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I wash the dishes with the windows open, it makes life feel tangible, crisp. I don't take it for granted anymore, the beauty of air, of movement, of the lunar pull that brings the tides in. Wind. Rain. The seasons. The emotions of our world and how we've learned to cope with the dissonance between waking up to fog and puddles and going to bed with sunburns. I don't take it for granted anymore, being able to breathe.
I was suffocating in my old life. I was asphyxiated with my responsibilities, with a life I wasn't sure was mine at all. I lost sight of the small details. I worried more about the fabric than the thread. I worried more about the patchwork existence I had made for myself than the way it all seemed to fray when I would try to sleep at night. Unravel until I had to hold a hand to my dog's chest and feel his heartbeat. Feel my own. Convince myself it was all a nightmare, that I wasn't $90,000 in debt. That it was all worth it. That I wanted to be in California. That I was lucky. That I wasn't a failure. That it was all worth it.
There used to be moths that flew at the window and made small thumps at night. There used to be coyotes that laughed at the moon and ate stars in their hollows. Nothing could keep me awake more than knowing I wasn't the person I wanted to be. I used to press my fingernails into the palms of my hands and try to convince myself it was stigmata. The moths that rose in my stomach I used to mistake for butterflies. The coyotes in the darkness weren't laughing at the moon, but at me. For thinking I could ever be happy if I didn't know myself first.
I used to think the word lilac was pretty and I liked how it ended in a C. I thought about this when I was pouring some day-old coffee that I was going to microwave until it could burn my aching tongue. I remember that morning. It was the morning I decided to leave. To leave the home I created. I wasn't happy, I wasn't breathing. I was checking my pulse at three in the morning, trying to race the minute hand, trying to keep my dog's breathing as gentle as my own. I thought about all the pretty words I would be sharing alone, convinced myself it was worth it to leave again. Pack up, move away. Debt and regret wouldn't follow, only this manifest destiny of creativity that I would forge ahead with.
I thought about this when I packed the cardboard boxes, taped them at the bottom so they'd be secure.
I thought about this when I couldn't stop shaking, how cold it was the first night in my new apartment.
I thought about this when I put myself with a paring knife and had to wash the wound clean by myself.
I thought about this when it was dead silent in February and I had to use an inhaler to sleep.
I thought about all this when I was making this tart this week. How envious I was of those people whose life marches on, one first in front of the other. How mine has staggered, fallen, tripped on its own night gown. Maybe because it's still sleeping, resting, waiting to shake and yawn when the coyotes are sleeping. When the moths fall silent, dusty and dead. When I finally realize not everything was promised to me and I could have worked at all the things that I left behind in big cardboard boxes.
California was a perpetual summer, sleepy and groggy and never fully connected to all the other pieces of my life. This tart is a testament to that time. Basil and lemon, the aromatics of the hot season. Close your eyes and it's carefree, open them and you're staring at that To-Do list that never seems to get done.
Lemon Tart with Basil Meringue
For the Tart Shell
Ingredients:
- 1 1/2 sticks butter
- 1/2 c sugar
- 1 ts vanilla
- 1 3/4 flour
- 1/2 tablespoon lemon zest
- pinch of salt
Directions:
- Combine all ingredients in a food processor, pulse until forms a mass and still a bit crumbly
- Turn out onto a floured work surface and knead two or three times with hands, make sure to lightly flour top, so it does not stick or the butter melts on your hands
- Pat into a 10-inch circle and wrap with plastic wrap
- Refrigerate for half an hour
- Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit
- Take out of fridge and roll out to 10-inch tart length. Form into pan and cut off excess dough
- Weigh down dough with aluminum foil and baking beans, prick holes in dough with fork
- Bake for 20 minutes
- Remove foil and beans, bake for 12 more minutes
- Remove and allow to cool. Begin working on the curd
For the Lemon Curd filling
For the Lemon Curd, use this recipe from a previous post. Adjust the sugar to be 1 1/2 cups and use the zest and juice of four lemons. Pour into prepared tart pan and allow to cool to room temperature
For the Basil Meringue
Ingredients:
- 1/2 c sugar
- 1/2 c basil leaves
- 2 large egg whites, room temperature
- 1 ts cream of tartar
- 1 TB lemon juice
Directions:
- In a food processor, pulse sugar and basil leaves until diced finely and basil leaves have released oils. Mixture will look like a runny pesto. Set aside
- In the bowl of a stand mixer, fitted with the whisk attachment, beat egg whites on medium until they begin to froth. Add about 2 tb of the sugar and the cream of tartar.
