing or being late to something important.  His choices were big, hurtful ones.  The week of my wedding he told my then future husband he didn't care if he made me cry on my wedding day ruining the wedding... he would do as he pleased.  He called me ungrateful because I wouldn't work for the family business for free a couple years before that.  When he found out I had an abortion in my early 20's he accused me of murdering his grandchild... giving no regard to how my decision might have not been an easy one for me.  When my mom got sick with cancer and we thought she might die, he said, "I don't do sick people."  After 30 years of marriage he didn't do sick people.  The day I got my cancer diagnosis he had to get back to a luncheon with a client.  I was 12.

Over and over, for 30 years I gave this man an opportunity to be there as my dad.  I loved him.  I cherished him.  I made an effort to include him in my life.  I morned for years the loss of my relationship with him.  I made every effort to stay connected, to talk to him about how if he didn't choose differently I would get to the decision to no longer have him in my life.  It wasn't a threat.  It was always a pleading to please step up as a man, as my dad.  He never did.

My children will never know this man.  I've worked really hard to create a life for my children that is filled with love and peace.  They will be surrounded by good people who may not be perfect but they will be present.  They will hold their hands and hearts through all that life is sure to send their way.  I am proud of the Framily my husband and I have created for my children.

It's taken us four years, a lot of doctor's appointments and a little help from fertility treatments to get me pregnant.  It's MY pregnancy.  I'm the one having the baby.  I'm the one with the sore boobs, the trips to the bathroom, the weekly appointments to one of a number of medical support people making sure this pregnancy is happy and healthy.  This pregnancy is my news... not yours.

I have no idea who it was that went to my father and told him I was pregnant but whomever you were, you didn't have my permission.  It upset me so very much at a time when I don't need to be upset.  You owe me and my husband an apology.  Me getting a text made a mess out of both of us.
That text reminded me of how unloved I have been by him.  I was reminded of all the ways I needed him to be a dad and all the ways he failed me.  My husband was reminded of how he was told the week before my wedding that it was of no concern to my father if he ruined our wedding.

If I had wanted my father to know I was pregnant, I would have told him myself.  He is not invited into my life and you invited him in.  Why would you do that?  My life is mine, not yours.  Your thoughtlessness has had me crying all morning and for what...?  I hope you have the decency and maturity to apologize.  You owe me an, "I'm sorry," because let me tell you, you can't undo it.

I will forever miss my dad.  I will forever love my dad.  And I will always know he didn't love me.  You had no business telling him my good news.  Learn from this and after you apologize to me and my husband, shut your mouth when it comes to other people's news.

I’ve given myself some time to think about it and I came to the decision that I’m not doing Lent this year.  For many of my friends and community, Lent is a time of prayer, penance, repentance, atonement and a time to give up something.  This giving up of certain luxuries is part of a solemn reflection recalling the sacrifice, the death and ultimately resurrection of Jesus.  There are beautiful rituals and lovely traditions that happen during this period in the liturgical calendar.  Even for people who don’t attend church often, it’s a time of year where they get to press the reset button.  

In many ways I feel like the traditions and rituals of Lent no longer fit with the relationship I have with the Devine.  I’m sure this is in large part because of all I’ve been through.  Cancer, a near fatal accident at the age of 12, liver failure, facial paralysis, parents nearly dying and then going crazy, multi million dollar law suits, homelessness… these were all things that had me on my knees begging for a little gentleness. 

And then that prayer was answered when Jack came along.  When I married Jack the one vow he asked me to promise him was that I would endeavor to be happy.  I’ve really worked hard, daily, to honor that request and my promise.  This path of choosing happiness doesn’t always sit well with other people.  That's been sobering.  I am, however, learning that other people’s opinion of me and how I live my life is really none of my business.  What is my business is our home which is peace-filled... and my husband, who is content, and our life... which is full of blessings.  

I have no desire to give anything up this year.  A lot of people give up sweets or something food related.  Since I’m trying to have a better relationship with food, one that's not so adversarial, I decided I would just continue to work on awareness like I have been for a couple months now.  This seems to be benefitting me (currently I'm over 10 pounds down from Christmas).  I have no desire to add anything either.  Sometimes folks will suggest an alternative for Lent and rather than giving something up, add something like meditation, community service, or a new habit you've been wanting to work on.  Yeah, I’m already working on stuff.  A lot of stuff. 

