Chirp.

Baby birds are guarding our mailbox.

A few weeks ago, we noticed that a fat robin had poorly-assembled a pile of twigs and string on a front-porch ledge just above the brass box which collects our mail. Within a day, the wind and rain had blown the nest away. But the robin was determined and rebuilt her perch, much sturdier this time, with twine and branches from all around the neighborhood.

She sat upon the nest for several days, fluffed up and proud, glaring at us each time we opened the door or peered at her from between the blinds. I named the bird Roberta. She became our third pet (kind of) and I greeted her every morning. I wondered if the glowing porch light that stays on at night had disrupted her rest or caused her to see annoying spots whenever she blinked.

After many days of watching her sit in her bowl-shaped abode, I opened the door one afternoon and noticed that Roberta was gone. Three baby beaks were poking up from the nest like tiny birthday hats. I discovered a few bits of eggshell the color of a Tiffany’s box scattered in the grass, and soon Roberta swooped in from the yard with worms and bugs clinging to her beak. I felt all congratulatory.

The next day, everything changed. I stepped out to retrieve the mail, and suddenly two squawking robins darted toward my head from a nearby tree. It was Roberta and her man, a skinny but ferocious looking bird who was clearly on a mission to protect his triplets. Roberta was our friendly, feathered pet no more. Visions of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds flashed through my mind as I fled inside clutching my Crate and Barrel catalog and fumbling to hold onto a stack of bills. I needed the mail, but surely it wasn’t worth getting my eyes poked out like Tippi Hedren.

This went on for a few more days. I'd snatch the mail and run inside, dodging a fury of red feathers and loud chirps that I can only assume were profanities in bird-talk. The passport I ordered for our trip to Europe did not arrive, and I am starting to think Roberta might be responsible. I would not blame the postman for opting to chuck our mail in a nearby gutter to avoid getting pummeled.

So we have started taking our dog with us to the mailbox now. It has become a rehearsed event as we line up and embark outside as a family, a hyper Jack Russell terrier as the first line of defense. Now that we out-number them, Mr. and Mrs. Roberta don't come quite so close to our faces, and the adrenaline associated with grabbing our phone bill has subsided a bit. I’ve also been able to get a good peek at the babies, who seem to have quadrupled in size in a matter of days. They are plump and covered with feathers now, and they glare at us too as they stretch their necks in search of a wiggly snack.

Even though our front porch has turned into a daily battlefield of sorts, there has been something intriguing about watching the birds and seeing how similar they are to humans. I think it's fascinating that the dad-bird sticks around as protector, while the mother dashes off in search of food and then returns to feed and keep her babies warm. A little family.

And as long as they let us have our mail, I guess we'll let the Robins remain in their front porch apartment until they're ready to fly away one day.

a writer's life

Today I am a writer again, if only by force.

Years ago while living in Houston, I worked in my church’s Media Department as producer of a talk-radio show. How I fell into such an occupation and actually did well at it, I have never quite figured out. My job prior to that was managing an after-school program for an Episcopal elementary school, and before that I ran a computer lab for hormonal middle school kids. Sometimes I look back over my hodge-podge career and find it to be a strange string of endeavors, and also surprising that I’ve managed to avoid ever waiting tables.

One evening during my radio show stint, I attended a dinner party at my distinguished friend Mary-Catherine’s house. For a long time up until then, we had always called her Missy. Missy was a ballerina and read books on philosophy and comparative religion. Soon she began sculpting and traveling to exotic places and oozing with intellect, and that’s when she became: Mary-Catherine who gives dinner parties in her early twenties. This was a time when most of our friends survived on Chinese take-out from General Joe’s with a bottle of Mountain Dew.

Sitting around Mary-Catherine’s dining room table with our individual menus written in fancy script, we started talking about our dream occupations…what we would love to do if we could do anything in the world. When it came to my turn, the answer was easy: “I want to be a writer.” “Don’t you write now?” Mary-Catherine prompted, mentioning a couple of articles I had written and a book I helped edit. I guess I had never really thought about it before. “Well, yes, I write. But I am not a writer,” I said. “You’re a writer if you say you’re a writer,” Mary-Catherine insisted. “From now on, when people ask you what you do, I want you to tell them that you’re a writer.”

And that was it. From that day forward I was a writer. It had happened over Beef Wellington and baby carrots at eight o’clock on a Saturday. Looking back, I think I’d just never had the guts to believe I could actually be a writer, let alone say it out loud to other people.

It was several more years before I actually began writing on a semi-full-time basis, and there are some days now that I’m still sheepish about answering when people ask what I do. Many days, I just don’t feel like a writer, either because I’m not inspired to put anything on paper, or because I’m busy doing other things. Every day, without consciously dubbing myself as such, I know that I am a wife, cook, seamstress, decorator, dog-walker, and person who uses her computer a lot. But actual writer? It’s only on rare occasions, when I’m whittling away at an artist’s biography or editing an interview, that I wear the writer label as proudly as my favorite shirt.

This morning I opened my laptop and stared at a blank page. “I have nothing to write about,” I thought. It’s been a month since my last entry and still, nothing to say. The page glared at me irritably, as if shouting, “Just put something down already! I’m so bored.”

