Just when my head thinks
I can’t go
my feet take two more.
Just when my head thinks
I can’t go
my feet take two more.
St. Patrick’s Day night found me at home, wishing for a creamy drink to sip on while my partner and I played Civ V (because I refuse to adapt to the updated features of Civ VI). A go-to drink of mine at one of our favorite cocktail bars is the Brandy Alexander – a drink I discovered through a classmate my senior year of college. It’s simple and divine – equal parts cognac, creme de cacao, and cream – a nearly ice creamy taste with the subtle bite of brown liquor. That’s what I wanted. But we are not yet old/refined enough to stock cognac in our cabinets, what even is creme de cacao, and, as you know, we only drink our coffee black. So, I improvised.
I present to you Brandy Alexander’s vegan little sibling:
After doing a little research on the Brandy Alexander, I found that it’s often served with a grated nutmeg on top, although it’s never been served to me this way. I discovered in recent years that I prefer allspice in lieu of nutmeg (in pies, on eggnog, etc.), so I sprinkled a little bit on top. It gave the drink character, but I ended up preferring the taste without any added spices.
So, there you have it: the Bourbon Sasha. It’s obviously not going to be quite as creamy as a its big brother, but I was pleasantly surprised with the results for a cocktail that has nut milk in it and that was invented in five minutes. Let me know if you try it, or comment variations below! Cheers!
Arms reach out, eager
to touch stingy distant rays,
spring (as usual)
approaching with cold feet, slow—
much too slow, if you ask me.
For Lent this year, my partner and I have given up eating meat at home for dinner. If that doesn’t have enough caveats for you, I’m sure I could come up with some more. Neither of us being Catholic, we didn’t feel particularly compelled to adhere to a strict code during this time; but I will say that I have been impressed with our success thus far. (We got ribs one week in, but since we were eating out we decided it didn’t count. I believe this is when we amended the rule to explicitly apply to “meals at home”.)
The decision to cut out meat was primarily environmental, although our preferences have been leaning away from meat-centric meals for years now. I admit, it’s not much of a “giving up”, since an amount of revulsion was already involved. However, I’ve never really deprived myself of a food group on principle for this long before, and I’ve found the exercise in somewhat enlightening.
For one, it has forced us into new and under-used recipes. There are so many dishes that don’t lose anything by losing the meat. I found a delicious tortellini recipe that calls for chicken (which I omitted), and I think it actually would’ve tasted worse had I included it.
In the same vein, since we’re saving ten to thirty dollars each week on groceries sans meat, I’ve been open to recipes I would normally overlook because they contain too many specialty items. I bought pine nuts for the first time yesterday and didn’t even feel that bad about it. (The miser in me still cringed, but not as badly.)
The exercise has also reminded me how much more I enjoy cooking when I don’t have to worry about raw meat. One cutting board. One knife. And you don’t have to wash the dishes quite so vigorously. (I feel like that’s true? No?) The enjoyment stems not only from the psychological easement of not having to handle raw meat, but also from the relaxing activity that is chopping vegetables (I, as a contact wearer, in addition to just being better at it, am the designated onion cutter) and the visual stimulation of so many colors in front of me at a time. I’ve even caught myself smiling at a pile of multicolored carrots.
With the question of whether this discipline is legitimately Lenten aside, I am glad for a change in habits, and not only for the sake of the body. Sometimes it’s also good for the soul to skip the beef in favor of beans.
My partner and I recently watched the Netflix series, Dark, on my sister’s superb recommendation. It’s a German show, best watched with the original audio and English subtitles, with a hauntingly beautiful theme song, and writers who somehow got away with creating a story that improved upon Stranger Things in almost every single aspect (less-lovable characters, but equally excellent casting). I know; I didn’t think it was possible, either.
Nothing captivates me like a sci-fi plot in an unexpected place. Cowboys & Aliens may have gotten a garbage rating, but I can’t deny that I was utterly charmed by the idea of aliens wanting to get in on that gold mining action (as I cross my fingers behind my back that the charm had nothing to do whatsoever with the fact that the movie co-starred a certain scruffy-lookin’ silver fox). You expect sci-fi plots in space ships, on other planets, and in the far future. But give me one with mundane surroundings, on earth, in the past or present, and I’ll eat it up. This might partially stem from my early introduction to Lois Lowry’s award-winning book, The Giver. My teacher read it out loud to the class when I was in third grade. After that I read it myself once a year until my second year of college. It always sits prominently on a shelf next to other influential books from my childhood. It smells old and musty.
The Giver is a coming-of-age story set in a pseudo-utopian future. But the science-fiction behind the story makes this exhausted topic, in my opinion, extraordinary.
Aliens invade the Old West, starting with a small desert town? Yes. Youth defies fascist government and escapes small brainwashed town to truly experience human perception and emotion? Yes yes. Telekinetic, telepathic kid hides in a small town in Indiana in the 80s? Yes yes yes. Time infinity knot possibly connects a string of kidnappings in a small town in Germany and also there’s a nuclear power plant? Even more yeses.
I’m not asking you to trust my reasonably questionable taste; I’m asking you to look me dead in the eyes and tell me that last one doesn’t sound cool as shit. Dark has a little something for everyone: even if you don’t like science-fiction, there’s enough drama, crime, mystery, suspense, adventure, indie, foreign, period, and romance to intrigue any audience. I can pretty much guarantee you’ll be left praying for a second season.
And, based on the above descriptions, if you live in a small town, please keep an eye out. Strange things seem to happen there.
