Wisteria

I love to travel.  Be they big vacations, little vacations, long road trips, short road trips to nowhere in

particular (something that my family always called "Goin' round Robin Hood's Barn"), work conferences- my inner sense of wanderlust likes to be nurtured.  I'm lucky enough to be married to someone who enjoys travelling as much as I do, who craves the open road and devours the Rand McNally Road Atlas like pulp fiction.  Every once in a while though I like to travel by myself, soaking in new sights and experiences, relishing in the sweet silence of my own company.  In a life where this doesn't occur very often, I've learned to embrace it when does come.



Wisteria at the Hotel Albuquerque in Old Town

 The third week of April found me in Albuquerque for a work conference, at a lovely hotel, in a room with a view.  The weather was gorgeous, the hotel grounds full and fragrant with the promise of summer, and the many incarnations of red chiles tempting my nostrils and satiating my taste buds.  I arrived early in the morning and with a few hours to kill before my first conference session I took to exploring the hotel gardens.  The courtyard area was defined by beds of sage, rosemary, and desert plants with names that I didn't recognize.  I sat for a few minutes in one of the rocking chairs, basking in the cool morning light, thankful to be out of my basement office for a few days.  And then I saw it.  Almost out of view, hiding by the corner of the back parking lot-the most amazing wisteria tree.  I'd never seen anything quite like it: full fuchsia blooms dangling heavily under the weight of their beauty. 

Smiling to myself as I snapped up picture after picture on my phone, I couldn't help but think of the intoxicating power of the words "wisteria and sunshine."  At the start of one of my favorite movies, Enchanted April, two British women in post-WWI London are drawn together after reading a newspaper advertisement promising "wisteria and sunshine" at an Italian villa.  The lure of these simple words force them to make uncomfortable decisions about their lives; lives that have been defined by dreary, unrelenting charity work and troubled, unhappy marriages.  They embark on a journey of self-discovery and friendship, eradicating the pervasive loneliness of their former lives through a month long stay at a castle on the coast of Portofino, Italy.  It's a quiet, gentle little story of companionship, redemption, and love, all set in a stunningly sensuous location.  And it's got beautiful period clothes out the wazoo.  Trust me, take the afternoon off, pour yourself a glass (or two) of pinot grigio, and watch it. 



Film Still from Enchanted April  (1992) via Beauty Dart

Sometimes a few simple words have power to nourish our souls when we're weary, other times it's the sight of singularly gorgeous tree, gently swaying in the cool morning air.

Neo-Non-Hippie-ism, Hippie-ism

Shhhhhhhh.  Don't tell anyone.  I'm back (I think).  How do you address a lapse in your blog without making excuses, however true they might be? You don't. And I'm not gonna. 

For no particular reason, I'm going to jump right back in and write a little about my adventures in what I'd like to call "Neo-non-hippie-ism, hippie-ism."  What?! Here's the gist of it: I detest the word "hippie" and my husband and I have very different views of what exactly constitutes a "hippie." Our discussions usually end with him making his point by reenacting a groovy, "fire" dance that I once witnessed in Humboldt County, California at an art opening (no, not remotely "hippie-ish" by the way).  Yet, I digress.  As most of our friends and family know, over the past year we have adopted a mostly Paleo diet, restricting gluten-laced carb bombs and focusing on whole, natural foods.  We are not always successful (we both have a weakness for Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and desserts at our beloved Bavarian Grill), but we have significantly improved our health with modest weight loss, better blood test results, and our toes are infinitely more flexible after wearing our Vibram Five Fingers during our evening strolls.  We feel better, we look better, and we can't stop talking about the benefits of a paleo/primal diet.  I'm not one to do things by halves and I found that the more I started reading food labels and questioning the inclusion of certain ingredients, the more concerned I became.  As a society we have gotten very far removed from our food sources.  For the sake of convenience we allow (and in some ways forgive) the inclusion of GMOs, synthetically manufactured oils, and sugar in just about everything we consume.  I don't want to get preachy and I struggle with not being overwhelmed on daily basis (there's BPA in everything! Ahhhhh!).  As cliché as it sounds, I've really tried to focus on the mantra, "Think Globally, Act Locally."  I can't control other people's choices, but I can strive to make the best choices for myself and my family.  I can lead by example.  I can encourage.  And most importantly I can honestly share my experiences: the successes and the failures.

