Posts Tagged Intelligentsia coffee

I know for a fact that I am not the world’s best procrastinator because I saw a Christmas tree this morning out on the curb.  I could write endlessly about procrastination but I don’t want to.  Maybe tomorrow.

How many times do you have to tell your children that the jeans they wore this afternoon for an hour DO NOT GO IN THE HAMPER?

Do you still say ‘hamper’?

I don’t want to see any more “Shit People Say” videos.  Some of them were funny so thanks, but let’s move on.

I’m still sad about Whitney Houston, especially after Mercedes sang “I Will Always Love You” on this week’s episode of “Glee”.  Of course, I’m still sad about Amy Winehouse.

I’ve only had a chance to read about Linsanity – STILL haven’t seen it live.  Having a hard time getting a Knicks game on television.

One of these days, I’m going to teach my dogs not to beg.  (See my first note about procrastination.)

Is it just me or does Rick Santorum make you nauseous, too?  If he ends up the nominee – don’t think he will, but you never know – I think he’s going to run into a whole lot of trouble with the ladies.

I just received a $25 iTunes gift card.  Whose music should I buy?

What’s up with Iran? Ahmadinejad has such a chip on his shoulder.  Either you’re enriching uranium for peaceful purposes or you’re not.  No need to show off or get snippy, though I do hope that putting the plug in your oil jug will serve to inspire the US to increase investment in alternative sources of energy.

I wish I had servants like they do on “Downton Abbey”.  Every now and then, it would be fun to ‘dress’ for dinner.

My friend Jeannie and I were talking about movies this morning and I called Terrence Malick’s films a case of ‘the emporer’s new clothes’.  Have you seen “Days of Heaven”?   “The Thin Red Line”?  Ugh.  Friends keep trying to give me screeners of “The Tree of Life” and I tell them I’ve got a million other things to do with my time.  “It’s nice to look at,” I hear them sheepishly say.  If I wanted to look at pretty pictures, I could visit a museum and get some exercise walking around.

A farting incident came to my attention this afternoon.  I’m nearly fifty years old and just that word, those four letters, F-A-R-T, make me laugh out loud.

I bought a pound of Intelligentsia coffee today at one of the few stores around town that sells it and you would have thought I was bringing home a new puppy, I was so excited.  Drinking a cup now.

“Should I wear pants or shorts today?’ is the question I get from Miss T every Saturday, Sunday, and free dress day at school.  Doesn’t matter if it’s forty degrees outside (and sometimes it is in Los Angeles), if the sun in shining, she assumes it’s a possible beach day.

I don’t immediately delete emails I’ve read, just in case I need to go back for the information.  I now have 9126 emails in my inbox.  How long do you think it’ll take me to clean that out?  (How many do you have?)

It’s official.  I can’t wear thong underwear.

Got a new pair of eyeglasses today to replace the nine-year-old ones I was wearing at night after I took my contacts out.  The world looks spectacular without scratches.

Enjoy Presidents’ Day weekend.  Goldie asked casually yesterday why Abraham Lincoln was considered such a great man.  I mentioned slavery, the Emancipation Proclamation, and then told her she should re-read The Gettysburg Address.

It’s counterintuitive that I like to write, that I’m a writer.  I need social interaction to stay sane, to stay out of my head, to experience present moments in the form of dialogue with another.  In the presence of other people, bouncing ideas around, dumping, whining, rejoicing, critiquing, I feel alive and normal.  Don’t ask for my definition.  It’s basic.  Normal, for me, is the absence of neurosis.

And yet, I write.  Alone.

While the girls are at school, I’m tapping away at the keyboard either writing a post, writing something for hire, or trying (desperately) to obtain more writing work.  I’m in my head and on the page – and while that happens, I’m fine.  I love to write.  But like running a race, I don’t always love it as I go along.  Sometimes it feels tedious and I struggle with motivation.  Undoubtedly, there’s reward, sometimes during the journey, when my pace is smooth and the words tumble too fast, and at the end, crossing the finish line, closing the last paragraph, feeling like the pieces of a whole have come together.  It’s the downtime, the writer’s block, the dearth of deadlines, the embarrassing shortage of confidence, where I think I’ll self-combust.  But if I leave the house, if I speak with another, if I interact with fellow humans, suddenly I’m fine.

Being a stay-at-home mom is really, really hard – not in comparison to working mothers, or brain surgeons, or firefighters battling the Santa Ana winds – not in contrast to or in competition with anything.  I like math.  I like sports.  I like quantifiable achievements, and there are little if any associated with staying home and mothering.  Sure, down the road, when the kids turn out okay, there might be proverbial pats on the back, but day to day, it’s a struggle.  When the kids are all of school-age, stay-at-home moms have to find more meaning to their lives than making the house pretty, and so we attempt to find part-time jobs or fill the hours between the wash and dry cycles with social support and survival.

And yet, I write.  Alone.