So I'm gonna sit this one out.  I think God will gladly write me a free pass.  

Let there be peace... or at least less mess

This week could have sucked.  In fact, parts of it did.  But more of it didn't.  I could have canceled the two dinner parties and stayed in bed on Sunday morning instead of going to church.  But more than wallowing in self pity (however justified) I instead surrounded myself with love.  I laughed.  I ate good food.  Friends let me bend their ear.  I didn't pretend like everything was "fine, fine, fine..." and yeah, I cried a lot, but I also didn't let the world end...

because it didn't end...

It is with a grateful heart that I begin this next week.  Yeah, I'm raw, and really irritated that I have no say in how some of this nonsense goes down... 

... but what I can do... and more importantly, what I will do is put one foot in front of the other towards the life I endeavor to have with my husband - a life over-flowing with love...

... and filled with peace.

I made a New Year's resolution!

I'm fat.  I'm 35 years old and this is the first year I can say that sentence without one ounce of icky feelings attached to it.  "I'm fat" feels like I'm telling you we have two fish and two frogs and a bunny who adores bananas.  It doesn't feel like a curse.

Finding peace with this fact is the result of all the work we have done this past year on our finances.  I know, it's weird.  Who would guess that setting financial goals would have such an effect?  It wasn't just the setting of goals, however... it was the honesty, it was the process.

For the last six months my husband and I have tracked nearly every penny spent.  We decided together how much we would save, when we would spend and what we would buy.  We were honest.  Oh my goodness, we were honest.  We wrote it all down in a spreadsheet I am so proud of (it should be framed really).  We planned for things we knew were coming up like insurance and rent and we had savings for the occasions that were surprises - like the parking ticket I got that I forgot to pay.

A college degree from NYU always made me feel like I should be better at finances.  I excel at math so I knew understanding math wasn't the problem.  The problem was and is that finances are not just about math, at least not for me.  Finances are all muddled up with emotions, expectations, commitments, and requirements.  - And so is food!!!

My husband and I were having dinner recently and he asked me if I could change one thing about my life, with the snap of my fingers, what would I change.  I said I'd be thin.  I was taken aback by my response because it was the first time I didn't feel self loathing.  I wasn't 25 wishing I was thin so I could fit into a size 4 skirt.  I know, I know, changing my appearance certainly sounds like self loathing if not a mid-life crisis, right?  Hear me out though...

I want(ed) to be thin not to fit into someone else's version of the ideal woman, I want(ed) to be thin because we want a baby and right now, being fat isn't the ideal for that.  Can I get pregnant?  Sure.  It would be a bit more complicated because I'm fat at the moment but fat people get pregnant all the time.

Not one to usually set New Year's resolutions, this year, I felt inspired.  I have resolved to be thin.  Doing all that financial planning showed me I can be debt free, own a house, have savings... and be thin.  For the first time in my life that feels reasonable.  

Why do I want to be thin? Because I do.  That is reason enough, isn't it?  A baby, fabulous clothes, and a long life with my love are really good reasons too.   As with the finances, being aware will really help me - being aware of what I eat, how much I exercise, how I feel; all these help me have a better relationship with my own health.  And now I'm putting it out there.  I'm telling people I'm working on being thin because "they" say writing these things down helps keep it in focus and helps one actually accomplish the goal.

I figure I've been in debt longer than I've been fat so with persistence I'll be thinner sooner rather than later.  Cheers to a New Year!

Commitment

I did it.  I committed.

When we moved into our new house I put all the pictures and art in the hallway.  Maybe if I saw it daily I would figure out where I wanted the pieces to go.  I have a patient husband who lets me think... for eight months... without complaining...

The problem I have with hanging pictures and art, is placement.  I can lay stuff out on the floor and like it but I can't "see" it on the wall.  I can measure and measure again but inevitably I'll put the nail in a slightly wrong spot.  I then chase down that right spot but not before I find a few more wrong spots.  The poor wall.