But still I had nothing to say and sat frozen, staring at an empty white page dependent on me to give it a life. Then I remembered the words of Mary-Catherine-sculptor-painter-dancer-philosopher-gourmet chef-and world traveler. “You’re a writer if you say you’re a writer.”

So I wrote the word Today... and became a writer again.

nephew

My sister Laura had her baby on Thursday, which officially makes me an auntie for the very first time. I am not sure I could be more excited.

I flew to Los Angeles on Wednesday for the big event. My mom and sister picked me up from the airport, and Laura looked like a cute little weeble-wobble getting out of the car to greet me. We had lunch on the patio of a cozy café called 26 Beach, then went back to my sister’s house. While Laura napped, I took a walk to get some coffee at the end of the street. There’s nothing like California weather to put me in a great mood.

That night my mom made her famous spaghetti—authentically Italian—and I took final pregnancy photos of my sister and her husband on the deck outside. They looked so happy and eager, maybe a little bit nervous too.

At the hospital the next day with my sister’s in-laws, we scurried around in the waiting room like an over-active hill of ants, trying to relax but finding it impossible. I tried to imagine what was happening in the delivery room. I prayed for my sister to be okay. I wondered what the baby would look like and how soon we’d be able to see him. I stared at the aquarium, then the clock, then the confusing sign that read, “NO FOOD OR DRINKS IN THIS AREA” hanging near the complimentary coffee.

Finally at 1:30, my sister’s husband Chris called down to report that Jake had arrived and would be passing the waiting area soon on his way to the nursery. We quickly gathered our bags, flung cameras around our necks, and went racing down the hallway like a pack of Japanese tourists to catch our first glimpse and photo of the big attraction.

Jake wasn’t big at all though. He looked so tiny all swaddled in his blanket, blinking his eyes as if he wasn’t sure what to make of this new world he was seeing for the very first time. I instantly fell in love with him.

We watched through the nursery window as Chris helped the nurse give Jake his first bath in a plastic tub the size of a shoebox. It’s amazing to realize that one day not long from now, he’ll be splashing and laughing and playing with toys. Everything Jake did—from sneezing to yawning to wiggling his feet--seemed utterly astounding to me, maybe because I knew they were a part of his beginning.

I didn’t expect it would be quite so difficult to say goodbye to Jake and my sister on my final hospital visit Saturday night. My eyes got all teary as I kissed Jake on the head and reluctantly handed the tiny bundle back to his grandmother, knowing it would be awhile before I could see him again and realizing how much he will have changed by then. It’s going to be tough being a long-distance aunt, but at least I know Jake’s got two amazing parents who will take good care of him.

Snow Day

This weekend I've been held captive in my house by old man winter. It's about time he showed up. The weather has been snowy and icy, too cold and slippery to go out much. Jeremy is out in California where it's warm, so I've resorted to re-organizing our dressers and bedroom closet, and doing a little baking to keep myself occupied today.


Here's the recipe for some excellent Banana Muffins I just made.

(makes 12)

2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup Splenda for baking (sugar mix)
2 large eggs
4 overripe bananas (mashed)
1/4 cup lowfat sour cream or plain yogurt
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
1 cup chopped walnuts (optional)
1/3 cup shredded coconut

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Line muffin tin with 12 paper liners and spray top of tin with nonstick spray.
2. Stir the flour, baking powder, baking soda, nutmeg and salt together in medium bowl.
3. In a separate large bowl, beat butter & sugar together with electric mixer on high until light and creamy. Beat in the eggs, bananas, sour cream/yogurt, and vanilla, and stir to mix well.
4. Add flour mixture into the butter-sugar mixture and stir just until flour is moist and no longer visible. Do not over-mix. Gently stir in walnuts if desired.
5. Scoop batter with an ice-cream scoop into muffin tins just below the tops of liners. Sprinkle the tops of muffins with a bit of coconut before baking.
6. Bake muffins on center rack for 25 minutes, until the tops spring back when pressed lightly and a toothpick inserted in center coomes out clean. Let muffins rest for 5 minutes before turning them out. Serve immediately or cool on wire rack.

the end.

things which lately i am liking...

(this is really more of a record for myself)

1. cranberry juice with a splash of water
2. snow
3. project runway
4. jeremy's new songs
5. cinnamon dolce lattes
6. kai perfume
7. my husband's socks
8. pears with cheese and wheat thins
9. domino magazine
10. white sheets
11. taking photographs
12. "musha boom" by feist
13. things with birds on them
14. chocolate
15. chopping fresh ginger
16. earplugs (necessary at night)
17. grapefruit candles
18. imogen heap
19. other people's babies
20. my camel-colored sweater

Ladybugs.

Why is it that even when you own a movie on DVD and have seen it a thousand times, when it comes on television suddenly, there’s an insatiable urge to watch it simply because it’s on TV? Or maybe I'm the only one who experiences that.

Under the Tuscan Sun is on ABC Family tonight…and it's appropriate because Jeremy and I just this afternoon confirmed our travel plans to Europe. Perhaps that is my real excuse for being sucked into Diane Lane’s romantic tour of Italy once again. She has wide-set eyes like me.

