I don't know the meaning of life and at 22, I don't think I am supposed to. People forget my age, and sometimes people forget a lot of things. I forget my own story sometimes, fabricating new ones as I go alone. Hell, I forget my own age every once in a while; but from bouncers to ex-boyfriends, you're always trying to impress someone the farther you can detach the essential "you" from yourself. Maybe that was my apprehension about going home for my brother's wedding. And by "going home", I meant to a place I've never been before. Born in Indiana, raised in a handful of states, settled in Pennsylvania, home for me is anything cast-iron, anything coal-mined and steel-forged. In California, the mecca of starry-eyed wanderlusters call anything that's remotely in the direction of their birthplace home. For me, anything pointing due East is homespun for me. Where I know they have iceberg lettuce for salads, ranch as a side for fries, and an unapologetic sense of beliefs when it comes to God and football. I bought the roundtrip tickets through Southwest, into Philly and out of Raleigh. It's nearly impossible to pack for summers, because you have to factor in degrees. Those in Fahrenheit and those in conveyance to your family. North Carolina in the peak of June was swampy and suffocating, my mother going as far as to say the wedding was held in a mausoleum. But, I wanted to dress in degrees of formality. It was a wedding, after all. And even though I knew I would regret it, I packed one pair of shorts and tried to convince my relatives I was beyond being comfortable, that the two degrees I received at 20 from a private school constituted a level of Victorian modesty that I did not want to disobey. I packed a beat-up, broken-stitched Louis Vuitton carryall and kissed the family I hand-picked myself in California, got on a plane to meet people who never really made me feel welcomed. Family is an odd concept to me, foreign and awkward on the tongue, those that have it won't understand my impossible anxiety for bloodline connections. Every family has mythology, stories retold as fable or warning, passed down to give a composite of the generation before them. For me, it has always been a reproachful loathing for any contact with her side of the family, the Bishops. Without any wealth or success in the family, each Bishop has become a Freudian archetype of some sort or the other--the Town Drunk was my grandfather, the Pill Addict my aunt, the First Witch Burned in Salem is a distant relative, looming her cursed fate on us all, giving us reason to believe the innate defects of the blood ties we hold. And being content in them, also. There has always been distance between my mother and her family, the extent of it going back nearly thirty years. She has been estranged from one sibling or another throughout all of my siblings lives and it would not be fair to her to give the whole account of their tension. But, in any rate, it is no secret I say, "I come from a small family, only five of us left," to strangers. It doesn't invoke questions, doesn't stir the mind to what kind of reasons we aren't nuclear. The relatives that would be there I hadn't seen in ten years, not since my uncle returned from Afghanistan for the first and last time. Not since I was small and pudgy, not out and uncomfortable in my own body. And never have I received a kiss from them, a card on my birthday, a well wishing phone call when I went to Italy or California. In short, they were all strangers to me. I did the math and I shared perhaps 8 chromosomal pairs with them and that was enough to decide we hardly would have anything in common when I met up with them in North Carolina. But first, I went to Philadelphia, via Houston. Time is tricky when it's transcontinental, and you never know if you're ready for bed or just in time for dinner. In Houston, I sat on the floor and charged my phone, sat on my luggage and rested my head in my hands. Nothing worthwhile, I waited with some coffee, trying to maintain a positive mindset. Trying to not be too excited to see my closest friend, who was my date for the wedding.
Hello, Again.
I think sometimes it's hard to keep promises. I think it's always hard to be honest, when there are so many excuses I could use as to why I got lazy with responsibilities this summer. I tell myself it's work, I tell myself it's exhaustion, I tell myself it's having people over every week since May. But I'm only telling myself these things. In reality, I just got silent. Bursts of creativity came late for me this summer and I chose my time more wisely (finishing TV series and taking three hour naps). Instead of living through my work, the work that I create through whisks and butter, I died through the work I do for a living. Five-thirty comes very fast when you've been running in your head all night, trying to remember if you prayed that day (trying to even remember if you still prayed and what for). Commitment has never been a scary word, I'm co-dependent by nature. I've dated the same person for the majority of my adult years, but it's the commitment to myself that makes me find something else to do, anything else to not have to sit in front of the blinking space bar and the words don't come like they used to, when I was naive about failure and everything smelled like pollen in the Springtime.
But just because I didn't write about it doesn't mean it didn't happen. I had a good month away from writing, away from commitments that I've married myself to. But, today, I come back to you all in the hopes of welcome arms. And in the name of marriage and commitments, I want to share with you the present sent all the way to St. Louis, a package of sweets and savories, a package I did to celebrate complementaries. A package for my friend, Anne, on her wedding day. I had originally planned to do a candy week, but I want to make it up to everyone and give them all at once, like Christmas morning instead of Hanukkah evenings.
Usually, if I mess up a cake, I throw it out and start again (after some swearing and desperate attempts to fix it) ((read: the carrot meringue fiasco of March 2014)). With these, I wanted to make sure they were perfect, combinations that would amaze the newlyweds and let them know I cared. I went with the four basic flavor profiles: sweet, sour, salty, and umami, as I thought that any relationship should have these aspects. I didn't have time to test and retest. I could only mail out and hope for the best. So, enjoy these treats and make someone's day special, even if it's your own.
