To inspire myself to be a better person I get an email every other day or so from Whole Living asking me to pledge towards doing something good. Usually it's something pretty obvious like, 'drink water' or 'eat an orange'. Also I am well aware that taking advice from a mulit-billion dollar insdustry leader, Martha Stewart is like reading only the books Oprah tells me.
Sue me. I love Martha.
My dream is to go to her show. I applied for tickets the whole time I was in New York and alas, I never got to go. Maybe now I can play the bride card and go to a bridal show. With my friend in New York. HINT HINT.
Okay, back to my Whole Living living better tasks. Usually they are weird.
But the other day this was the task:
Celebrate the Dead
The idea is that between Halloween, All Hallow's Eve and the Wiccan New Year - throw a party celebrating those that have gone before you. Probably not a booze fest with top 40, but a mini-party where the guests are you and the memories of those you love.
I thought this was a great idea. I mean, I think often of those who have passed away but I never actually sit down and take a moment to really celebrate what part they played in my life.
Planning my wedding makes me really miss them all. I think they would have really loved the Engineer. And I wish they could all be at our wedding.
I have therefore been inspired (thank you Martha) to do tiny things at our wedding to make sure they are a part of the party.
I plan on making many of the personal touches at our wedding myself. I realize that sometimes it's just easier to buy whatever it is you want, like a facsinator or ribbon wands, but there is something so nice about doing it yourself. It may take a lot of time, but crafting is relaxing and makes me feel proud of my accomplishments. My dad's mother taught me that.
I used to sit for hours with her in her farmhouse kitchen making all sorts of crafts: mop dolls, Christmas angels, monster masks. She even had a drawer full of crafty treasures like pipecleaners and lace - all just waiting to be turned into something magical with my hands. My cousin has that kitchen table now and every time I sit at it I think of those wonderful afternoons with her. I know if she was here she would teach me how to make ribbon wands and probably take over when I got bored and started to eat her popcorn balls and butter tarts instead. So I am going to make things for my wedding. They may not look as nice as professionally bought items but they are made with love. And it's my way of having her there.
My mother's father taught me how to make the perfect cup of tea. He was so proper and, well, British. He always wore full pajamas and a robe. I used to walk down at the harbour with him and look at all the boats. Or play crib. He taught me how to find those sets of 15 and probably let me win more often than not. But he was a tough old bugger so he wouldn't let me win all the time. Tom would have loved the Engineer because the Engineer is quiet and likes math and science. I am providing vintage hankies for our guests before we walk down the aisle. My grandfather always had a hankie in his pocket. Proper right? Maybe full of germs but very yesteryear. Anyways, these handkerchiefs are an ode to him.
Sadly my other two grandparents died when I was much younger and had barely formed lasting memories.
I thought about my dad's dad. He was a typical tough farmer. A man of few words, strong and always wearing suspenders. Like my dad, he was a bit of a curmudgeon with a big soft spot for us grandkids. I thought about his naps on the small chesterfield and how I used to take his socks off. I can just hear that rattly voice threatening to throw me in the snow bank. With a sparkle in his eye. I haven't quite figured out how to put his memory in beyond serving dark chocolate and oysters. But I am working on it - maybe I can get the Engineer to wear suspenders! Or I could have some sheaths of wheat at the tables?
Lastly my mother's mother, who was taken even earlier with alzheimer's so many of my memories are based in an old-folks home. I know she was gentle and kind. And I can remember the smell of her. Strange isn't it? You can remember a smell even though I will never smell that again. When I would hug her she smelled of wool and cream. Her skin was super soft and smooth - like my mum's. And she had a fake tooth that she would pop out to make me laugh. I think she would really have enjoyed our wedding. She liked to have fun and I believe she would dance around with me, so I can only imagine she would have danced at our wedding. I am decorating our wedding with tea cups, soft flowers and serving British candy like Pontefract cakes and Licorice Allsorts (one of my favourites!) - all for Stella's memory.
I like these details because I know that they are there. Well, and now you because I told you. But it is so neat to have pieces of your family and ancestors around a celebration, like a quilt.
There are a few more tricks up my sleeves that will ensure our past is present for our future. But you have to wait until June 28th to find out what they are . . .
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Fall Fashion Dilema
Fall is one of the best seasons. Okay, I think every season is the best season. But fall has lots going for it.
It's colourful, crisp, abundant with honey crisp apples and smells like pumpkins and nutmeg. When you walk down the street the leaves crunch satisfyingly under your shoes. Things get cozy as you bunker inside with a cashmere wrap (or my fleece blanket that is almost like cashmere), start a roaring fire (or turn on the switch) and read a good book. Off go the flip flops and on go the sheepskin lined slippers. The cardigans and turtlenecks replace the sundresses and tank tops.