(I just realized that Sandra Oh who plays the pregnant friend Patty, AND her girlfriend in the movie--whose name I don't know--both play doctors on Grey's Anatomy now. I always think that's interesting when that happens. Makes you wonder if one of them got the job on the show and then said, "By the way, I've got this friend who I was in a movie with once who would be perfect for that part." That has to be how it happens.)

So, I can’t believe we’re actually going to be in Italy in a matter of months, strolling through Tuscany, snapping photos at sunflower fields. I can hardly wait to take Jeremy through Rome. He will love the history—the architecture—Piazza Navona with all its cafés and street musicians and abundant charm.


We’ll spend a few days in Paris first…then cross over to Switzerland for a night or two…and finish up most of the trip in Italy. The plan is to begin in Venice because gondolas and Italy seem synonymous in my mind. Then, onto Cinque Terre for a few days on the beach and hiking around the towns. Next, to Florence, and then Siena where my sister lived for awhile, before we head to Rome. And I guess it’s cliché (or maybe just American) to visit places you’ve seen in movies, but I wouldn’t mind a quick stop through Cortona too. Jeremy is most excited about…well…all of it really. But he keeps mentioning Tuscany with great enthusiasm in his voice. It will all be new to him though.

Most of it will be new to me too, with the exception of Florence and Rome, the latter being my favorite. Never have I consumed so much water as when I was in Rome. For three days alone there, I sat and drank liter upon liter of Pellegrino, scribbled out postcards, read Bridget Jones' Diary on a park bench outside Villa Borghese, and chatted in Spanish with a waiter named Joe who drove a moped. On the day I walked to Vatican City from Piazza Navona, my feet were so tired and blistered I had tears in my eyes. I drank at least a half-gallon of water at lunch that day. It was August. The Pope did not come outside to greet me, or even wave at me from a window.


I remember the night my sister and I arrived in Florence. We were meandering near Ponte Vecchio (old bridge) and someone was playing Italian music on a violin. I looked up and the sky was the color of ink. It was so bluish-black and beautiful that I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. There was a breeze that seemed like it could only belong in Italy. Laura and I talked about what a shame it was that, at least for that moment, we were there with each other instead of a boy, because it was truly the most romantic setting you could think of.


I did not know Jeremy yet, and in that moment I could never have fathomed that I would find someone as amazing as him. I know that God is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine... but sometimes the reality still blows me away.

I remember sitting on the Spanish Steps one afternoon and thinking it would be nice to be in love. So it's amazing to realize that just a few short years later, I’ll be back on those steps with my sweet husband, and my sister will be at home in Los Angeles rocking her new baby Jake to sleep. Two sisters alone together in Florence that summer, we never would have guessed it all. Funny, it’s just like Frances says in the film (which ended a minute ago)…unthinkably good things can happen. And then she says: "It's such a surprise."


[Postscript: If any fellow European travelers have suggestions on places we must visit, or restaurants and hotels to try, please feel free to chime in with your ideas. Grazie!]

Tulips.

Before, I always approached days like today with grand expectation. Flowers, and dinner by candlelight (with reservations booked well in advance) and romantic notes and hearts and candy and poetry and cupids and love and fluffiness and everything red and pink and gushy. That is what Valentine’s Day is all about and it only comes along once a year so it’s important to get it right. Right?

I am sure I’m not the only woman out there who has thought this way. And maybe it’s because romance is so important to most of us and there are only certain times of the year when it’s almost guaranteed, so it’s easy to attach a lot of anticipation to what the day will be.

On my first Valentine’s Day with Jeremy (when we were dating,) I thought about the fact that Valentine’s Day is for guys too (at least I convinced myself that’s what I was thinking) and decided that I would create my idea of the perfect date for us. I made a gourmet dinner and decorated my house with hearts all over the place. I bought brushes and a canvas for us to paint something together (which we still have, in the basement) and prepared a fancy dessert. The evening was going well…until right after dinner when Jeremy got a discouraging work-related phone call that preoccupied him for the rest of the night. I cried because the perfect evening I’d imagined had gone haywire.

Now…it’s three years later, and I’ve pretty much let my expectations go. Not because Jeremy isn’t romantic, but because on a few occasions where I put too much pressure on him (by way of relentless hinting) to create an amazing day, he was so worried about messing things up that he didn’t enjoy the day at all. And I realized something. Duh. It’s not all about me. A perfectly planned day with someone I love is far from perfect if he can’t enjoy it too.

This year, I didn’t have any ideas in my mind of what Valentine’s Day should be, except that I wanted to spend it with my husband. I wanted to serve him and just let him be himself. We started the day with eggs and toast at the table, and exchanged cards and bars of French chocolate (we unknowingly bought each other the exact same kind). I gave Jeremy a tin of his favorite tea, and then we cleaned up the kitchen together. The morning was easy and void of pressure, but still different than our usual mornings of coffee and cereal in front of our laptops. About an hour later while I was folding laundry, the doorbell rang and a box arrived with a dozen lovely tulips… a great surprise. Roses are beautiful, but I honestly prefer something more unique, and this just confirmed that Jeremy understands that about me…which is really the best part of any gift in my opinion--feeling that you’re known.