Peeking through frail plumes
Twisted freezing feather flecks
Last night my friends and I were discussing the phenomenon of how certain relatively tame images or scenarios can stick in the consciousness of children, and haunt the subconscious throughout life.
For my partner, it was a mysterious glowing object that he saw out his bedroom window one night. He admits it must have been the glow-in-the-dark ball he lost somewhere on the property, but when he looked around for it the next day, there was no ball to be found. The apparition returned the following night, mysteriously vanishing when he searched again in daylight. It’s perhaps not the greatest mystery of our time, but the glowing object became a frequent and sinister visitor in his dreams for many years after.
My friend, as a child, was disturbed by the cave in Pooh’s Grand Adventure: The Search for Christopher Robin. According to the storyline, the cave is supposed to have the shape of a skull, although my friend saw it as a grisly, screaming face. I’ve only watched this movie as an adult, and when the suspenseful reveal of the cave happened, my friend gasped (from the imprinted shock of it from his childhood), but I could only see it as a plain old cave. We had to pause the movie for me to begin to see a semblance of a face.
One of the most memorable phantoms from my own childhood came from a book of illustrated Bible stories for children that we had growing up. One of the last pages had a drawing of the Son of Man as he’s described at the beginning of Revelation:
“The hair on his head was white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire. His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and coming out of his mouth was a sharp, double-edged sword. His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance.”
My advice would be to avoid the temptation to draw a metaphor, especially if it’s for kids. It’s not helpful, and you’ll only end up with something truly terrifying (which, now that I think about it, might have been what they were going for). My sister and I used to open up the book just to look at that one page, because it was the kind of macabre you wanted to look at for longer. Jesus, levitating, blanched face and hair, red, vacant eyes, the blade of a sword protruding from his open mouth. I searched everywhere for the picture online, but this is the closest I could find. The internet may not know what it looked like, but I will never forget.
These memories imbed themselves in our minds, lurking there years after we think we’ve rid ourselves of irrational fears and childish ghosts. If any of these had been seen for the first time today, they never would’ve become this weird, concealed part of us. My partner, if he saw a glowing object in the yard tonight, either would go investigate in the darkness, or would vaguely wonder what it was but not care enough to bother checking. My friend might have reacted to the cave as I did, with more observation than astonishment. And if I had seen that illustration for the first time as an adult, I would comment that it was gruesome and not appropriate for children (especially if you wanted them to love Jesus).
But we didn’t experience these things today. So now, occasionally rearing their heads in unexpected places, they live with us forever.
Every January, the new year practically begs us to begin projects and gain habits. These things rarely stick, though, as we know, and I suspect it’s because we try to take on the new things without having fully said our farewells to the old things.
I spent a lot of time this past year purging my belongings, both physical and virtual, in final acceptance of the fact that my college days are over, and in preparation of married life* (*owning nicer things). I meticulously emptied out the trusty cardboard-box-under-the-bed of important papers I’ve had lying around for about five years, sorted it all, and bought hanging files. There is currently nothing under [my side of] the bed, despite my long-held belief that under-the-bed storage is the highest form of storage.
As I was writing down some of my resolutions for this year, I noticed that most of my goals could absolutely not be met unless they took the place of something else in my life. Given the free time I have, I pretty much can’t read more unless I watch TV less. Something has to give.
So, really, most New Year’s resolutions are actually two resolutions: one thing to start, one thing to stop. It doesn’t even have to be a negative thing that gets pushed aside – just something that has served its purpose. For example, I cannot in good conscience allow myself to own another sweatshirt until I remove my then-boyfriend’s/now-husband’s high school Remedy Drive hoodie from [my side of] the closet. Time to say goodbye!
A world in darkness
But, no! Inky night covers
Not the whole, but half
Sometimes it’s hard for me to actively remember that the earth is round, that “winter solstice” does not indicate mid December exclusively, and that half the earth has theirs in June (hi, Shayna!).
With time differences, it’s a little easier to remember. For example, my sister lives in Vienna, so I often get texts from her at 4am and when I FaceTime her after work in my afternoon, she usually cuts me short so she can go to bed. But when it comes to opposing seasons, my mind stubbornly holds onto what it can see.
Last year was my first “warm” Christmas, at about fifty degrees and sunny. But I’ve never had a long Christmas. As kids, my sisters and I didn’t wake up all that early on Christmas morning (compared to some families I knew), but it was still always before the sun was fully up; and then dark by 4:00, with hours still to endure waking life in darkness. But imagine! The sun shining bright and early, a long day of fun outside, grilling the Christmas ham. I will likely never experience this, as most Northern Hemispherians won’t.
A woman I know always says, “What goes around comes around.” She means it in terms of acts of cruelty and kindness – how we eventually get what we dish out. But, more literally, remember! Though in the dead of winter now, we will slowly but surely roll our pasty faces back towards the sun.
“Have you ever looked at a poppy seed?” I asked my 146 Instagram followers — after some inspiration (instaspiration?) while prepping a cult classic dish of my mom’s, entitled Poppy Chicken — and before a single follower saw it, double-clicked, or cared, I began to blog about it.
If you’ve never looked at a poppy seed, I will describe the experience to you.
First, you see a pile of poppy seeds and your impression is Black. Then, No, blue. And the closer you look, the more variegated the pile becomes, until you begin to see tiny, textured, kidney shaped seeds, each its own color: light gray, charcoal, blue, yellow, cream, brown, pink. It’s delightful, and I highly recommend the exercise.
Welcome to my first recipe post, which is also probably my last.