Actually those last two things make me hate fall.
Hate is a strong word. Considering I started this entry by talking about how much I love fall.
Let me rewind: fall is great but it stresses me out.
Why? I CAN'T DRESS FOR THE FALL!!
I have no idea what to wear or how to wear it!!! Gone are the days of me just slipping into my favourite dress and havianas to walk the dogs. Now I have to sit down and lace up my runners. I have to put on pants. And socks. And a sweater. And a hat. It takes so freaking long.
Every year when fall rolls around I find myself spending hours online trying to find (A) a pair of boots that will fit over what are apparently massive calves and (B) the perfect layering ensemble.
I am a layer fail.
I realize that everyone just loves to layer. Well not this bridesmaid. Dear God, what is wrong with me?
The other day I put on my fleece-lined leggings, a sweater dress, then I 'layered' a sweater coat on top, put on my red shoes and toque.
I looked like a circus clown.
I am not kidding. Even the Engineer noticed my wardrobe fail. That is saying alot.
Each morning that it gets colder is another morning I stare blankly into my closet and wonder about this art of layering that seems oh so popular and cozy. Part of my problem is down to my love of colourful clothing. Therefore matching is gone out the window with layering. It is asking way too much coordination. So I switch to black and grey.
Then what do I wear on my feet? Ballet flats aren't practical for Canadian winters. Rubber boots are cold. And uncomfortable after a while. I have UGG runners but they are casual. What do I wear with black pants?
And how do I wear the new camel coloured poncho like thing a friend made me buy? Do I match what I wear underneath?
Am I destined to be slightly cold and oddly attired every fall?
Help!
It's colourful, crisp, abundant with honey crisp apples and smells like pumpkins and nutmeg. When you walk down the street the leaves crunch satisfyingly under your shoes. Things get cozy as you bunker inside with a cashmere wrap (or my fleece blanket that is almost like cashmere), start a roaring fire (or turn on the switch) and read a good book. Off go the flip flops and on go the sheepskin lined slippers. The cardigans and turtlenecks replace the sundresses and tank tops.
Actually those last two things make me hate fall.
Hate is a strong word. Considering I started this entry by talking about how much I love fall.
Let me rewind: fall is great but it stresses me out.
Why? I CAN'T DRESS FOR THE FALL!!
I have no idea what to wear or how to wear it!!! Gone are the days of me just slipping into my favourite dress and havianas to walk the dogs. Now I have to sit down and lace up my runners. I have to put on pants. And socks. And a sweater. And a hat. It takes so freaking long.
Every year when fall rolls around I find myself spending hours online trying to find (A) a pair of boots that will fit over what are apparently massive calves and (B) the perfect layering ensemble.
I am a layer fail.
I realize that everyone just loves to layer. Well not this bridesmaid. Dear God, what is wrong with me?
The other day I put on my fleece-lined leggings, a sweater dress, then I 'layered' a sweater coat on top, put on my red shoes and toque.
I looked like a circus clown.
I am not kidding. Even the Engineer noticed my wardrobe fail. That is saying alot.
Each morning that it gets colder is another morning I stare blankly into my closet and wonder about this art of layering that seems oh so popular and cozy. Part of my problem is down to my love of colourful clothing. Therefore matching is gone out the window with layering. It is asking way too much coordination. So I switch to black and grey.
Then what do I wear on my feet? Ballet flats aren't practical for Canadian winters. Rubber boots are cold. And uncomfortable after a while. I have UGG runners but they are casual. What do I wear with black pants?
And how do I wear the new camel coloured poncho like thing a friend made me buy? Do I match what I wear underneath?
Am I destined to be slightly cold and oddly attired every fall?
Help!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Bad Brooklyn, BAD Dog!
The trials and tribulations continue living in a new house with the two beasties.
The glass front door is in desperate need of a curtain and the top of the stairs is in desperate need of a baby gate. I feel these two items will stop Brooklyn barking/screaming at the door which leads to either myself, or the Engineer, running down the stairs to yell 'No Noise Brooklyn! No Noise'.
He doesn't seem to care. Punishing this animal seems to be impossible.
Just the other day he escaped through the front door as I collected the mail. This was a catastrophe for several reasons.
The main one being that I was wearing my PJ bottoms, a tank top, and my velcro rollers. VELCRO rollers.
As Brooklyn merely looked at me when I called his name, wagged his tail and lifted his leg, I was forced to dash upstairs and grab some doggie chicken. Leaving Mr. Mop howling and scratching at the front door, I ran across the street (I am sure these neighbors hate us by now) in my slippers and rollers. Brooklyn ran up the steps, then down the steps, then up the steps next door and around the corner to their backyard.