Here's three little things that I've learned so far:

1.  Coconut Oil is the nectar of the gods.  Seriously, I put coconut oil on and in everything.  I'm like the father from My Big Fat Greek Wedding with his Windex- I'm armed with a jar of coconut magic at all time. You've got a cut? Eczema? Bug bite? An upset tummy? Crazy frizzy, hair? No problem.  Coconut oil it up.  Not only is it a wonderful base for homemade beauty products, it's a fantastic lotion by itself and it's good for your insides too.  My favorite brand is Tropical Traditions. 

2.  Making your own body care products is easier than you think.  I've been making my own toothpaste for a few months now.  I'm not going to lie- my toothpaste doesn't taste great but it does a really good job of cleaning my teeth with no funky ingredients.  I've also started making my own deodorant and I actually prefer my homemade variety as it's gentle on the pits, smells great (thanks to organic essential oils), and is aluminum free.  My next foray into homemade body care is hard lotion bars and perfecting a shave lather for my husband.  I'm so fortunate he's a willing (most of the time) Guinea pig.  Trust me, he was not thrilled about giving up his manly electric blue tinted body wash, but I simply smiled, ignored his protestations and went about my merry way.  For great body care recipes check out the Wellness Mama website. 

3.  Giving up traditional shampoo and conditioner is not for the faint of heart.  By far this has been my biggest challenge and I am a repeat offender.  I have long, extremely fine hair that tangles easily, coupled with very little patience for hair woes.  The so-called "no poo" method of washing one's hair involves using a baking soda mixture as the shampoo component and an apple cider vinegar rinse as a conditioner.  It is supposed to take your hair a few weeks to adjust to this routine, with your scalp learning to regulate natural oil production.  I've never made it completely through the transition period.  I'm a big, fat chicken.  But as I squeezed the last remaining drop of shampoo out of the bottle of my favorite brand this past weekend I decided to give it one more try.  I'm nothing, if not optimistic.  So far I'm on Day 5 and going strong, but time will tell.

So if you see me in the next few days, please forgive the "hippie" hair braid and the aroma of coconut oil emanating from my general presence.  Never fear, I do draw the line at patchouli and granola, but there's no guarantee that I won't break out into a fire dance from time to time.

Ebb and Flow

As March comes to a close, I am disappointed in myself that I haven't blogged more.  Even though I hate to admit it (I mean really hate to admit it), I've always been a master in the art of procrastination.  The more I give myself a hard and fast set of rules, the more I want to break them.  I've spent years trying to remedy this but alas, I've decided to stop fighting the procrastination and just embrace it.  My main hang-up is that Lovely Lemony Biscuits is still in the early stages and I'm not sure where it's going yet.  Is it a writing blog? A travel blog? A personal blog? A healthly lifestyle blog? A "me" blog? Or a combo of all the above? I hate making hard and fast decisions about projects because as a true procrastinator, I'm prone to changing my mind once I really get down to business.  So for now I'm thowing the rule book out the window.  I'm going to embrace the ebb and flow of life.  I'm learning to seek balance, rather than perfection.  Ok, ok, enough on that.  I'm now going to stop making rules about how to not make rules.  It's a sickness, really. 

In all fairness the last few weeks have been busy: a New York City mini-vacation, my annual performance review at work, birthday celebrations, big life decisions, and a re-focusing on my overall health and happiness.  Just a few things, right?  April is lurking on the next page of my shamefully outdated paper planner, eager for me to turn the page.  Three day weekends, work conferences in Albuquerque, writing classes, Renaissance faires. Yes, April does indeed have a lot of exciting events planned.  The tide is moving out again and I think I'm ready. 