There had to be a better way.  Today I wanted to commit.  I decided to use newspaper pieces to help me "see" the pictures on the wall.  I also was able to put a dot on the spot where the nail needed to go.  Jack was impressed.

This was actually the final configuration.  I had thought of a different arrangement at first.  When I put the papers up on the wall there was too much white space.  When I liked the configuration, I nailed the picture hangers in place with the newspaper still on the wall.  Once the nails were in place I removed the papers.  And here's my final result...

I really like the art up on the wall.  What I appreciate almost just as much is that behind those pictures is one nail in one proper hole.  No one will ever look behind those pictures but that doesn't really matter to me... because I know.

Now what are we going to put up on the hallway?...

I am a Fat Ballerina

I was wedding shoe hunting today and walked into a dance store - you know, the type of store where tutus and leg warmers are sold.  I walked in and I was looking at the cute leotards, adult sized one.  


This skinny chic walks up to me and says, "Can I help you with something?"  
I said, "Yeah, I'm looking for dancing shoes."  
She responded with, "Yeah, you don't look like a ballerina."  
To which I responded, "Actually I'm a fat ballerina... now that I've disclosed that I'm fat, can you please show me your shoes?" She looked embarrassed.  


She shows me the shoes and I ask for a particular style and my size.  Her boss follows her to the back.  She comes out without a box of shoes and her boss announces they don't have that shoe in my size.  


"Have you thought about this shoe instead?"  the boss asked.  
"Yes, briefly, before I asked for the other shoe," I said.  
"Well you can't wear that shoe outside even if we had it in your size."

So at this point I got mad... "You know, if I bought that shoe I'm pretty sure I could wear it outside, because it would be my shoe..."

"I'm sorry..." she said.

"I'm fat." I said.

I left. I found my lovely shoes at Macys.

I'm still fat.

April 2010 Daring Baker's Challenge - The secret I was all too glad to keep

The April 2010 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Esther of The Lilac Kitchen. She challenged everyone to make a traditional British pudding using, if possible, a very traditional British ingredient: suet.

I can handle it, no sweat, nothing to fear, got it in the bag, strut my metaphorical stuff through the self rising flour, the sweet delish sugar to the brandy drowned raisins, bring on the...

Suet.

Suet?  Suet sounds like something that might keep my shoes from stinkin', my hair from frizzin', or maybe I'd sprinkle it in the garden to kill those pesky snails Jack is always joking I should fry up.  

I found the Daring Kitchen and want desperately to call myself a Daring Baker.  I loved the idea of being challenged, stretched, inspired!  Ok, really, I liked the idea of showing off.  I mean c'mon I've got some mad, crazy baking skills that make people swoon and tell me how I should have my own restaurant, bakery, coffee shop, or bed and breakfast thingy.  

I was so excited to get the challenge.  I had waited a whole month to find out what it was going to be.  Last month had been french macaroons and oh, how I wish I had been early enough to have that project.  

So what do I get... Suet.  Actually, it was pudding.  British Pudding to be exact and the challenge was to work with suet.  This was not a glamorous challenge.  In fact, I felt quite cheated out of a very good big secret.  I did not want to run out into the world and tell them I couldn't tell them I had to make a pudding with SUET.  In fact, I WANTED to keep this secret.  How much fun is that?!  I never knew I was a secret snob.

I went to the special grocery store (insert the word "expensive" for the word "special") and thank the goddess, Sandra had let me know you could ask the butcher for suet.  You, in fact, must, ask.  There is no sign that says, "We got us some SUET." Not one suet sign.  No one wants the stuff.  It's a secret even to the guys that work there.  Yep, I asked, "excuse me but do you have suet?"  Three guys look at the oldest guy hacking away at some huge piece of meat, "Sooout?" they asked him.  "Yeah, the packages are in the freezer.  How much did you want?" How much is 120 "g"s.  At which point I whip out the iPhone and ask for a translation.  "I should be fine with a pound, thank you."  

I arrived at the register and the woman says, "Is this going to do it?" as she swipes the butcher paper wrapped package over the magic scanner.  "That'll do it," I reply.  "That's gonna be..." long pause.  She takes the package and looks it over.  Then she looks me over.  "86 cents?  Is that right?" she asks me.  "I guess so," I respond.  "Did they mark it right?" she asks.  I looked at the package... "yep... suet..." I said.  They practically pay you to remove it from the store... this should be interesting.  