The doggie chicken was not as enticing as the freedom of the strange backyard. So the asshole crawled under the fence, leaving me on my hands and knees, hissing his name and waving chicken under the fence.
He looked at me and then pooped. He POOPED in their backyard. Then he went under their deck and sniffed for a while until the lure of chicken was enough to come back to me.
I did not give him the chicken. He got put on his back and told he was naughty. He sneezed.
Unfortunately the gate was locked so I had to leave his poop. I wonder if the neighbors think about the mystery poop they must have found raking the backyard and blame it on the new family across the street.
Oh god.
To make matters worse, the city construction crew decided to arrive to fix the water pipe at the exact moment I was stomping across the street with a panting dog, a handful of chicken, and, in case you forgot, VELCRO ROLLERS IN MY HAIR! AAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!
The glass front door is in desperate need of a curtain and the top of the stairs is in desperate need of a baby gate. I feel these two items will stop Brooklyn barking/screaming at the door which leads to either myself, or the Engineer, running down the stairs to yell 'No Noise Brooklyn! No Noise'.
He doesn't seem to care. Punishing this animal seems to be impossible.
Just the other day he escaped through the front door as I collected the mail. This was a catastrophe for several reasons.
The main one being that I was wearing my PJ bottoms, a tank top, and my velcro rollers. VELCRO rollers.
As Brooklyn merely looked at me when I called his name, wagged his tail and lifted his leg, I was forced to dash upstairs and grab some doggie chicken. Leaving Mr. Mop howling and scratching at the front door, I ran across the street (I am sure these neighbors hate us by now) in my slippers and rollers. Brooklyn ran up the steps, then down the steps, then up the steps next door and around the corner to their backyard.
The doggie chicken was not as enticing as the freedom of the strange backyard. So the asshole crawled under the fence, leaving me on my hands and knees, hissing his name and waving chicken under the fence.
He looked at me and then pooped. He POOPED in their backyard. Then he went under their deck and sniffed for a while until the lure of chicken was enough to come back to me.
I did not give him the chicken. He got put on his back and told he was naughty. He sneezed.
Unfortunately the gate was locked so I had to leave his poop. I wonder if the neighbors think about the mystery poop they must have found raking the backyard and blame it on the new family across the street.
Oh god.
To make matters worse, the city construction crew decided to arrive to fix the water pipe at the exact moment I was stomping across the street with a panting dog, a handful of chicken, and, in case you forgot, VELCRO ROLLERS IN MY HAIR! AAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!
Oooh La La Chocolat
On a crisp, Autumn afternoon in rainy city, I happened upon a sweet little chocolaterie on Main Street. Okay, I didn't exactly happen upon it. Groupon led me there. Oh Groupon.
This little piece of France is a lovely, chocolatey escape from the rain (especially because it is across from one of my favourite little cafes: Liberty Bakery).
So the place of happy chocolate France land is Chocolaterie de la Nouvelle France and it is owned by this adorable little Quebecois gal, Anna-Genevieve.
One of my favourite movies is Chocolat. Firstly, it's about chocolate and it takes place in my Dordogne. Secondly, Johnny Depp. Thirdly, there is a kangaroo. And lastly, that hot chocolate she serves. Well, drinking chocolate is a more apt description.
I have ALWAYS wanted that drinking chocolate. Sadly, my hot chocolate from a package with added hot water and freeze-dried marshmallows is not that drinking chocolate.
But Anna-Genevieve's drinking chocolate is EXACTLY what I imagined Vianne to serve hot Johnny in the movie. It's thick, semi-sweet and so richly delicious I danced down Main Street, happily kicking up the crisp leaves as I savored happiness in a cup.
Ironically, I stopped by this place after a massive personal training workout that left me drenched and sore. The drink was 300 calories and I figure I burned 500, so I still come out on top right?
The girls at Nouvelle France specialize in truffles: spicy, earl grey, orange flower, and dark - just to name a few. After you make your choice, one of the French ladies packs them up sweetly in a little white box sealed with wax and a red ribbon.
I love little touches that really make this chocolaterie feel as if you are in the South of France in a tiny village. Or as I like to think: my second home.
And that drinking chocolate? I have been dreaming of it since my move to Toronto. Drinking pure, warm spicy chocolate. Does it get any better than that?
This little piece of France is a lovely, chocolatey escape from the rain (especially because it is across from one of my favourite little cafes: Liberty Bakery).
So the place of happy chocolate France land is Chocolaterie de la Nouvelle France and it is owned by this adorable little Quebecois gal, Anna-Genevieve.
One of my favourite movies is Chocolat. Firstly, it's about chocolate and it takes place in my Dordogne. Secondly, Johnny Depp. Thirdly, there is a kangaroo. And lastly, that hot chocolate she serves. Well, drinking chocolate is a more apt description.