Thanks for reading, friends!

p.s.  My next blog post will be about NYC.  I can say this will all confidence because I'm almost done writing it.  Ciao!

Sunscreen

Spring has officially sprung in North Texas. The flower beds around campus are stuffed full of happy yellow daffodils, the hundreds of bulbs my mother planted (yes, hundreds) are starting to peek their colorful heads out the ground, and my nose won't stop running.  While I love springtime, with the explosion new growth and mild days, I can't help but feel some trepidation.  Summer is coming.   I am never ready for summer.  And this summer I'm going to be doing some serious writing.  Gulp. 

Our new rock garden- Tulips, Hyacinths, Rosemary and Jonquils

My first creative writing course ended last week and I was sad to say goodbye to it.  Over the last six weeks I've done more consistent writing and brainstorming on my creative projects than ever before.  I nerdily gobbled up every piece of advice, every technique, and every organizational idea during those three hour classes.  I even managed to write a short story and share it with people outside of my immediate family (if you'd like to read it, email me!).  I got comfortable in the class, making friends, feeling productive with my daily writing exercises, basking in the early stages of writing projects where you aren't pushed to make long-term commitments to characters or story ideas.  However, this creative writing program is meant to push you, not make you comfortable.  The next course starts one week from today and it's called, "The Story."  This next class will push me to write the ending to my story first and to make some serious decisions about plot and character.  Like vitamins, sunscreen, and a practical wide-brimmed hat, the class will be the perfect preparation for the summer course, the much dreaded "Chapters" intensive.  It's time to nourish the creative soil and get to work.  Summer is right around the corner.

Nourish

On a Clear Day You Can See Forever- Dad's View

A few weekends ago I made a solo trip to the Bay Area, seeking solitude, solace, and sea breezes.  My dad died a year and a half ago and is buried in a beautiful location: on the ridge of the Santa Cruz Mountains, overlooking the pumpkin patches of Half Moon Bay and out to the Pacific Ocean.  A few times a year I go out to visit with him, to cry, to laugh, to share the newest stories about our family.  I bring a latte and a raspberry scone (his favorite) up to the spot, sit on the ground beside him, and just start talking.  On this trip the weather was cold and foggy up along the ridge, obscuring the view to the ocean.  I didn't mind- I was feeling sad and lonely for him and the weather reflected my state of mind.

Clam Chowder, Anchor Steam Beer, Crab Cake Balls
Sam's Chowder House in Half Moon Bay, CA

By the time my cheeks were raw from tears and salty sea air I was chilled to the bone and knew it was time to head down the hill to find some food.  Over the last few months I've been on a fairly restrictive diet in order to shed some pounds, but I made a decision that this weekend would not be about restriction and structure.  I was there to nourish all parts of myself: body, soul, and creative spirit.  I decided to try a new place for lunch (our family favorite, Barb's Fish Trap, had over an hour wait).  I braved the waterfront patio of Sam's Chowder House, positioning myself under an umbrella and a heat lamp, and promptly ordered an appetizer, a huge bowl of their namesake chowder and a draft pull of my favorite San Francisco beer.  Oh heavens.  The chowder was unbelievably delicious- Sam's doesn't use any flour to thicken their broth and it's filled with chunks of fresh clams, potatoes, leeks, carrots, bacon, and is served piping hot.  I finished the meal with my own pot of hot tea, looking out over the grey choppy water and filling my trusty Moleskine journal with new character ideas.



One of the many treasures inside Harley Farm's heavenly
cheese shop: goat cheese in their herb-infused olive oil

Feeling fully revived and ready to move onto the next location, I packed up my things and headed down the coast about twenty miles to one of my favorite places: Pescadero, a funky little seaside town that is home to the world's best goat cheese.  Harley Farms is a working goat dairy on the outskirts of town and has some of the best goat cheese I've ever tasted (and I have a serious weakness for chevre).  In fact, the background picture for this blog was taken during one of my many trips to Harley Farms over the years and shows the inside of their amazing cheese shop.  Not only can you pet baby goats and take a tour of the farm to see how they make the cheese, but you can also sample all of their products.  My personal favorite?   The plain goat cheese log topped with lavender from their edible flower garden and filled with a bar of local honey.  Yes, it's really that amazing. 

