An Old Summer Thought

{via}

I don't quite know where I am in relation to where I want to be. It's almost 8:00 on Tuesday evening and my goal is to reach Union Station from a nebulous point in northwest DC. The only thought that has gone into my outfit is an upside down "I <3 NPR" button I've pinned awkwardly over a hole in my 13 year old choir t-shirt, and an afternoon of packing boxes has left me sweaty and generally gross. The elastic in my pants, né full-length diaper quilted out of flesh colored dish rags, has expanded considerably from a large thanks-for-helping-us-move sandwich -- the first half of which was delicious, and the second half of which tasted like regret. I've hidden my terrible homemade bangs underneath a headband, leaving my forehead's constellation of scabby red pimples on full display (I haven't had occasion to wear makeup in days). My conversations of late consist of concerned relations trying to figure out what should be done with my life, while I desperately avoid the topic. Friends are doing glamorous things in glamorous places and I've taken up online Scrabble in my grandmother's basement. I am a frumpish, directionless transient. And I have to pee.

At this moment in my life, I should be miserable.

I start walking eastish. I come upon a very nice hotel that's bound to have a bathroom inside. As I walk through its kempt marble lobby, I see some incongruous souls lounging in velvet easy chairs and helping themselves to complimentary lemonade. The coiffed hotel patrons and employees steal uncomfortable glances and keep their distance, but their aloofness doesn't shame the vagabonds into politely bowing out into a "more appropriate" setting -- it merely facilitates their air-conditioned idle. This scene inspires me deeply. Why give a damn if everyone else assumes you don't? So I stop. I look at my sweaty pock-marked face in the bathroom mirror and decide not to give a damn. I resume my walk -- back straight, eyes high, belly out. I stop at crosswalks and cough loud, phlegmy, empowered coughs behind uneasily neat bussinesswomen. I grin at toothless homeless men and toothy congressional interns, and in return receive bemused looks from both. No one catcalls at me and no one eyes my purse, for I am a persona non grata. I am the one to be avoided. Eventually, I stumble upon Union Station. It's beautiful, and I stand awhile in the middle of the street to admire it.

At this moment in my life, I am very, very happy.

Peach Flurries

Peach, cutting board, bowl, sugar, spoon, vanilla ice cream, milk, vanilla, blender, sliced peaches, glass

Get some peaches. Get a cutting board and a knife. Slice up your peaches (you'll want a lot of peaches -- more than seems to make sense). Put the sliced peaches in a bowl. Add some sugar. Mix. Get some vanilla ice cream. Scoop it into your blender and add some milk. Mix that stuff up. Add some vanilla extract. Taste. Add some more vanilla. Scoop your sweetly marinating sliced peaches into a glass (fill the glass at least half way with peaches). Mash those peaches up something fierce. Fill the rest of the glass with your vanilla ice cream concoction.
Take a sip.
*Swoon*

Repeat.  

{You're welcome}

Going to the chapel...

This week, my former roomie, partner in crime, singledom and one of my very bestest friends got married in upstate New York. Katie and her husband were friends for YEARS. Honestly, I would have thought they were dating the entire time had I not been spending a lot of time with Katie in New York. Finally, last year, they decided to try out the whole romance thing and it seems like it stuck -- in an eternal sort of way. One of Katie's best friends from college is a set designer for Julliard, no less, and she helped stage a perfectly exquisite affair in an old cracker factory in Seneca New York. It was pretty perfect and while weddings aren't really my thing, I was so happy to be well enough to attend this one. 

Congratulations!!!

Marigold and mums; Magical baby spot; Father, mother and sister of the bride; More buds; Best dressed -- she made her dress -- wait for it -- out of the tablecloths from her wedding. I'll get over it eventually; This is not an exit; My man; So pretty; The perfect pair; Bride's family; There was a concert at the wedding. Yes, a concert. And it was awesome. William Joseph was the pianist. He looks like giant David Archuletta and plays like a beast; Books and flowers; Second weddingy thing at a church; The cracker factory; Happy bride!!! 