In the afternoon, we roamed around town together, grabbing a quick lunch and doing a few errands. Everywhere we went there were hearts and flowers and stuffed animals being bought in a crunch. Suddenly, all of it seemed forced, and I felt sympathy for all those guys in the checkout lines with bears in their arms and looks of frantic concern upon their faces.

At 5:00, we got dressed for dinner and went to one of our favorite restaurants in town. We got a table right away, but even if we hadn’t, I know I would have enjoyed the wait. On the way home, we drove around our neighborhood just admiring all the pretty houses and imagining what they were like inside. And then we watched Harold and Maude in our pajamas.

It was such a good day, and it confirmed my new philosophy about romance. This Valentine’s Day, I let go of my inflexible expectations and didn’t try to force every moment into some ridiculous heart-shaped box where it couldn’t breathe. And I realized that sometimes the most perfect days are the ones that happen when I’m not trying so hard to perfect them.

while watching the Olympics...

Okay, I don't understand why the luge is hard.

You're going down a slide. Where is the skill in this?

These were the kids whose parents wanted them to be great at something but they couldn't swim or ice skate very well, so then one day while watching them zip down the slide at McDonald's Playland, an idea was born.

Uh-oh, a woman just fell off of her little sled. She looks kind of hurt and she's holding her wrist, but I'd say it's really a cover for embarrassment---she's in the Olympics for goodness sake...she can't even make it down a slide!

I've done a little luging myself and it was no sweat. Without a sled mind you, but the same basic principle. Over Christmas, Jeremy's mom took us to this ice sculpture exhibit in Orlando where we saw nativity scenes and gingerbread houses carved from ice. At the end of the tour was a room with three big ice slides (very similar to the ones on the Olympics but a little bit shorter in length.) We each took turns going down them wearing a big blue parka that served as a slick surface to increase our speed (same concept as the luging sleds). It was exhilarating for sure, but it certainly wasn't difficult. Seven year olds were doing it. And without helmets!

Maybe we should’ve gotten a gold medal too. Instead, there were cups of hot chocolate.

a new blog...

...which is not to say that I am leaving this blog behind.

however, my old friends at grassrootsmusic.com have asked me to write a weekly post on their blog as well. that is a lot of blogging! but it's fun, too.

my other blog is posted every Thursday. this week's post is up a bit early if you care to take a peek.

the best medicine.

Today is a good day for coconut bread with pineapple butter.

We have friends staying with us this week, the Hellers from Arizona, and I always like to bake things when we have company. I have just met these new friends, though Jeremy has known them for awhile now, and it’s fun to find a couple that you click with. JJ is from California actually, and those are my people, so I instantly liked her. She has a laugh that’s nice to listen to. It seems genuinely happy.

In the morning, everyone leaves for work. Dave and JJ creep around the house filling cereal bowls and hunting for shoes, and then dash off before nine to the studio where they’re making a record. An hour later, Jeremy is gone too…he’s at a different studio, producing an album. So then it’s just me. I busy myself throughout the day with work, errands, laundry, and such.

In the evening, everyone comes home. We sit down at the old farm table in the dining room and eat dinner together like a family, talking about the politics of America, or marriage, or simple things like music. Afterward, we each find our own spaces, scattering around the house to tend to different things, but it still feels like the house is full…in a good way.

For us, it's been awhile since there has been so much laughter in the house. Normally, when I say something funny, it is only Jeremy who laughs and vice versa. Sometimes a little bit of laughter is just not enough.

But daily we count our blessings. Even in a difficult season, our faith is strong and our marriage is a resting place. Truthfully, I feel as if I’ve turned a corner lately. Life has sprung back.

Last weekend I took photos of Christie’s baby, Elliott, who is almost four months old. He has just begun to smile and baby-giggle. There is so much pure joy in a baby’s laugh. I think I shot over 200 frames of him with his wide and curious wonder. I imagine that my camera looked like a giant, blurry bug’s eye to him, but that didn’t keep him from laughing. And afterward, I felt like I owed him a thank-you.

Stories

Aside from my husband, Ellis Paul is one of my favorite songwriters. He’s from Boston, well, Maine originally, and I have always thought Boston was a good place (the one time I visited), and always dreamed of going to Maine. I collected lighthouses for awhile, trying to create beacons of hope on my living room mantle. My favorite story growing up was the Robert McCloskey book, One Morning In Maine. The book was about a little girl and her older sister going out to dig for clams on the seashore one breezy morning, one morning in Maine. They, along with their gentle doe-eyed father, took a small-engined boat from their house to the beach, yelling up to the seagulls along the way. Then the little girl lost a tooth in the sand and was so worried that she would miss the tooth fairy with nothing to place beneath her pillow until her father reassured her. She had these most amazing parents who didn’t seem to get angry when she spilled her glass of milk at the breakfast table and let the dog lap it up. They didn’t grow impatient when she dropped her ice cream cone and threw a little fit. They just bought her another one. I was always dropping my ice cream and throwing fits.