As I pulled into the dirt parking spot along the country road, the sun decided to peek out from behind the clouds and the air instantly warmed up.  I meandered around the farm, unusually quiet for a Friday, and spent about a half an hour walking through the cheese shop picking out my purchases.  Ultimately I decided on a new coffee mug, rustic white glaze with their dancing goat imprint, and a bottle of their lavender goat milk body lotion.  As much as I love their cheese, I just couldn't imagine eating a whole log of it by myself after my filling lunch at Sam's (well I could, but I tried to reign myself in a bit).  That evening, driving back up the coast and over the hill to my hotel, my eyes continually filled with tears as I recalled all of my trips to Pescadero with my dad.  Of our drives, talks, coffee runs, and impromptu beachside picnics.  Somehow being out there, retracing our old routes, doing things we used to do together, calms me and keeps him alive in my heart.  I know that the next time I'm feeling disconnected from my roots, homesick for the ocean, and have a craving for a nourishing bowl of Sam's clam chowder, I only need book a flight.  My dad and the twenty-nine years of memories we shared together will be waiting for me.   

Sunshine and Seventy

Light through recycled glass soap dishes

Happiness is a precious commodity.  In my life I've found that it usually comes in short, concentrated blasts and is often tempered by periods of struggle, sadness, and exasperation.  Lately I've been experimenting with happiness, choosing to focus on those momentary blips of joy, beauty, and contentment during the drudgery of everyday life. When I first started this experiment, I found that the hardest part was being satisfied with a multitude of small moments, rather than a huge chunk of time.  But if we wait for life to slow down, for troubles to stop coming, for heartache to cease, we'll be waiting forever and missing all those little gems that make life wonderful and worth living. I've discovered that finding happiness is like anything- the more often you look, the more abundant it becomes. 

Yesterday was both a typical work day and a singularly gorgeous day in Dallas.  My twenty-five minute commute inexplicably took forty-five minutes, even though I took the same route to work and left at my usual time.  As I walked to my building across campus from the parking garage, I was almost run over by a snotty undergrad in a fancy red Porsche who actually accelerated when I stepped off the curb. I promptly spilled my iced coffee all over my chest.  After getting settled in my windowless cave of an office, I realized that I had grabbed the jeans from the dirty clothes pile by accident that morning.  With no make-up and crazy hippy hair that was still wet underneath, I was feeling really attractive and ready for the day.  I felt myself slipping into grumpiness, snarling at unsuspecting students who dared come by my office for help.  From this moment the day could have easily turned into one that I would soon forget, mentally filing it under the categories of "Typical Hump Day" and the "Ruination of Perfectly Good Shirts through Spilled Food Products Day."  But who wants the days of their life to be checked off and dismissed as mediocre? Not me.  