I have ALWAYS wanted that drinking chocolate. Sadly, my hot chocolate from a package with added hot water and freeze-dried marshmallows is not that drinking chocolate.
But Anna-Genevieve's drinking chocolate is EXACTLY what I imagined Vianne to serve hot Johnny in the movie. It's thick, semi-sweet and so richly delicious I danced down Main Street, happily kicking up the crisp leaves as I savored happiness in a cup.
Ironically, I stopped by this place after a massive personal training workout that left me drenched and sore. The drink was 300 calories and I figure I burned 500, so I still come out on top right?
The girls at Nouvelle France specialize in truffles: spicy, earl grey, orange flower, and dark - just to name a few. After you make your choice, one of the French ladies packs them up sweetly in a little white box sealed with wax and a red ribbon.
I love little touches that really make this chocolaterie feel as if you are in the South of France in a tiny village. Or as I like to think: my second home.
And that drinking chocolate? I have been dreaming of it since my move to Toronto. Drinking pure, warm spicy chocolate. Does it get any better than that?
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Mr. Mop and the Sushi Man
What's new in the world of this bride turned bridesmaid?
Well, the Engineer and I just moved to Toronto.
T.O.R.O.N.T.O.
And I am trying to be super duper positive about it. Unfortunately, I am not doing so well.
Firstly, it's not New York.
My new neighbourhood is not Brooklyn.
And it does not help when people say 'Oh, but you're so close to New York!'. Right. What part of "I was in New York" don't they get?
Secondly, it's not Rainy City. That even though had lots of rain and sometimes was No-Fun-Couver it is still the prettiest city in the entire world. It really really is.
So here we are. In this new place. Called Toronto.
At least the furballs are feeling at home. I am so proud of their adaptable little brains that seem to love everywhere I force them. Each new home is not without it's challenges however.
In Vancouver if my phone rings and I press '9' the duo immediately start barking because they know a guest is on their way up. In Brooklyn, if our buzzer went off the two would go crazy. But in these two spaces we were all in the same room/level and it was easy for me to get them to stop barking. AKA spray water on them.
Here in Toronto we have a new set of problems. We live on the second floor of a house. Our entrance is therefore located on the first floor. And our front door is a window. Just one big window that shows every passing school kid, mailman, squirrel or blowing leaf off to my excitable mutts.
Brooklyn has taken to sleeping on the stairs - he is the pillar of guard dog. Too bad he weighs nine pounds and isn't fooling anyone. It doesn't help that the house below isn't finished yet and there have been problems with our own home which means contractors stomping in and out all day long.
The Engineer and I are getting a baby gate.
On our second day here, the boys and I were in our front yard (bonus! I have a front yard). Mop was so good and just wandered around within a five-foot radius. Brooklyn is always bad so he was being carried.
All was fine UNTIL Mop spotted our neighbour. A hairless cat.
Hell broke loose. Mop would not respond to 'come' or 'stop that' or 'don't hurt that cat' or 'bad dog'. He had a mind of his own and that cat was fast. Mop chased it up the street, then down the street, then into a backyard.
All the while with me on his tail and Brooklyn having a freak fest in my arms.
I managed to wrangle him in some strange person's, ie. my new neighbours, yard where he was barking at the cat. Except it was a new cat. Great. The new hood is crawling with felines.
Mr. Mop got into trouble and was sentenced to solitary confinement in the bathroom where he promptly threw up and then scratched at the door so much one paw started to bleed.
Awesome.
Lesson here? Always on a leash and buy neighbours some flowers.
I am used to them barking at whatever man is at the door and usually if I let them out, they sniff the feet of said man and then pee on the grass and march back into the house.
Last night when we had sushi delivered I expected the same behaviour.
What I wasn't prepared for was Sushi Man's fear of dogs.
After grabbing the sushi and asking for change, Mr. Mop managed to bound past me and proceed to bark at Mr. Sushi. I told him to be quiet but due to the fear Mr. Sushi had of Mop, the barking continued. Mr. Mop proceeded to nip at Sushi's feet which made Mr. Sushi hop from one foot to another. I told Mr. Sushi that Mop wouldn't hurt him but this did not quell his fear and he proceeded to do a funky dance until I could grab Mop.
Mr. Sushi had to go back to his car for change. In this time, Mr. Mop was brought inside, told to 'down' and the 'no noise' command was obeyed.
But there was something about Mr. Sushi that Mr. Mop simply did not like. When I held out my hand for change, Mop escaped again and proceeded to bark earnestly at the dancing Japanese guy. Now instead of staying still like I told him to, Mr. Sushi darted for the yard with Mop on his heels. I threw down the sushi and raced after them. Unfortunately I forgot to close the door so Brooklyn was out in a shot.