One afternoon in a store, my sister was buying a silver ring with a dangling charm for her best friend’s birthday. I wanted a silver charm ring too; my mother said no. Sometimes, like many mothers I suppose, she’d say no without providing a good reason, and that was something my small-minded concept of injustice couldn’t quite reconcile. Perhaps she did give me a reason, but I chose not to hear it. Instead, I threw myself down on the floor of the jewelry store and refused to move. I kicked my feet and beat my fists, my face red as a beet. I flattened myself out into a stiff piece of cardboard until finally my mother, at her wit’s end, picked me up like a large baguette and carried me out to our Pinto. In the back seat, I continued my temper tantrum, pulling my mother’s hair and covering her eyes as she drove. I pushed my feet hard against the back of her driver’s seat. As she swerved and screamed and my sister swatted, I pressed my small fingers over my mother’s eyes, pulling back with all my might. I never got the silver charm ring. This was the first time my heart felt torn from my chest. Oh, the drama of youth...(and my poor mother!)

Ellis has had his heart torn too. He sang an album full of songs all about it, songs about hindsight and melting colors and flying hot air balloons. But my favorite song is the one he wrote called “Weightless.” It’s about a woman who owns a house where he sometimes stays while traveling around the country with his guitar. This old woman has a rare kind of faith that Ellis doesn’t understand but is somehow drawn to, and the song is about his contemplation of the beauty of her faith. He can pour so much meaning into simple words, weaving his heart into these musical poems, letting us see all his searching.

Roy G. Biv

Today I drove the Bug down to my local Sherwin-Williams to hunt for a swatch of Banana Cream paint. I am weak to the almost constant temptation of painting and repainting the rooms in our house...(sometimes it takes awhile to get it just right.) In fact, the only space that has retained its original color from the previous homeowner is the rich lipstick red of our dining room. Most of the other rooms in the house have been slapped with rollers and trim brushes at least a few times in the past two years. I’ve had a couple of mishaps with purple: a lavender bathroom that looked like old lady eyeshadow…and the time I painted the entry hall bright Barney purple -- a failed attempt at finding an inviting shade of plum. We recently (re)painted our guest room a vibrant peacock blue, transforming it into a cozy workspace for Jeremy to hide away and song-write. And I like it a lot. So far.

It was on our visit to Savannah last November that we discovered a beautiful creamy yellow on the walls of the Eli Whitney Room where we stayed in the Gastonian B&B. I had to have this color.

Our bedroom at home is drab khaki-taupe, and since we only have one small window and lots of deep stained moldings, the space feels almost absent of light. Jeremy calls it a cave. I have been thinking a lighter color might be just the ticket.

So last week I called up the Gastonian and asked to know what color they had painted the Eli Whitney Room. Sherwin-Williams Banana Cream.

Color is such an important thing to me. I don’t think I could have a house with every room painted white, even though I'd like the cleanness of it. If you enter our house today and begin walking from room to room, you’ll move from Iced Apricot to Blue Lagoon. Ruby Red to Pale Sage. Fresh Butter to Misty Sea...

Banana Cream seems like the logical next choice, don't you think?

Sounds like a carnival fun-house, I know…but for us it feels like an artist’s palette every time we turn a corner. To me, that feels like home.

me and kate.

kate winslet has an advertisement for american express on page twenty of my InStyle magazine. There's this great black and white photograph of her chewing on her fingertip, with one leg crossed to reveal the bottom of a prunish bare foot in need of a pedicure. Presumably, kate's hard at work studying an oscar-winning script, but she looks just disheveled and normal enough to seem relatable. On the page that follows, she answers questions about her life in order to show the importance of her relationship with her credit card. There's something about this ad that makes me want to be kate winslet, just for a minute. Perhaps that's the intended purpose.

Sadly, I cannot be kate winslet inasmuch as I am not English, nor do I own an American Express card, nor am I a celebrity, nor have I ever worn a corset. Even so, no one can stop me from answering the “My Life, My Card” questionnaire, so away I go...

(I am not going to look at kate's answers until I finish mine, and then I’ll see how much we have in common.)

My name: Kierstin Casella

childhood ambition: (in this order) to be Crystal Gayle. to teach. to write.

fondest memory: working in the garden with my dad. my wedding day.

soundtrack: simon & garfunkel on vinyl.

retreat: New Orleans. an aromatic day-spa

wildest dream: to have a cooking show on the Food Network

proudest moment: caring for my dad when he was sick with cancer; anytime I’m with my husband

biggest challenge: overcoming fear. remembering what's true.

alarm clock: my husband’s coffee breath in my face

perfect day: one that’s full of good surprises

first job: telemarketing

indulgence: gourmet chocolate

last purchase: fabric to make a purse

favorite movie: tie-- amelie & the sound of music, depending if i'm feeling more creative or nostalgic

inspiration: art museums. good books. nature outside the car window.

My life: makes more sense the older I get.

My card: Kroger Plus, Nashville public library, Starbucks, debit

[# of answers the same or similar to kate winslet: 1
We both love chocolate. I always knew we were kindred spirits.]

For Kate's answers, buy the February issue of InStyle with Uma Thurman on the cover.
For Jeremy's answers, (I made him do the questions too,) visit his blog

What a weekend should be…

On Friday night, our friends Kevin and Mandy came over for impromptu pizza and a movie, but the best part was just sitting in the living room and talking. It’s been awhile since we’ve had friends over for an evening…we had a hard time letting them go home.