The Hunger Games

Who will win the most Olympic medals, China or the US?

Will Katniss prevail? 

I don't know... Actually, the US did. As for Katniss, you tell me.

But as far as I'm concerned, the winning-est team has been my waistline and my stomach. Yes, friends. After 6 months, my BMI is well into the healthy range. I don't want it to be TOO much healthier, but during my -- errr -- training, I found some seriously delicious dishes that are easy peasie -- actually, there was more cheesy involved than peasie, but I digress. Here are my top bites for summer.

The goodest snack/appetizer involving chutney and goat cheese; The goodest summer soup, a summer take on grilled cheese and tomato soup and a reconstructed caprese salad (really: it has grilled cheese croutons... need I say more?); The goodest grilled veggies;  the goodest asparagus salad (if you look hard, you night actually be able to find that recipe on this blog); the goodest succotash; the goodest lunch; the goodest gouda and pear calzone; the goodest cheese stuffed qiunoa burger; the goodest stuffed kobacha squash; the goodest fishie with ferns; the goodest burratta, grilled peaches and honey 4 ways; the goodest yogurt; the goodest dessert sandwitch; the goodest pretzel with the funkiest caramel mustard dipping sauce; the goodest frozen berry treat; the goodest home made ice cream with figs, sour cream and full fat yogurt.

Now here come Two's own Hunger Game: Which one of these concoctions makes you most hungry? Tell me in the comment section below (or my hunger games will feel rather pathetic. If you don't play along, what's the point?). 

Whichever is the audience favorite, I will tell you how to make -- be that a recipe or a place, I will let you find out in what district or kitchen you'll find the goodest goods. The rest of the recipes will be brutalized and die in my stomach. Unless two of the choices fall in love. Then, I might let both their recipes survive (evil laughter).

As for now, I'm off to Toronto in the beloved "Menace to the North" ... aka Canada. I'll tell you about it when I get back, along with your chosen recipe!

A few random things I learned this weekend

You can replace oil with ground flax seeds in most baking, using three Tbs. flax in place of one Tbs. oil.

This works marvelously well in pancakes.

If you top wholewheat-flax pancakes with homemade fig-blueberry compote and Noosa honey yoghurt, it is sublimely delicious.

If you sleep in and then make wholewheat-flax pancakes and fig-blueberry compote on a Sunday morning, you will be late for church.

You will not be sorry.

The end.

Source

P.S. a little recipe for you!

-slice 8 fresh figs in quarters

-put those and a couple handfuls of blueberries in a small pot

-splash on enough white grape juice to cover half the fruit

-bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer until your pancakes are ready and liquid is almost syrupy, (about 15 minutes)

-eat with yoghurt (or ice cream or straight out of the pot)

-swoon

When Life Gives You Lemons, Spraypaint that $#!% Gold

One and I got a little crafty over the past week. And by "a little crafty" I mean "HOLY SHOOT! DO YOU SEE ALL THIS CRAP WE'RE MAKING?! ISN'T IT AWESOME?!!!". Gold leaf, chalkboard paint, jingle bells(?!) -- we've gone full metal glue gun over here.

My summer has been a bit. . . amorphous. With no jobs or internships or grand projects regimenting my days, I've been bouncing around my own head like a pinball. I think that this little nursery was just the valve I needed to release some of that accumulated energy, creative and otherwise, before school starts. (One and I have had a pretty groovy time doing it, too.)

As I'm off to the east, it'll be One's job to finish things up and document the final product.

I'm pretty psyched to see it.

Blackboard-topped learning station

Jinglebell chandelier

Mr. Tiny's unmounted sillouhette

a carat

not even my shoes could escape the spray can (probably because I'm hopelessly slow).

Field Guide to Austin

I was beyond thrilled when Three and Five agreed to visit me at the end of my internship! I knew they were a bit dubious about the prospect of coming to Texas, but I think I speak for all of us when I say the visit was practically perfect in every way. I spent my summer living and working in Houston, but when they came we decided to drive up to Hill Country to explore Austin--which. we. loved. Hit the jump for our complete guide and itinerary.