Dream Ride- Restored 1962 Vespa in Grey Blue

Leaving for an early lunch with my husband and his lovely co-worker, I spent the ten minute walk to my car clearing my mind of negativity.  The sky was a clear cornflower blue, the hundred-year-old live oaks lining the campus smelled warm and earthy, and the gentle sunshine caressed my face and dried the last strands of my hair.  We ate lunch in a busy seafood grill, where Gene Chandler's voice crooned the Duke of Earl over the airwaves and we all indulged in our own separate desserts.  I returned to work happy; healed by good company, laughter, divine bread pudding, and beautiful weather.  In the late afternoon a good friend stopped by to visit and talk paint colors for her new office.  Ever thoughtful, she brought ice tea and some lovely lemony biscuits (amazing Trader Joe's delights!) for us to share while we perused the colors of the rainbow in the paint sample booklet.  We sat outside near a fountain, surrounded by art students sketching in charcoal, relishing in the gorgeous weather and narrowing down the perfect color choice.  By the time the 5 o'clock quitting whistle sounded, I practically skipped to my car, even though I knew I had a long drive ahead to my in-laws' house where I would be pet sitting for the next few nights.  I drove with the windows down, absorbing every second of the sunshine and seventy degrees, knowing that in Texas the weather can change on a dime.  My husband, C, and I had dinner at one of our favorite places, sitting outside on the patio festooned with white twinkle lights, sharing a bottle of Greek wine and a plate of lamb kabobs.  Back at the house, we fed the dogs, laughing hysterically as C had to bribe an ancient special needs Corgi to take his medication with multiple slices of American cheese.  Later on, while C watched My Cousin Vinnie for the umpteenth time, I loaded my newest batch of photos from my recent trip to California to my laptop.    Surrounded by snoring dogs, a relaxed husband, and the photos I had taken in the eclectic boutiques of my favorite seaside town (like these two images), I felt so incredibly blessed to be alive. Closing my eyes, I retraced the hundreds of happy moments of the day as my mind wandered towards dreamland, grateful for each and every one.  Now all I need is that Vespa and I'll be set.

Pieces of Eight

Last night during my class we were asked to write about a memory from childhood.  With the clock ticking and a measly ten minutes to complete the exercise, I grasped at the first thing that came to mind: 

Oh, Jim, what a lovely tricorne hat you have!

For as long as I can remember, one of my all-time favorite movies has been Disney's Treasure Island (1950).  I've always loved a good, old-fashioned tale of adventure on the high seas and I'm pretty sure that Bobby Driscoll (the cutie who played Jim Hawkins) was my first serious crush.  The memory comes back to me like a flash and suddenly I'm seven years old again, using my imagination to buffer myself from the reality of household chores.  The game I'm playing that day can best be described as "Jim Hawkins' Younger Sister Swabbing the Deck."  It was my preferred go-to game when the front porch required sweeping.   

Even as a child I liked to keep things as authentic as possible when imagining myself in a fantasy world.  Pirate chores (typically sweeping or mopping, but sometimes kitchen duty when a large pot of soup needed stirring) called for pirate clothes.  We had Italian neighbors, Paolo, Marina, and their baby Guilia, who gave me a beautiful green floral skirt after one of their trips back home.  The material was heavy cotton twill and it twirled nicely.  Paired with a white hand-me-down peasant blouse, the perfect pirate girl outfit came to life (conveniently doubling as gypsy girl on other days).  I've always hated wearing shoes, which is one of the reasons I'm still so fond of adventures involving sailing ships and tropical beaches.  I remember that the concrete of the front stoop was ice cold and caused my pink toes to curl as soon as I walked out the front door, trusty red broom firmly in hand.  Our front door opened onto the shady side of the apartment building and looked out to a canopy of neighboring trees whose leaves were big and bright green and perpetually damp with edges that curled inward. 



"One More Step, Mr. Hands."
A 1911 illustration by N.C. Wyeth.

On that front porch, in that moment, I wasn't a child with household chores to do.  I was a kidnapped English girl, a stowaway on a pirate ship.  My older brother, Jim Hawkins, and I would plan adventures with that scallywag Long John Silver.  After running around on deck, fighting off the likes of Israel Hands, we would go diving off the ship into crystal clear turquoise waters, searching for conch shells and buried treasure.  Interrupted mid-joust, I look up to see my mother at the door telling me to put some socks on.  Drat.  Smiling, she puts a warm hand on my shoulder reminding me that the dishwasher needs to be emptied.  Double drat. Letting out a big, dramatic sigh I begrudgingly hand her the broom and walk inside.  Kidnapped pirate children don't have to worry about things like dishwashers. Or socks.

p.s. This chore avoidance through fantasy technique is one that I still use, although nowadays I typically find myself on an Greek Island belting out songs from Mamma Mia.  Occasionally though, a grown-up Jim Hawkins (who now resembles Henry Cavill) joins me, begging for one more adventure.