Saturday. I did one of my favorite things in the world to do: I went wedding dress shopping! One of my oldest and closest friends (my once roommate), Lisa, is getting married so I’ve been having fun helping her hunt for the perfect gown. I might be a little sad when she actually picks one because the hunt will have to end. Yesterday made me miss our wedding day. Friends flying in from across the miles. My dad there to walk me down the aisle (he was more nervous than I was, I think.) Watching all our friends and family come up to receive communion. Dancing against candlelight to Tom Waits's “Take It With Me” sung by Matthew Jones. The white chocolate Kahlua cake. Being twirled swiftly around the dance floor by my father-in-law until I thought my head might fly off my body. It was one of those dances where you can’t help but laugh the whole time. Phil Keaggy singing “Silly Love Songs”--definitely a moment I won’t forget. And running through a rainfall of deep-colored rose petals holding the hand of my brand new husband. It’s good to reflect on those memories every once in awhile. I probably do more often than a regular person.

In the afternoon, Jeremy and I headed out for a matinee. We decided on Capote, a really good movie, but pretty dark and intense. He was such a complex character, Truman Capote. Manipulative, insecure, self-obsessed, tortured and brilliant all at the same time. Harper Lee’s character was in the movie as well. I need to go read To Kill a Mockingbird now. She inspired me to come home and work on my book too.

After the movie we walked around the mall where we bought a new lamp, then bumped into Todd and Christie and my favorite member of their family, baby Elliott. I can’t imagine a cuter little person than him. I had missed all three of them. They are some of our dearest friends who we hadn’t seen in at least a month.

Jeremy and I left the mall and made our way back toward our neighborhood--to Margot café’ for a late dinner. It’s the best cozy restaurant in a two-story house that belongs in Tuscany. A glass of red wine. White bean casserole. Bread pudding and French press coffee for dessert (this time we split it.) And we talked and planned and laughed and dreamed. I was thankful for the hour wait to get our table, and the next hour to sip wine and wait for our slowly-prepared food to arrive; we were having so much fun. No computers or cell phones, no distractions, no dishes to wash. It was a perfect date.

A weekend full of good friends, great memories, delicious food, and little surprises… makes me glad that Sunday is a day for rest.

sometimes you get what you wish for…

The strangest thing happened. Spring came early.

On the night before last (the night of the grey-day-on-the-sofa) I learned the reason that the sky had been so thick all afternoon. I’d gone to let the dog outside and saw beautiful white snowflakes drifting down against the street lights.

Jeremy and I wrapped up in scarves, hopped in our Subaru Forester and went driving around to see what winter looks like when it does its job correctly. We listened to the radio, turned on our heated seats, and just drove. Eventually, we ended up at the Cheesecake Factory and split dessert. Okay, I’ll be honest, we didn’t split dessert. We each ordered our very own slice of heavenly cheesecake piled high with cream and white chocolate shavings to match the snow. (After eating little besides chicken broth for a few days, I felt entitled to indulge.)

By yesterday morning, the snow had made a light layer over rooftops and car windshields, even hiding the brownness of our winter lawn. It’s the first real snow we’ve had this winter, and somehow even those few flakes made me feel happy and calm for an hour or two.

Then today, I got my wish. After a very rough night’s sleep last night, I awoke this morning to find the snow melted and the temperature raised at least 30 degrees. The weather in Nashville tends to be pretty schizophrenic, but this time I’m not complaining. From snow to spring in a matter of hours! I’m in a short-sleeved top, and beyond the windows there’s a crisp blue sky and plenty of sunshine. I just let Sam outside to play and noticed a huge green tree stretched out above our neighbor’s roof, blowing back and forth in the breeze. So tonight for dinner, I’m making rosemary chicken with wild mushroom sauce from my Rachael Ray cookbook. I have no choice…it’s springtime…even if only for today.

I might even do a little painting.

Turn, Turn, Turn

The sofa is my new home. Here, I can see out two windows—one in the wall, one in the door-- to naked trees, hazy vacant skies, and a lot of rain.

I sit, propped up against a pillow, with the dog curled up in a bright yellow blanket on the rug below, and write all day long between cringes. Paula Deen on Food TV is my current audience...or maybe I’m hers. She’s making peanut butter balls today. I’m stuck with soup and JELL-O for lunch. I’ve got some sort of mystery ailment…strange jabs of pain in my right side that have been going on for about a month. I’ve had four rounds of tests and been scanned all over, but I’m still waiting for someone to figure out what’s happening. In the meantime, I’m basically avoiding food and resorting to watching it on television instead.

Giada is on now, with that exaggerated smile that covers her face. She is eating a gooey sandwich. Jeremy just happens to be in the kitchen stirring up a batch of her marinara recipe. He’s pretending it’s spring.

If I could snap my fingers and make the day different, there would be green leaves and buds on the trees outside and rays of sunshine pouring down. Sam would smell better (he needs a bath badly), and I’d be in the sunroom painting on my new easel and canvases, with a plate of muffins and an iced coffee nearby. For dinner, I’d make something with lemons a handful of fresh rosemary plucked from the garden.

I'm sure in order to really appreciate days like that (I know they’re coming, just around the corner) you have to have to endure a few grey days on the sofa. I’m just really ready for this down period to be over. I guess it’s like it says in Ecclesiastes (and my favorite song by The Byrds) “for everything, there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.”