- Set mixer to medium high after about three minutes and whisk about mixture has doubled in volume. Continue to gradually add sugar. Add lemon juice.
- After two minutes, turn to high and let beat until thick and can stand up on the whisk.
- Using a rubber spatula, scoop basil mixture into egg mixture and gently fold until well incorporated
To assemble: Pour lemon curd into prepared tart shell and then pour meringue onto the curd. In a 350 degree oven, bake meringue and tart for an additional ten minutes to set and cook eggs. Take out of oven, allow to rest before serving.
A Relationship like Lazarus and some Blood Orange-Rosemary Soda
I went to California for the week. I bit my nails down to the quick. I started chewing Nicorette gum and I wore sunglasses to the point where my eyes couldn't adjust to being indoors. I was a different person then. I'm a weed that grew past its season. Overgrown, lush. The kind where you want to call it a forest, but it's too manic and frenzied in its excitement to bloom, it has no elegance to it. I'm a hybrid of eagerness and stagnation, I am preserved in the dust motes of lazy Sundays where I am allowed to be by myself. Alone. Blissful in that time apart, I took root and began to create. I bit my nails because I was nervous, nervous I would love it all.
I stopped by the convenience shop at gate G in the airport and got myself a pack of gum and some magazines. I tried to pretend I wasn't sweating, that my stomach didn't twist into braids of butterfly cocoons and that self-doubt of What if it's really over now?
It was my first time back in three months, to a town I never loved and in a house that never has enough light for me. An antique rug and an outdoor kitchen, I had a different life when I moved into that house last October. I even had a different life in December, when the wool was pulled from my eyes and I saw how crowded the shadows from the window blinds felt. It was 65 degrees that winter and I had to excuse myself from our Christmas dinner at a restaurant in the heart of Balboa; I was sweating so much and I felt like I couldn't breathe.
So I left. And I returned three months later, with a five o'clock shadow and more forgiveness than I thought possible.
And when I came back, it felt wholesome and kind. I cried until my nose bled when the dogs licked me until their tongues were dry. I sat over the sink and tried to stop the bleeding, refusing to tilt my head back and meet Nolan's eyes. To have him see me so weak. I wanted to come back strong and instead I was bleeding. We fell asleep at two that night, talking about where we went from there. I was sandwiched between a collie and a coyote. I fell asleep with the same howl of her forlorn call in my heart, hoping to be heard, saying, "I'm still here waiting."
For a week, I appreciated San Diego for the paradise it can be. Picnics. Whole foods deli section. The beach. Palm trees, windless nights, airplanes you mistook as shooting stars. A Subway you ate at after some surgery or another. Old friends, old coworkers. A smoky gay bar that serves $2 well drinks at noon. Curves, cracked sidewalks and a gym you used to have a membership at. We bought hand-braided bracelets and wore them on our ankles, promising to never take them off. "I like mine more than I thought I would." A pound of chicken that sat defrosting in the fridge for a week, useless because we ate out every day. $5 kombucha on tap. We went to the post office three times--once to mail my mom's birthday present, once to return an unwanted gift, and once to mail out postcards.
I wish you could be here! I'm always thinking of you.
Nolan has small birthmarks that tan a little bit darker than the rest of his skin. Small splotches that I could probably make a Rorschach analogy to and it wouldn't seem that contrived. The whites of the insides of his fingers fit, curved, linked into mine. And if there is a God, his design was so perfect, to craft our hands together in this way.
It was good to come back to a home that missed me, where I could tell life went on without me. It was comforting to know that the world didn't revolve around me. That I had grown up in the last three months and I wouldn't allow myself to be as capricious as I chose to be before. It was organic. It was natural. It was healthy for me to go back.
Organic. Healthy. Natural. Words that inspired me this week to make a lighter fare. My dad told me once he wants to see the sun set on every beach in the world. I thought about that as my groggy eyes adjusted to waking up in the small beach tent one afternoon. I saw red before I saw blue. I was thirsty and I thought how good the small bubbles of carbonation would feel on my dry throat in that hot, hot sun. I made some blood orange soda when I got home from my trip. I added some rosemary to stay healthy, steeping it, pulling the magic from its veins. I'll drink this batch the rest of the week and think of my time in California often. Back to the beaches, back to my dogs, and back to my relationship--however small a miracle to come back from the dead like it has.
Blood Orange-Rosemary Soda
Ingredients
- 1 1/2 cup fresh blood orange juice
- 1 cup sugar
- 3 sprigs rosemary
- 24 oz club soda
Directions
- In a small saucepan, combine juice and sugar and heat on medium-high, stirring constantly until sugar is dissolved.