I had picked out a recipe... spotted dick.  If I wasn't going to have the thrill of keeping a secret, I at least deserved to have the opportunity to giggle about it every time I went to say what I was up to, researching, or buying ingredients for.  

Let me just say, for the record, I was so brave with this challenge.  The recipe was vague, at best.  Yes, I was given precise measurements for the six ingredients, but what order I put them all together was entirely up to me.  I was then to put it all in something that could sit in water and steam... but no one said if I was to grease or not grease that particular something.  Do I cover or not cover it?! Do I cover or not cover the pot I'm steaming it in???  And then there was the mention of a pudding cloth.  What is a pudding cloth?  Do I have one?  

I'm winging it at this point.

Sometime during the steaming I remembered there was a string involved so I put a piece of foil over it and tied it up... kinda... It didn't look like Sandra's.  And it wasn't in a cylindrical shape.  My spotted dick turned into a... well, a spotted boob more like.  It looks cool.  I was pleasantly surprised.

It turned out rather lovely, suet and all.  I felt like I did when I was making tamales this last Thanksgiving for the first time... there was no real recipe or instructions for doing that either.  The web was not helpful.  I was more confused the more I researched.  I had to call out my inner Mexican and feel the masa.  In this case, I had to dive into my inner Brit.  I am very pleased with the result.  I think Sandra would be proud.

  

Stuffing

They say every girl grows up dreaming of their wedding day.  I can't say I did.  

Life kinda happened to me at a very young age.  My teen years, I was trying to live through a cancer diagnosis.  College years, I was trying to get my head around the fact I wasn't gonna die.  I was never a gushy dater... that I remember.  I remember being overly sensitive about my weight.  I remember dating people because they were fine for the moment but knowing this wasn't a forever thing.  By all accounts I was committed... sometimes for a long time... but I can't honestly say I was INVESTED.  

And then I met Jack.  Oh my goodness, to say I'm in love just doesn't cut it.  

I think that's what kept me focused for my one and only attempt at wedding dress shopping.  The first dress, I got stuck in.  It went on just fine, but it didn't want to come off.  In fact, I asked for help.  I swallowed any ounce of pride I may have had going in and offered to even get on the floor on my knees so the kid who was helping me could get some leverage to get the thing off of me.  She was a KID - maybe 17 or 18-ish, having only worked there 5 months and knowing nothing about body type, or how to listen, and had no skills on how to discern that this was a potential tear dropping moment.  She pushed at my fat as if stuffing a pillow into a stubborn pillowcase.  She told me I should work on not sweating as this was making the dress stick to me more.  And then the dress ripped.  RIPPED.  

I have no idea what other women feel like as they plan their wedding.  I can tell you there's only most important detail... that Jack is there.  Absolutely everything else is icing.  I'm so excited for the wedding and I'm even more excited about being his wife.  

No matter how much fat had to be unstuffed from that dress, regardless of how MORTIFIED I was in the moment, Jack loves me.  

This is the stuff Shakespeare wrote about.   

Oh, and I'm having my dress made by a lovely seamstress - Vogue Vintage here I come!

Responsibility

I am responsible for being happy.  The man has been reminding me of this.  He is remarkably supportive... supportive of me, of my family, of my sanity, my worth, my growth.  I am going through a period of evaluating the things that I'm doing and asking myself what I would like to continue.  What's working?  What's not?  What's fun?  What's hurting my soul?  There are things I do that now don't bring me as much joy as they used to.  

And so this weekend he said to me, "Work on being happy.  That's your only responsibility."

Happiness is not overrated.  Contentment is a blessing.  I know this because the relationship I have with the man is the example of how I'd like everything else in my life to be.  I can say I am happy, content.  Thankfully, he knows this about this area of my life.  I still do the dishes, the laundry, the grocery shopping, the organizing, and tidying up.  I still make lunches and morning breakfasts, still fill the cars with gas and still forget to wash the car.  There is a lot of simple, normal stuff that goes on.  It's not "easy" but it's not "hard" either.  There's a flow and it feels like a joyful prayer of thanks.