A Rare Kind of Friend

I set out to write a book once. It was the craziest thing. I had a job at the time, something freelancy (kind of like now) and I used to go to coffee shops to work because I needed to be around people for inspiration. I would hop from the coffee shop on 21st Avenue to the coffee shop on 12th to the coffee shop in Hillsboro Village named after a dog. One day, I found myself at the coffee shop on Broadway, sitting in an overstuffed chair with my favorite summer coffee drink -- an iced grande two-percent cinnamon latte (two percent indicating the kind of milk, not the amount of cinnamon.)

Suddenly out of nowhere, I felt the compulsion to write a book. A memoir I think. I just started writing like a madwoman. I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote until my last sip of coffee had been slurped and my computer was blinking out of power. Then I went home and wrote some more.

I guess you could say that my book was like a far less humorous Seinfeld episode: a book about nothing in particular. It was fifty pages of random events in my life pieced together in hopes of making an interesting story.

The first sentence of my book was not great at all, but I will share it with you anyway. Here it is.

“I’ve always dreamed of having a rare friendship, the kind of friend who sits and sips red wine with you, quietly, in the moments when nothing needs to be said, holding back advice just for the sake of letting you feel their presence.”

That’s it. See? Not the best.

None of the friends around me have lost a parent, so no one really knows what to say to me I guess. It’s not that I think people don’t care…it’s just that I think people don’t relate, so it’s hard for them to know what you need at a time like this, which is just to know that people care.

Anyway, I read those first lines from my book a little while ago, words I wrote at least four years ago and have read few times since because my old writing causes me to shudder. I am not sure what I was thinking about at the time that I wrote it--from what I recall the rest of my book wasn’t anything about friendship. Tonight when I read it though, I instantly thought of my husband.

Earlier this evening, I was making dinner. Spaghetti with my grandfather’s sauce. And as I drained the pasta I noticed two wine glasses sitting on the counter that Jeremy had washed this morning and set out for tonight. I was thinking about just how amazing he has been through all of this, how endlessly patient he is when I don’t want to leave the house to see people because I am too sad and don’t feel like faking it. Or how comforting he is when I wake up in a panic in the middle of the night, again, for no reason I can put my finger on. Every single time, he pulls me close to him, tells me that he’s right there, and that everything’s okay.

We are figuring it out together. I am figuring out how to move along in life again, and he is figuring out how to keep being there, a stable presence, sometimes with a word to push me just a little, sometimes letting me be where I am, and other times sitting with me quietly in the moments when nothing needs to be said at all.

The Pickle That Saved Christmas

When we arrived at my in-laws house, it was announced that there was a pickle ornament hidden somewhere in the house and whoever found it would receive a cash prize.

The next morning, I heard something rattling in the vent in the bathroom and thought it might be the pickle calling out to me, but it wasn't.

On Christmas Eve, we all got into our festive jammies, and Jeremy’s dad read The Night Before Christmas while the rest of us sat in a circle and passed gifts around every time he came to a “the” in the story. When it was over, we opened the package we were holding, each a different board game. Jeremy, who has grown a holiday beard, ended up with Jenga. I got Battleship, which brought back memories of playing the game with my sister when we were young.


It also made me remember the year when I was about six or seven and desperately wanted a Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop for Christmas. My letter to Santa was more pleading than ever that year, as the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop was the ultimate of toys. First you took little plastic people heads and shoved globs of Play-Doh inside of them. Next you put them onto a plastic barber chair, turned a plastic crank, and made bright Play-Doh hair grow out of their heads. Then you could use little plastic scissors to cut and coif them into a hot pink or blue do. Who wouldn’t love a toy like that? This was sooo much better than the gigantic scary Barbie head with fake makeup that a lot of my friends had for their beauty parlor play time.


Well, Santa came through that year, as he usually did, but in my excitement I think I managed to break the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop in about ten minutes and it sat in our hall closet for a very long time until I forgot about it.

This Christmas, I forgot about the pickle after a few days too, but in a fortunate turn of events Jeremy guessed that it was hidden inside of a globe in the dining room and won the pickle game. He also made me laugh a lot, watching him with his brothers. And Santa came through yet again, bringing me two brown paper packages tied up with string, just as I had hoped.

Letter to Santa

I still remember when all I wanted for Christmas was my two front teeth. Now things have become so much more complicated. There’s fighting over parking spaces with possessive stare-downs between cars, lines fifteen people long and only two registers in use (one of the great mysteries of holiday shopping in my opinion.) There’s agonizing over that perfect gift, finally finding it and realizing you either can’t afford it, it’s the wrong size, or the wrong color. Then comes the rationalizing that Aunt Myrtle will actually love a hot pink turtleneck two-sizes too small, so you snatch it up for the marked-up Christmas price of $79.50 and decide you’ll worry about your credit card bill later.

I actually don’t have an Aunt Myrtle (that I know of.) But if I did, I would not buy her a tiny sweater. I would buy her a Chia Pet, mainly because I think Christmas (at least the consumerist side of it---which come on, let’s admit it, there’s a consumerist side much larger than there’s a Jesus side anymore) has lost its sense of humor. And I would love to see the words "Aunt Myrtle: Chia Pet" with a check mark next to it on my Christmas shopping list. That would bring me joy.