Mr. Sushi ran across the street in fear for his life from 15 pounds of white fur and started to hide behind the fence. I managed to grab Mop but Brooklyn was still on the loose and barking in circles around Mr. Sushi. Sushi man was terrified. TERRIFIED. Of Brooklyn.
If I wasn't so mad at my dogs and clearly embarrassed I would have laughed my ass off. Mr. Sushi looked more like Mr. Sumo so I have no idea why a 9 pound Yorkie could send him into such a state of distress.
By this time, there are cars on the street stopped to (a) watch the ruckus and (b) not hit Brooklyn.
I shouted my apologies at Mr. Sushi who darted for his car as soon as both dogs had been wrangled and headed back inside. My head held in shame.
At this point, the Engineer finally came downstairs to see what all the commotion was about. Nice timing.
The sushi turned out to be terrible. So at least I don't have to order from there ever again.
I still need to get the neighbours some flowers though. I feel like we are that family with brats that moves onto a street and everyone hates. Ugh.
Well, the Engineer and I just moved to Toronto.
T.O.R.O.N.T.O.
And I am trying to be super duper positive about it. Unfortunately, I am not doing so well.
Firstly, it's not New York.
My new neighbourhood is not Brooklyn.
And it does not help when people say 'Oh, but you're so close to New York!'. Right. What part of "I was in New York" don't they get?
Secondly, it's not Rainy City. That even though had lots of rain and sometimes was No-Fun-Couver it is still the prettiest city in the entire world. It really really is.
So here we are. In this new place. Called Toronto.
At least the furballs are feeling at home. I am so proud of their adaptable little brains that seem to love everywhere I force them. Each new home is not without it's challenges however.
In Vancouver if my phone rings and I press '9' the duo immediately start barking because they know a guest is on their way up. In Brooklyn, if our buzzer went off the two would go crazy. But in these two spaces we were all in the same room/level and it was easy for me to get them to stop barking. AKA spray water on them.
Here in Toronto we have a new set of problems. We live on the second floor of a house. Our entrance is therefore located on the first floor. And our front door is a window. Just one big window that shows every passing school kid, mailman, squirrel or blowing leaf off to my excitable mutts.
Brooklyn has taken to sleeping on the stairs - he is the pillar of guard dog. Too bad he weighs nine pounds and isn't fooling anyone. It doesn't help that the house below isn't finished yet and there have been problems with our own home which means contractors stomping in and out all day long.
The Engineer and I are getting a baby gate.
On our second day here, the boys and I were in our front yard (bonus! I have a front yard). Mop was so good and just wandered around within a five-foot radius. Brooklyn is always bad so he was being carried.
All was fine UNTIL Mop spotted our neighbour. A hairless cat.
Hell broke loose. Mop would not respond to 'come' or 'stop that' or 'don't hurt that cat' or 'bad dog'. He had a mind of his own and that cat was fast. Mop chased it up the street, then down the street, then into a backyard.
All the while with me on his tail and Brooklyn having a freak fest in my arms.
I managed to wrangle him in some strange person's, ie. my new neighbours, yard where he was barking at the cat. Except it was a new cat. Great. The new hood is crawling with felines.
Mr. Mop got into trouble and was sentenced to solitary confinement in the bathroom where he promptly threw up and then scratched at the door so much one paw started to bleed.
Awesome.
Lesson here? Always on a leash and buy neighbours some flowers.
I am used to them barking at whatever man is at the door and usually if I let them out, they sniff the feet of said man and then pee on the grass and march back into the house.
Last night when we had sushi delivered I expected the same behaviour.
What I wasn't prepared for was Sushi Man's fear of dogs.
After grabbing the sushi and asking for change, Mr. Mop managed to bound past me and proceed to bark at Mr. Sushi. I told him to be quiet but due to the fear Mr. Sushi had of Mop, the barking continued. Mr. Mop proceeded to nip at Sushi's feet which made Mr. Sushi hop from one foot to another. I told Mr. Sushi that Mop wouldn't hurt him but this did not quell his fear and he proceeded to do a funky dance until I could grab Mop.
Mr. Sushi had to go back to his car for change. In this time, Mr. Mop was brought inside, told to 'down' and the 'no noise' command was obeyed.
But there was something about Mr. Sushi that Mr. Mop simply did not like. When I held out my hand for change, Mop escaped again and proceeded to bark earnestly at the dancing Japanese guy. Now instead of staying still like I told him to, Mr. Sushi darted for the yard with Mop on his heels. I threw down the sushi and raced after them. Unfortunately I forgot to close the door so Brooklyn was out in a shot.