I think a lot of people wish for that flow.  I think many of us feel like we're swimming in mud sometimes in different parts of our lives.  We do things that do not bring us joy because we feel we have no choice, or have a feeling of obligation, or because doing something different is scary.  It is scary.  We do have obligations.  We also have choice.  

So this week, I'm choosing... I'm choosing to actively do things that make me happy.  I'm actually very excited.  This should be quite interesting.   

A Story for Me

The Farmer's Daughter

Once there was a farmer with a beautiful daughter. Men came from miles around to ask her father for her hand in marriage, but he was the old-fashioned type, and wanted to make sure his daughter would have a husband who provided for her – strong, sensible and industrious.

So finally he settled on three likely young men, and told them he would ask them a question to decide which one could woo his daughter. The three young men nervously waited while he prepared his pipe. Finally, he asked all three of them a single question: “If you are working in the fields and find there’s a stone in your shoe, how long can you work?”

The first young man sprung to his feet. “I can work all day long! I can ignore the stone in my shoe until the sun sets! I am tough and I will endure the pain.”

The farmer nodded and turned to the second young man. “I can do the same, but I’ll even whistle to show I’m not bothered one bit by the stone! I can completely ignore the pain.”

The farmer settled his corn cob pipe and turned to the third young man, who declared, “I can’t work one minute with a stone in my shoe.” The other two young men laughed and congratulated themselves, declaring loudly that one of them would surely be chosen. The third man finished as they laughed, saying “I’ll stop and take the stone out of my shoe and keep on working like I always would. And at the end of the day, my wife won’t have to wash a bloody sock.”

The third young man and the farmer’s daughter were married the next spring.

———-

The moral of the story is that it’s not always about being the toughest or the most driven – sometimes it’s about being smart. This applies almost every day in your work life and in your personal life. Don’t just keep hammering away at a problem to prove you can stick to a task. Know when to quit, reevaluate and begin fresh. And if you don’t know, stop, take a break and start again. The answer will come to you.

Overachiever Syndrome - A Self Diagnosis

I get overwhelmed.  

See, in a perfect world I'd be making six comfortable figures (that first figure a 2 or 3) while working Monday through Friday 10:30am to 2pm.  The house would be organized before I left in the morning and we'd be on a schedule so there was never more than one load of laundry that needed to be done.  Everything would be folded, put away, ironed or sent off to the dry cleaners.  I'd have our meals planned out weekly so I could take advantage of sales and the collection of recipe boxes and cookbooks that grace our front room.  I'd have a wardrobe filled with the essentials Tim Gunn says I should have, and my hair would be fabulous - daily and ALL DAY LONG - regardless of weather.  I'd be home in time to workout, refresh the makeup, work on the three course meal and take my mom to her doctor's appointments.  There would be enough time to plan vacations and friendly get-togethers.  There would be enough money to send out wedding invitations and I'd be wondering if a pale rose or champagne color would be best for the dress.  

Considering I've got a lot on my plate and even more than this in my head, one could argue it's no wonder I'm overwhelmed.  What I am noticing is that overwhelm seems to happen not because I have too much to contend with, but because I'm just not at all very good at honoring all that does get done.  

So today I put a stack of post-it notes in my purse.  I am writing down the good that happens.  An easy drive in the rain...  the bridge toll tickets that were forgiven because a call was made...  the meeting with the client that went well...  the $353 phone bill that was paid by someone other than myself... the donation to Wardrobe for Opportunity...  figuring out that my food drive was successful with 1,323 meals donated... all just today. 

I do a lot.  Way more than I ever consider.  And I need to consider all that I do do... because it will prevent me from hyperventilating because I have a crazy idea that I'm not doing much.  Overachiever Syndrome.

 

Say What You Need To Say

Photo by chop-stix on Deviant Art

I'm learning sign language.  I have said when I have a baby I want to teach it to sign.  Babies can sign before they can talk, you know.  We don't have a little one yet but we are definitely nesting.  We casually go to the furniture stores for fun and look at cribs and rocking chairs.  We walk through the baby aisle now instead of around them.  A little piece of me and a little piece of him all in one adorable bundle... what could be more lovely?  Did I mention we have 2 copies of the girlfriend's guide to pregnancy?  One of my fabulous girlfriend's gave hers to me and one of the guys at work gave him one.