- Allow to simmer until juice is reduced by half and is thick and syrupy
- Allow to cool, then funnel into at least a 30 oz container
- Fill remainder of container/bottle with club soda
- Add rosemary
- Refrigerate for at least half an hour
- Enjoy, garnish with additional rosemary or with blood orange
- Enjoy
Introducing...Little Barn Apothecary
I can sit for hours in the silence of my apartment. The ceiling fan motor spins and it sways the succulents held on string. It's simple. Straight lines of the work table, soft gossamer on the curtain rod. I left the clutter of my life behind twice--left it in Pennsylvania in my mother's curio cabinet, left it again in the spare room closet of our rented home in California.
I've changed the way I look at beauty, at life. How those words can be synonymous. It's intentional, a world of silence. White lines and sunshine. I go toward a slower life. I go toward handpicked goods, handpicked flowers, handpicked friends. I'm inspired by the dust motes in the window sill and I've searched online where I can find dandelions in central Texas. I trim down the toxic, the unnecessary and savor the scattered detritus of my life that I've held on to for 23 years.
This is what attracted me to Little Barn Apothecary so many months ago. The small house sketch, the thought in the details. The use of whole ingredients. The conviction of their philosophy. I treat my body better than the 19 year old who smoked cigarettes for fun and drank vodka from plastic bottles. They've become part of my daily ritual, a daily cleanser and a cotton ball swiped across my face. It feels even more like spring, the way my skin can breathe easy, knowing each intention of nature is locked in the small glass bottle that sits on my bathroom sink.
You can find more from my friends over at Little Barn Apothecary by visiting their website, and make sure to check out their instagram for promotions, product info, and news!
April & Ivy.
April reminds me of my mother. It's the cruelest month.
April has the adage of rain, the promise of drowning if you're not too careful and the beautiful May flowers grow in your place. One time I sunk so deep into the creek bed behind my house, I felt turtle eggs break beneath my bare feet. It had rained for two days and I wanted to see the apple trees scatter their blossoms like ashes. I ran inside screaming, I cleaned mud from my soul the rest of the week. April stays muggy and wet, it drags the nights on and sometimes it can be ten the morning, but the sun hasn't shined since five the day before. I haven't called my mother in three days, the cruelest month to wait for a reply. Rain clouds have a way of scattering all the cats-eye marbles of light, space-time.
If March meant to anticipate, April means to open, to bloom, to blossom. I saw the ivy stretch her wicked vines over a chain link fence, growing inches from the previous day. I watch it strangle the latch, shredded in places where the hinge breaks it. It heals, undisturbed. These weeds grow outside their season, they celebrate the carefree Texas lawn maintenance. They capitalize on the sunlight and quiver in their quiet way when the wind howls, when the moth lands to rest at dusk. I brought scissors one morning and cut them back, put them in a Chinese take-out bag. I was scared of the grotesque persistence of nature and its indifference to metalwork and fortitude. The bag repeated unapologetically, "Thank you, Thank you, Thank you."
I walk Milo each morning, sometimes twice. He doesn't see the world as cruel, nor as beautiful. He hardly sees the world at all, too busy with his head in tall grass and smiling at me for approval. We walk fast on crosswalks, we slow down by church parking lots. He growls at the shadows, I try to avoid eye contact with all things alive. He runs up the stairs in my apartment building and knows the door to the right of the landing is mine. I open the door and he watches the rain from the windowpane, head cocked down and to the side. I bake a cake while he explores. April was never the cruelest month, but the ivy will be back by morning.
Vanilla Bundt Cake with Lemon-Rose Glaze
or the Cake (adapted from here)
Ingredients:
- 1 1/2 cup sticks butter
- 1/2 cup shortening
- 2 1/4 cup sugar
- 3 whole eggs, plus one yolk
- 2 1/4 cup flour
- 2 teaspoon baking powder
- pinch of salt
- 1/3 cup half 'n half
- 1/2 cup buttermilk
- 2 teaspoon vanilla extract
- Zest of half a lemon
Directions:
- Preheat oven to 350, Fahrenheit. Properly grease a 10-cup bundt pan (the rose one is especially a favorite of mine, made by Nordic Ware)
- In a stand mixer with the paddle attachment, cream on medium-high butter and shortening, until light and whipped
- With mixer still on, gradually add sugar. It will be crumbly, but make sure it is all well-incorporated
- Then, add three eggs and yolk, one at a time. All mixer to incorporate each egg before adding the next
- In a separate bowl, sift baking powder, salt, and flour together
- In a liquid measuring cup, whisk half 'n half, buttermilk, extract, and lemon zest together.