Mr. Sushi ran across the street in fear for his life from 15 pounds of white fur and started to hide behind the fence. I managed to grab Mop but Brooklyn was still on the loose and barking in circles around Mr. Sushi. Sushi man was terrified. TERRIFIED. Of Brooklyn.
If I wasn't so mad at my dogs and clearly embarrassed I would have laughed my ass off. Mr. Sushi looked more like Mr. Sumo so I have no idea why a 9 pound Yorkie could send him into such a state of distress.
By this time, there are cars on the street stopped to (a) watch the ruckus and (b) not hit Brooklyn.
I shouted my apologies at Mr. Sushi who darted for his car as soon as both dogs had been wrangled and headed back inside. My head held in shame.
At this point, the Engineer finally came downstairs to see what all the commotion was about. Nice timing.
The sushi turned out to be terrible. So at least I don't have to order from there ever again.
I still need to get the neighbours some flowers though. I feel like we are that family with brats that moves onto a street and everyone hates. Ugh.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Last of NYC Food: Cheese
From dieting right back to food - I think I see my problem here . . .
Anyhoo, now that I am no longer a part-time resident of the city that never sleeps, I can no longer report on fabulous food from the Big Apple. I can only share my memories of some great eats.
My last week there I piled on the calories like you wouldn't believe. Eating food so good that it's a good thing we moved.
Murray's Cheese is the focus of this entry. I knew about Murray's from the first day I arrived in New York. It's pretty famous and therefore hard not to know about.
For those who don't know, Murray's Cheese is owned by Rob (not Murray - the original Murray died a very long time ago and is no relation to Rob) and is the Village's answer the speciality cheeses, meats, olives, pastas, oils . . . . pretty much anything that is delicious. Just stepping inside to smell the cheese air will make your tastebuds dance with joy.
It's like my mother ship.
The store is stocked high with every type of cheese you can imagine. I had sampled the cheese for two years. But I never had the cheese on a sandwich. Melted. Until this past August.
My friend and I were walking past the store when I noticed a couple eating what looked like the most incredible grilled cheese sandwich I had ever seen. I immediately stopped and asked very loudly "WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?". With a full mouth and a look of ecstasy, the husband pointed over his shoulder to Murray's.
In we went.
The choice for a grilled cheese is endless but I opted for the original Murray's blend on white bread (don't lie to yourself, grilled cheese tastes best on white. And at this point you may as well go whole hog.)
I knew it would be good.
I just didn't know it would be THIS good. I drooled. I actually drooled while eating my dripping, gooey, cheesy goodness that was a Murray Grilled Cheese. I went back to the man who made it, complimenting his chef/cheese skills and I was tempted to make out with him. Or the cheese. It was a tough decision.
I am just glad I didn't know about Murray's grilled cheese until it was too late otherwise I would definitely have developped some strange grilled cheese habit that might see me hospitalized for clogged arteries or crazed cheese visions.
They also serve Murray's Melts which are to die for panini's. It's all good. It's all melted cheese.
DROOL.
Anyhoo, now that I am no longer a part-time resident of the city that never sleeps, I can no longer report on fabulous food from the Big Apple. I can only share my memories of some great eats.
My last week there I piled on the calories like you wouldn't believe. Eating food so good that it's a good thing we moved.
Murray's Cheese is the focus of this entry. I knew about Murray's from the first day I arrived in New York. It's pretty famous and therefore hard not to know about.
For those who don't know, Murray's Cheese is owned by Rob (not Murray - the original Murray died a very long time ago and is no relation to Rob) and is the Village's answer the speciality cheeses, meats, olives, pastas, oils . . . . pretty much anything that is delicious. Just stepping inside to smell the cheese air will make your tastebuds dance with joy.
It's like my mother ship.
The store is stocked high with every type of cheese you can imagine. I had sampled the cheese for two years. But I never had the cheese on a sandwich. Melted. Until this past August.
My friend and I were walking past the store when I noticed a couple eating what looked like the most incredible grilled cheese sandwich I had ever seen. I immediately stopped and asked very loudly "WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?". With a full mouth and a look of ecstasy, the husband pointed over his shoulder to Murray's.
In we went.
The choice for a grilled cheese is endless but I opted for the original Murray's blend on white bread (don't lie to yourself, grilled cheese tastes best on white. And at this point you may as well go whole hog.)
I knew it would be good.
I just didn't know it would be THIS good. I drooled. I actually drooled while eating my dripping, gooey, cheesy goodness that was a Murray Grilled Cheese. I went back to the man who made it, complimenting his chef/cheese skills and I was tempted to make out with him. Or the cheese. It was a tough decision.
I am just glad I didn't know about Murray's grilled cheese until it was too late otherwise I would definitely have developped some strange grilled cheese habit that might see me hospitalized for clogged arteries or crazed cheese visions.