Today I was out with a new friend and she shared an OttLite. (An OttLite is high definition lighting indoors... with OttLite lighting all of a sudden you think, "Ahhhh! I can see!!!!") Her OttLite - learning sign language.  And since this little one, that isn't even a twinkle in her daddy's eye yet, is going to learn Spanish as well as English, I figured we could toss in signing.  Just think, when she's a teenager, I can tell her NO or "don't even think about it!"or "Ummm you forgot the other half of your outfit," without saying a word.  I LOVE that!

Signing is a beautiful thing.  And learning to say I love you in another language... that's just grand.

A Very French Sunday

It was French for lunch. He and I went to the thrift stores yesterday. I have been on the lookout for a few things for the house. I found these lovely oval individual serving dishes for $2 a piece. They are oven and microwave safe. I love white dishes. They show off the food quite nicely. I try and do a bit of presentation with each dish I cook. I find it doesn't take anymore time than slopping a serving haphazardly onto the dish. The food looks so much prettier and as I'm proud of what I cook, I figure it should look as good as it will taste.

For Christmas my future mother-in-law had given me the Barefoot in Paris cookbook by Ina Garten. I love Ina’s books. Page 64 has the Herbed-Baked Eggs recipe. This specific recipe inspired the search for the individual dishes. It is a very simple and very French recipe. One feels especially French when eating the eggs with brioche toast.

If you have any questions about this recipe or about cooking in general, let me know as I'd be delighted to share. I think it's time for a cup of french press coffee and perhaps a crumpet. Yum... I love Sunday afternoons.

½ teaspoon minced fresh garlic (I use a mini grater to make this easy)

½ teaspoon minced fresh thyme leaves

½ teaspoon minced fresh rosemary leaves

2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese

3 eggs per person

1 tablespoon of heavy cream per individual plate

½ tablespoon of butter per individual plate

Kosher salt

Freshly ground pepper

Toasted brioche

Preheat the broiler for 5 minutes and place the top wrack six inches below the heat.

Combine the garlic, thyme, rosemary, parsley, and Parmesan and set aside.

Carefully crack 3 eggs into each of 2 small bowls or teacups (you won't be baking them in these) without breaking the yolks. (It's very important to have all the eggs ready to go before you start cooking.)

Place 2 individual gratin dishes on a baking sheet. Place 1 tablespoon of cream and 1/2 tablespoon of butter in each dish and place under the broiler for about 3 minutes, until hot and bubbly. Quickly, but carefully, pour 3 eggs into each gratin dish and sprinkle evenly with the herb mixture, then sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper. Place back under the broiler for 5 to 6 minutes, until the whites of the eggs are almost cooked. (Rotate the baking sheet once if they aren't cooking evenly.) The eggs will continue to cook after you take them out of the oven. Allow to set for 60 seconds and serve hot with toasted bread.

For the brioche toast, Trader Joe’s sells brioche buns. I took a brioche bun and sliced it, put it on a baking sheet, and spread the slices with a little butter. I toasted the slices in the oven with the oven set at 450 degrees until they were golden brown – about three minutes.

Epiphany Happens

I linger. It’s Epiphany, January 6^th, and in the corner of the cottage is the Christmas tree. I’m ignoring the brown needles clearly visible in the center of the tree. They’re really just the bright clear strung lights reflecting off the needles. The branches are not drooping… too much. The angel is only a little lopsided and I’m sure that was due to an earthquake. We do, after all, live in California. I’m seeing Valentine’s decorations and I’m still determined to say, “Happy New Year.”

It’s a really good life, this cottage living. For now it’s just the two of us, two frogs that have never told me their names, Fern and Lily - the fish, and two apple snails that are a bit shy to introduce themselves. A lot happens here - celebrations, decorations, crafts, tons of cooking and I even sometimes get a bug in me to garden. We do a lot of fun stuff – yard sales, trips to bookstores, long drives for fresh baked bread… this blog allows me to linger with all the good and loveliness that this cottage living inspires.