Anne's Wedding Treats
1. Honey-Peanut Butter (makes about a cup and a half)
Ingredients
- 15 oz. bag of peanuts (I used honey roasted)
- 1 TB clover honey
- 1 TB canola/peanut oil
Directions
- Put bag of roasted peanuts in food processor and start to blend (please make sure the motor on your food processor can handle the mixing capabilities of this recipe; otherwise, it will start to smell like a furby that was on too long)
- As the peanuts start to break down and oils are being released, you will notice the consistency will start to change. At this point, I began to add the honey and oils (both of these are to taste, as the oil will change the texture to less crunchy and the honey is used as the sweetener)
- Continue to blend until the texture and taste are desired. If it is not "peanutty" enough for you, add more peanuts to blend. Also could add chocolate while mixture is still hot, more honey, or anything else you may like.
- Put in airtight jar and store in fridge to firm up.
2. Candied Bacon
Ingredients
- One pound of thick-cut bacon
- 3/4 cup good quality maple syrup
- 2 TB artificial maple syrup (it's sweeter and works here...sue me)
- 2 ts Dijon Mustard (Grey Poupon)
- A pinch of black or cayenne pepper
Directions
- Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit
- As the oven preheats, line a baking sheet with foil or parchment paper (I preferred foil here because the mixture was so sticky). In a medium bowl, whisk the syrups and the mustard together.
- Once the baking sheet is lined and the syrup mixture is whisked, dip the bacon in the mixture and place on the prepared sheet. Give them some room as you space them so they can cook evenly.
- Bake 12-14 minutes, turn over, and bake an additional 3-5 minutes (to desired crispiness)*
* A note on this one: the bacon is very hard to get to a good crispiness if you continue to open up and watch it. I suggest going with the lowest time setting and to trust that it will crisp. If that doesn't work, then continue to do a minute at a time
3. Butter Toffee
This one is actually my mom's recipe that she suggested a couple times for various events I was giving gifts for. I never really paid attention, but it stuck out as a perfect option for Anne's gifts. This one is completely hers, so when I share it, I'm sharing my mother's words.
Ingredients:
- 1 cup butter
- 1 cup sugar
- 1 ts vanilla extract
- 1/4 cup chopped almonds
Directions:
- Prepare a baking sheet with parchment paper (buttered on each side to stick on the pan and also for easy peeling for the toffee). Set this aside along with the almonds
- In medium saucepan, put butter and sugar together and heat on medium
- Stir slowly and steadily. As you stir, you will notice that the solids start to break down in the pan, slowly coming back together. Make sure to stir constantly, for nearly a half hour. It seems like a lot of work at first, but it is therapeutic. As the sugars start to caramelize and the butter starts to brown, you will see the signature toffee color slowly form. When a deep, chestnut color becomes heterogenous in the mixture, you are done.
- Take the pot off the heat and pour onto the prepared sheet pan. It will cool quickly, so add the almonds to the top and try to shake the pan to distribute the mixture evenly (my mother also suggests using a greased rubber spatula to spread the mixture).
- Place pan in fridge to cool completely, break into chunks and enjoy!
4. Preserved Lemon Peels
Ingredients
- Peels of four lemons (make sure to not get the white pith), cut into strips
- One cup sugar
Directions
- In saucepan, cover peel strips with water and bring to a boil. Drain.
- Repeat twice more. (this ensures all the bitterness of the pith is taken out)
- Bring peel (should now be pretty limp), 1/2 cup water, and sugar to a boil
- Reduce heat and simmer for 15-20 minutes or until translucent
- Drain and let dry, 2-4 hours (I did mine overnight)
- Toss with additional sugar
I hope you guys enjoy the recipes and if you need any proof that these recipes are great for gifts, here's the bride herself, posted on my instagram about her present:
Besos,
Brett
It has been a crazy couple of weeks with family visiting, jobs becoming hectic, and continuing to train Elsa. I promise to sit down more and remember you guys more, if you promise to forgive me for my lack of posting.
Xo
Yesterday before Tomorrow.
I live in sense memory. I collect the way I feel when I experience the stimulus of life, memorabilia to remind me that it's okay to exhale, but even better to inhale into a fresh sprout of basil. I like this about Spring, the sleepy way it reminds you to stay green yourself. Everything has a memory to anchor itself to, and it's just making sure you don't forget to cast it once in a while. To stay grounded, to not forget you once were just a kid who read book in Kentucky. You once were a kid who called his mother a bitch on the phone and didn't hear from her for three days. You once were a kid and you knew that because every sense and touch was new and exciting, everything electric and holy in the way that you felt guilty about later. I'm a firm believer in hedonism, in the luxury of overindulgence. I believe in the grounding power of an oversized coffee mug and its contrast to the tiny lemon bar you pair with it. I believe it's all healthy; I don't try to follow any diet. There are no calories in memories, in the memories of being young.
Yesterday was a day of senses. A day of smells and sounds that seemed so inconsequential, but so necessary for me to piece together. The fur that brushed my cheek, the way hose water smelled differently than the tap, the way the grass dried yellow in patches and the gardener couldn't do a comb-over on it. The way the sand gritted in my teeth and I tasted it as I went to bed, and the way flesh felt sateen flesh when hands are grasping for more blanket. Everything, every atom and molecule of puppy snores and the sizzle of condensation when taking the coffee pot off became a lithograph of pure California, whose only impurities are in the water supply.
Pendant le week-end.
The Santa Ana winds are blowing in and it makes me tired. It makes me tired and lazy, too hot to turn the oven on and too bright to read outside. I'm starting to get more used to my schedule, and getting more used to Elsa, as well. Here are a few photos of the last few weeks of us just relaxing, because it's just one of those kinds of months.
And for a faster way to follow me, find me on instagram!
I'm going to be doing a whole week of candy-making next week, so that *should* make up for my lack of recipes on here!
A bientôt!