They also serve Murray's Melts which are to die for panini's. It's all good. It's all melted cheese.
DROOL.
Cheaters Anonymous
I recently joined Weight Watchers in an attempt to have skinny arms for my wedding. That, and my doctor told me I had to lose weight! HA! I am not fat, but I have started to find that my size 8 is a bit tighter than it used to be.
Therefore, on the advice of Jennifer Hudson and the Duchess of York, I turned to the fool proof plan of Weight Watchers. It really is idiot-proof. All you do is plug in what you eat, it gives you food points and if you go above your daily allocation of 24 points then you will be fat.
I highly enjoy the activity points because you can swap them for fun food points. Ate a boston cream donut? No problem! Swap an hour's worth of training for donut points! Hurrah! It's like shopping and swapping money for fun things.
I did great in my first week. I piled on those activity points like no one's business. I also stayed within the allocated 24 points. Mostly.
Now, five weeks into the program, I seem to fall off the wagon a teeny bit more often.
One thing I happily discovered is that I can eat 60 Goldfish crackers at 3 points. PERFECT. I love those cheesy things. I carry them in zippie bags for my purse and my glove compartment when hunger strikes.
Quite proud of myself actually.
Until the other day when I was with my friend and her two-year old. The two-year old also gets a zippie of goldfish crackers. We took her to the park where I noticed a four year old with a zippie of goldfish crackers too. Apparently I am a toddler.
There is another thing wrong with eating goldfish crackers.
I can eat a whole bunch of these suckers for 3 points BUT salmon sashimi is 8 points? What the what? 8 points is a third of my daily intake?!?!?! And isn't salmon sashimi good for you? It's ACTUAL fish. Not cheddar rendered crispy things.
I feel I should be encouraged to eat healthy and nutritious food - not empty calories.
I have also started lying to Weight Watchers. AKA myself.
For example, the Engineer was craving a cake the other day. So I baked one. When I discovered that a piece of chocolate cake was a whopping 16 points (confusion here: Boston Cream Donut = 6 points, Cinnamon Bun = 7 points, Butter Croissant: 6 points - HOW is a piece of cake worth 16? And how is salmon worth 8?) I may or may not have (a) chosen the point value of a weight watchers brand frozen dessert at 3 points and (b) not told weight watchers that I had two pieces.
Then we had salmon for dinner. A serving of salmon is 10 points. WHAT THE WHAT? So I told Weight Watchers I ate halibut.
Basically, on Weight Watchers I could technically eat a Boston Cream Donut for breakfast, lunch and dinner for an entire year but still come in at 24 points a day.
The point of this story?
Diets make liars and cheaters of us all. I am going back to my life of eating healthy, nutritious food that may have high points value but is good for my body. And I will go back to thinking I can only have one donut or cinnamon bun every two weeks instead of everyday.
The Duchess of York is shady. I should have known.
Therefore, on the advice of Jennifer Hudson and the Duchess of York, I turned to the fool proof plan of Weight Watchers. It really is idiot-proof. All you do is plug in what you eat, it gives you food points and if you go above your daily allocation of 24 points then you will be fat.
I highly enjoy the activity points because you can swap them for fun food points. Ate a boston cream donut? No problem! Swap an hour's worth of training for donut points! Hurrah! It's like shopping and swapping money for fun things.
I did great in my first week. I piled on those activity points like no one's business. I also stayed within the allocated 24 points. Mostly.
Now, five weeks into the program, I seem to fall off the wagon a teeny bit more often.
One thing I happily discovered is that I can eat 60 Goldfish crackers at 3 points. PERFECT. I love those cheesy things. I carry them in zippie bags for my purse and my glove compartment when hunger strikes.
Quite proud of myself actually.
Until the other day when I was with my friend and her two-year old. The two-year old also gets a zippie of goldfish crackers. We took her to the park where I noticed a four year old with a zippie of goldfish crackers too. Apparently I am a toddler.
There is another thing wrong with eating goldfish crackers.
I can eat a whole bunch of these suckers for 3 points BUT salmon sashimi is 8 points? What the what? 8 points is a third of my daily intake?!?!?! And isn't salmon sashimi good for you? It's ACTUAL fish. Not cheddar rendered crispy things.
I feel I should be encouraged to eat healthy and nutritious food - not empty calories.
I have also started lying to Weight Watchers. AKA myself.
For example, the Engineer was craving a cake the other day. So I baked one. When I discovered that a piece of chocolate cake was a whopping 16 points (confusion here: Boston Cream Donut = 6 points, Cinnamon Bun = 7 points, Butter Croissant: 6 points - HOW is a piece of cake worth 16? And how is salmon worth 8?) I may or may not have (a) chosen the point value of a weight watchers brand frozen dessert at 3 points and (b) not told weight watchers that I had two pieces.