I’m not a complete basket case and I’ll tell you why (while remembering to heed my own advice):  occasionally, I get out of the house.  Monday mornings are tough and I don’t always lace up the running shoes and get out the door.  This morning I did, wearing my Oklahoma City Fire and Rescue shirt and my Michigan baseball cap (and shorts, a jog bra, etc.)  Three blocks away, a construction worker in a white truck slowed down next to me and asked if I was from Oklahoma City.  I told him ‘no’, that I got the shirt while working on a television movie.  “About the bombing?” he asked.  I answered ‘yes’ and asked if that was where he was from.  “Yes, ma’am…have a nice day,” he said smiling, and drove off.  Two miles later, a street management worker was shoveling dirt for a repair project and glanced my way.  “My nephew went to Michigan!” he shouted at me, seeing my hat.  “Mine did too!” I shouted back and added, “They lost on Saturday.”  “Yeah, they did.  Made me real mad,” he said and waved as I ran ahead.  Neither interaction was profound but even in those small connections, I feel as if everything’s okay.  I’m out in the world with others.  I talk with someone, therefore I am.

Motherhood is tricky this way.  Even surrounded by one’s children, there can be uncomfortable feelings of loneliness.  Dialogue with kids is on a different playing field than it is with friends, strangers, peers.  Kids are selfish by nature, so there’s not much chance they’re interested in talking about the news or the meaning of life.  They want to talk about school and have you listen.  They want to talk about friends and see you nod.  They don’t want to talk at all.  They don’t understand why you linger at carpool, soaking up as much chatter as you can before you’re relegated to correcting homework and answering the incessant question, “What’s for dinner?”

Yesterday I took time for myself, away from soccer and birthday parties, and joined a friend for a cooking demonstration in a funky part of East LA (this week’s recipe will be Indian) and a visit to Intelligentsia for a latté after.  Sure, we talked about our kids a lot but we also talked about spices, schedules, husbands, movies, and books.  We made friends with a young man from Echo Park, also at the cooking class, who was getting his PhD in pharmacology, and shared our Shrimp Saag with him.  It was a lovely afternoon.  It filled me up.

Motherhood isn’t soul-crushing; that’s not what I’m saying.  Neither is writing alone.  I’m just lacking in spirit and depth and normalness when I go too long without talking to another grown-up, without making a connection, even if it’s with the guy filling the pothole up the street.  I’m a social animal and a stay-at-home mom who writes, which requires balance by way of human connection.  It takes more of an effort than those who go to a job every day and sometimes I forget.  Thanks for letting me write 881 words to remind myself.

If it’s Friday in the kitchen with Jo, instead of Thursday, I’m sorry but so be it.  It’s not as if you can’t make this dish any day of the week.

My friend Lisa told me the other day she craves salad at around 11am most mornings.  Rather than make some lame joke about her being a rabbit in a former life, I expressed empathy – not that needing greens early in the day is a heavy issue.  I just know how she feels.  I, too, have a need for garden foods in the a.m. but usually only after eating two donuts.

Regardless, I love salads but am terribly bored by the ones I fix for family and guests.  There’s a wonderful new little restaurant in Sherman Oaks called Sweet Butter that serves yummy-yum-yum Intelligentsia coffee, and salads that taste good in the morning, and probably in the afternoon and evening, too.  Lisa and I tried to figure out what was in their very simple Brussels sprout salad.  Today, I put this together and if it isn’t exactly what they make, it’s pretty close and just as delicious.  (That’s not to say if you live near Sweet Butter, you shouldn’t stop in and stay awhile.  Even the bathrooms are charming.)

Brussels sprouts are a member of the cruciferous family of vegetables, along with siblings broccoli, cauliflower, kale, cabbage and bok choy.  Think of Brussels as the first-born daughter who will take care of you in your old age.  (Not that any of you are old.  I seem to be having an issue with this subject lately.)

Jo’s version of Sweet Butter’s Brussels Sprout and Toasted Hazelnut Salad

(This will yield 4 side-dish servings)

¼ lb. Brussels sprouts, about 6-7

½ cup hazelnuts (I’ll tell you how to toast them, below.)

2 T. extra virgin olive oil, plus 1 t. to toss hazelnuts

2 t. fresh lemon juice

½ cup shaved Parmesan (get the good stuff)

salt and pepper

Chop the hazelnuts ever so coarsely.  You almost want them whole but not quite.  Toss them with 1 t. olive oil and salt.  Place on a cooking sheet and toast in a 350° oven (I use my toaster oven) for about 5 minutes or until the light part of the nuts is just turning golden.  Don’t burn them!  Set on a paper towel to cool.

Cut each Brussels sprout lengthwise and then julienne cut them across.

In a mixing bowl, whisk together the olive oil and lemon juice.  Add the Brussels sprouts, Parmesan and hazelnuts.  Season with salt and pepper and toss.

The salad gets better as it sits a bit and absorbs the dressing so don’t be afraid to make ahead before the guests arrive.  It’s a good salad that way.  And simple.  I love this new recipe.  Lisa, you’re welcome to come over in the morning and have some.