Jeremy and I were discussing this idea yesterday while weaving through parking lots in Cool Springs, a shopping area of town that couldn’t be more of a misnomer. There’s nothing relaxing or spa-like about it at all. We were discussing the fact that Christmas has become all about the gifts: the expectation of gifts, the quest for gifts, the purchasing of gifts, the pile of gifts, the unwrapping of gifts, the returning of gifts, and then by December 28th or so, the forgetting that there ever was such a big deal about gifts, until it happens all over again next year. And I was saying that I wonder if Christmas was just as “consumer-focused” when I was little but I was too young and enthralled with Santa and the magical hope of a tricycle to realize it, or if it has become increasingly this way throughout my lifetime. It definitely feels like it’s getting worse.

I do remember a day when there was joy and innocence (okay, maybe just a tinge of selfishness) in making my Christmas list. Afterall, in those days I thought little elves were creating my gifts out of thin North Pole air, and singing happily all the while. I knew nothing of maxed out Mastercards and ladies being mowed down in the middle of Wal-Mart so someone else could grab the last Tickle-Me-Elmo from her clutches.

In an effort to get back to a time when I remember Christmas being full of laughter and wonder and hope, here’s my letter to Santa Claus:

Dear Santa,

I hope you are doing well. Might I recommend a few classes of Pilates each week to trim up that middle section of yours. (I’m sure the thousands of plates of cookies you eat every Christmas Eve can’t be helping, but you really need to watch your consumption of trans-fats.) I realize this letter is a little bit late but if you can manage it in time, this year for Christmas there are a few things I would like:

1. Five more minutes with my dad.
2. A Christmas that truly remembers Christ.
3. Brown paper packages tied up with string.
4. Whirled Peas (or World Peace—whichever is more readily available)
5. And of course, my two front teeth…

…so I can wish you Merry Christmas.


P.S. Tell Rudolph I said hi.

this little piggy...

I have just discovered shoes.

Until now, I never much cared for them to be honest; I’ve always preferred to go barefoot and let my toes wiggle freely. I guess that makes me an atypical woman in this age of Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo. But I have always loved the texture of grass under my feet, the cushy fibers of a woven rug, the cold feel of tile. I guess you could say I like feeling grounded. And I know it sounds funny, but shoes have always made my feet feel like they are suffocating. I work at home in a who-needs-shoes-world, sitting cross-legged all day long in my leather desk chair the color of mashed peas. If I have to venture outside (to grab the mail, drive to the grocery store, walk the dog) it’s usually flip-flops or slip-on clogs depending on the season.

Then somehow, it happened. Recently, I discovered a love of shoes. I am starting slowly, easing myself into addiction with two new pairs, each for a different mood.

I began with a brown pair of sneakers with stripes on the side. They are easy and comfortable---good for the days when I just want to be my jeans-and-T-shirt self. The exciting thing (for me) about these new sneakers is that they differ from the shoes I wear to the gym. These are what you call “fashionable” sneakers. This is where I am branching out---realizing that one shoe does not, in fact, fit all occasions.

Next I found a brown pair of vintage-looking flats (the closest I will get to a stiletto any time soon) with a thin strap across the front and a bit of beige stitching on the toe. Okay, they give me blisters on my heels, but they are so cute that I hate to take them off. So I limp. And use a lot of band-aids.

Already I am different. I find myself noticing people’s feet wherever I go. (Perhaps there are more shoes out there I haven’t yet discovered.) I “browse” for shoes while I walk through the bookstore. I glance under tables at restaurants. I walk with my head down, not because I am ashamed of my new minor obsession, but because I can’t seem to quench my curiosity…what shoes are people wearing? Would they look good on my feet? Do they require socks?

The nicest shoes I have owned until now (including my wedding shoes) was a pair of tall black boots that my sister bought in Italy and gave me when she didn’t want them anymore (I think they hurt her feet.) I wore them with skirts, sometimes with jeans, mostly in the winter. They were very sleek and fashionable, not terribly comfortable, but so what? They were Italian leather boots. Then one day, Jeremy made a shocking announcement. He hated the boots. And not just these particular boots…ALL boots. It baffles the mind to think that someone could have such an aversion for something so harmless (even beautiful in their own way), but he was really sincere about his plea that I never, ever wear the boots again (and any others I might have hidden in the back of my closet.) He loathed those boots, I dare say, as much as I despise the hideous, faded, 1987, four sizes too big, Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future jean jacket that he STILL keeps hanging among his clothes, just in case a meteor strikes the earth and it comes back in style one day. [But that’s a topic for another blog.]

I got rid of the boots. Actually, I wore them for awhile first…but only a few times, and only when I was spending time with girl friends who would truly appreciate them. Before I knew it, it was spring and I went back to walking barefoot in the grass. I barely missed them at all.

And speaking of seasons, my two new pairs of non-boot shoes are really great for crunching fall leaves as I walk. Flip-flops can only squish. They also keep my feet firmly planted at the dog park while Sam, followed by a crew of Beagles, Chihuahuas, and Terriers, dash around my legs---most likely trying to get a closer look at my new shoes. And who can blame them?