Then we had salmon for dinner. A serving of salmon is 10 points. WHAT THE WHAT? So I told Weight Watchers I ate halibut.
Basically, on Weight Watchers I could technically eat a Boston Cream Donut for breakfast, lunch and dinner for an entire year but still come in at 24 points a day.
The point of this story?
Diets make liars and cheaters of us all. I am going back to my life of eating healthy, nutritious food that may have high points value but is good for my body. And I will go back to thinking I can only have one donut or cinnamon bun every two weeks instead of everyday.
The Duchess of York is shady. I should have known.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
And the Winner Is . . .
The Date is set
The Invites have been sent out
And the deposit has been paid
So where in the world did the Engineer and I decide to get married?
Let's recall the choices:
1. France
2. Greece
3. Disneyworld
4. Italy
5. Key West, Florida
6. Nantucket
7. Scotland
8. A Barn
The Invites have been sent out
And the deposit has been paid
So where in the world did the Engineer and I decide to get married?
Let's recall the choices:
1. France
2. Greece
3. Disneyworld
4. Italy
5. Key West, Florida
6. Nantucket
7. Scotland
8. A Barn
And the winner is???
Drum roll please
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (that is my drumroll)
TUSCANY ITALY!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
We are going to dance with the clouds at our feet and look like we've had too much wine (most likely because we have)
We chose Podere Ciona which is in the Chianti region of Tuscany.
I found it on one of my favourite blogs: 100 Layer Cake
And then the Engineer and I spent five wonderful days there this past April. We chose it for several reasons:
1. It's really affordable.
2. We love Franca and Franco - the owners of Podere Ciona. Franca is a nonna to all she meets - she will make all visitors welcome and as if they are at home!
3. We love love loved Tuscany. Moreover, we loved Podere Ciona. One night Franca asked why we never left. We told her it was too pretty to ever leave.
So there you go folks, the Engineer and I are getting married on June 28th, 2011 surrounded by our family, close friends, and the rolling Italian countryside.
For cocktails we'll be sipping on Proseco and spritz's, for dinner we will have family-style platters of homemade pasta, chicken marsala, risotto, salads, and, of course, tiramisu.
Then we will dance the night away under the midsummer night sky (okay, a week past midsummer. I changed my date for my teacher pals) and watch the sun rise over Tuscany.
That's Amore!
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Destination Bride Part Eight: A Barn
Okay, I realize A BARN, isn't exactly a wedding destination. But it is where you find the barns that make this a great destination wedding idea.
#1. Cripps Barn located in the Cotswold's of England.
When I was 19, I lived in Bath which sits on the edge of the Cotswold's.
I fell in love with the area. Soft, rolling fields filled with dozy-eyed cows or lambs hopping amidst the daffodils. Charming thatch-roofed cottages and cobblestone streets. Amazing history from Stonehenge to Salisbury Cathedral. It also happens to be the birthplace of cheddar cheese and cider. Ummmm, YES.
And don't think I wouldn't have a Jane Austen themed wedding
#1. Cripps Barn located in the Cotswold's of England.
When I was 19, I lived in Bath which sits on the edge of the Cotswold's.
I fell in love with the area. Soft, rolling fields filled with dozy-eyed cows or lambs hopping amidst the daffodils. Charming thatch-roofed cottages and cobblestone streets. Amazing history from Stonehenge to Salisbury Cathedral. It also happens to be the birthplace of cheddar cheese and cider. Ummmm, YES.
And don't think I wouldn't have a Jane Austen themed wedding
2. Circa 1799 Barn in the Hudson Valley outside of NYC.
I just love this place for how quaint and simple it is. I think any wedding here would be homemade and 100% love. The Hudson Valley itself is beautiful - a wonderful escape from the chaos of New York. So it's a perfect destination wedding if you want both city AND country.
3. Figueroa Mountain Farmhouse in California
Not so much a barn, but more of a whole farm experience. Figueroa is located near Los Olivos California (an hour from Santa Barbara) and is 150 Acres of uninterrupted beauty. They don't provide any services themselves but they are super helpful and really nice. And the freedom allows you to have any sort of wedding you want!
How gorgeous is this place?? I love the rustic glamour that these brides all use. Imagine eating and drinking with nothing but the stars for your ceiling and wild grass as your dance floor.
#4 The Holly Farm in Carmel, California
Again, not exactly a barn, but definitely a farm. I loved this place so much, we actually did have this booked (until we got the whopping $17 000 food quote!!!!)
It's as if I really were Alice in Wonderland getting married . . . .
Alas, none of these barns/farms are the site of my wedding.
But I think you'll approve of our choice.
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