- Alternate between pouring the dry mixture and the wet mixture into the egg-and-butter mixture, allowing time to incorporate before adding new ingredients in. This will prevent clumping and not homogenizing the batter properly
- Turn off stand mixer and, with a rubber spatula, give a couple gentle stirs to the bottom of the bowl, to ensure the attachment didn't miss any of the dry components in the bottom.
- Pour into prepared bundt ban, bake for 35-40 minutes* or until a toothpick comes out clean
- Allow to cool completely (and upside down!) before trying to release
- Serve with glaze (see below)
*I've made this cake a couple times now this week, and it has varied a little. One time, it went to 48 minutes, but the oven wasn't all that heated when I threw it in. Be mindful of the top of the cake, as it may brown more than what is baked inside. To prevent further discoloration, fit the bundt with aluminum foil at the 35 mark
For the glaze:
Ingredients:
- Juice and zest of one lemon
- 2 tablespoon half 'n half
- 2 cups confectioner's sugar
- 1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1/2 teaspoon rose water
Directions:
- In a small bowl, mix all ingredients with a a fork or small whisk. Add a little more sugar to thicken, or thin out with more liquid ingredients. Drizzle over cake with a spoon, and enjoy!
A Little Company and a Little Cake
He's a small thing, bashful when I first met him. He's a smoke ring of huffs and puffs, circling my feet and licking my calves when I get out of the shower. Fearless, he kisses me before bed. His tongue curls up and his tail curls to the left.
I found a dog this weekend, in the trashcan by a Bud Light, his nose rooting through some cardboard. He was whining, a whine I heard before. A desperate wheeze that, if I weren't so lonely myself and recognized that same desperation for a connection, could have gone unanswered. There's no reason to wax poetically on the ethics of abandoning a dog so violently, because he is mine now. A pug mix, salt and peppered, I named him Milo.
I call him monkey. He's slept on my chest the last two nights and sometimes his usual pant slows down to my breath. He falls asleep and wakes up on my chest. Maybe I don't toss and turn so much with him around. I used to sleep with a Bible when I was scared shitless of being so alone. A clover tucked in my sock would have had about the same efficacy.
Milo. Milo is in this interim period of my life, the in-between. The unknown. The unknowable shifting of my tectonic personalities and desires. I bought so many hollow things from Ikea, from second-hand stores and off of Craigslist. I didn't want permanency to this place, my little apartment in Texas. I wanted to be able to drop it all and leave, burn it if I had to. Use the dumpster behind a 7-Eleven and drive fast if I had to. Now I'm looking for a dog sitter who can take this small thing in while I'm in California next week. Now I'm waking up an hour early and walking him in small athletic shorts that belonged to my sister and a cardigan two sizes too big.
Milo. His permanency is in question, but his presence is appreciated. Even the small scratches on the door while I'm taking a bath, the heavy snores when I wake up from a bad dream, the loose puppy tooth that I find bloody on the white sheets--they're all signs of the beautiful. living world that I've shut myself away from for more months (years?) than I care to remember.
And in any time of celebration, between emails and cups of coffee, I baked. I revisited an old favorite, Heidi from Apples Under My Bed's One Bowl Chocolate Cake. I spiked the frosting with orange blossom water, I topped it with small flowers I found growing on a branch during a walk this morning. This cake, the orange-scented water, the flowers--they're all signed of the beautiful, living world I never knew I missed until now.
Chocolate Cupcakes with Orange Blossom Royal Icing
For the cupcakes: Use the link above for the ingredients. Add 2 teaspoons of almond extract, substitute the milk for buttermilk, and add a 1/2 tablespoon of instant espresso powder. Grease or line a cupcake pan. Bake at directed temperature for 12-15 minutes. Allow to cool completely.
For the icing:
Ingredients:
- 2 egg whites
- 1/2 tablespoon vanilla extract
- 1 teaspoon orange blossom water
- 3 cups confectioner's sugar
- zest of half an orange
Directions:
- In a stand mixer with the whisk attachment, whip egg whites until peaks begin to form.
- Add vanilla and orange water
- When peaks begin to stiffen, gradually add sugar in parts and turn mixer to higher speed
- Continue to add sugar (more than directions may call for, if need be, for desired consistency) until thick and holds on a spoon
- Add zest and beat until combined
- Pipe onto cupcakes and decorate with flowers, if desired. Icing will continue to harden and hold shape after decorating