A Taste of Texas

I noticed a theme when I was looking over the pictures from our recent trip to Texas...

Appalachian Summer

It's been four years since Mr. Two and I started dating and during that time, there have been an awful lot of figurative mountains. But this weekend was the first time we made our way up a real, live mountain. I had some work to do in Charlotte, so Yoni took a few days off and we spent the weekend in the Smokey Mountains. I've gotta say, they were the closest thing to Colorado that I've seen on the East Coast -- literally. At a mile high, it was almost like we were in Denver!

A little reminder

Even though the Junior Representative from the One Family spends much of her time unphotogenically strapped onto bellies or into strollers, here is a little proof that Baby Disco is pure sunshine. She has bright blue eyes, deliciously chubby legs, and the most infectious giggle ever. We love her.

Five Reads!

We like to read.

We think you might like to read.

We thought we'd tell you what we like to read,

so that maybe you could read it, too.

Then we could talk about it

(if you wanted).

We thought we start off with some great books with which to finish off your summer vacay.

Be sure to tell us if you like them as much as we did . . .

Minutes

A few weeks ago, I opened an email from S titled "show this to momo". In the throes of his college finals, he had been left to care for sweet Tiny and Princess H. In the same situation, I expect I would have left them to a peanut butter sandwich  and their own devices as I tapped away at one research paper or another. Instead, S set the dining room table (Ikea themed, of course), made pasta, and sat with them as they lolloped through their dinner. I played the video he sent of their meal just as a new tune started playing on my grooveshark, and the serendipitous combination left me dewy eyed and a little regretful. Oftentimes, my life moves around me while I sit doing something else. I mindlessly meander from now to another place -- a country where unfinished short stories, links to Wikipedia articles, and photos taken for someone else live. A lot of the time, I'm being kind of productive-ish. A lot of the time I'm not. Either way, I end up subordinating real things to less real things, which hollows my existence just a little bit.

Last night, near the start of a long drive home, Momo shut the engine and darkened the lights of our car in the middle of a crunchy mountain road. We sat silently in the rolled-down windows for awhile, staring uncomfortably at shooting stars streaking the magnificent black of the sky. Those minutes were so much more substantial than the ones I'm taking to write this blog post right now. Minutes spent sharing a meal or walking outside or sitting with someone in unbothered quietness have a weight to them. I want my life to be comprised of minutes like that.

"Up in the Air!"

This is me

This is the little plane I flew. 

For the realz. I flew a plane - and I turned it in a circle.

This is the man with the little umbrella attached to his plane. He was smart; it was hella hot.

This is the little plane that towed us into the sky

This is the view from the cockpit

This is the view from the ground.

Cool, right?

Thanks for a magical adventure, Astro Boy!

You're my favorite.

Addled Ardor? Ask 5.

Q: Okay, so here's the dealio: I've know this guy, we'll call him Shawn (because that's his name), almost 20 years.  Our parents are friends and it's not unusual for me to stop by my parents house and find Shawn chatting with my family.  Out of the many years we've known each other I've spent a fair few of them intensely curious about dating him.  Lately it's gotten more so, I kinda stopped caring about "what would happen if it didn't work out" since our families are buds, I just want to know if it'd work out. Life's short right? So, in an empowered woman moment I asked him to dinner, it seemed relatively date-like, but I'm not sure he fully got the gist that that's where I was going with it.  Gender roles have gotten so confusing and I don't know what I should do, what's too much, or how to maintain the "delicate" lady-like role (I mean, I don't want to be fully in charge of the dating relationship, ya know?) while trying to break through his thick man skull.  What's a girl to do? How do I make this happen? Suggestions?

As:

One (Thick-Headed): I once found myself on the flipside of a similar situation. A couple of years post-graduation, a school pal moved to my hometown. Our mutual friends were scattered across the globe, so it seemed the most natural thing in the world to hang out just the two of us, over lunch or dinner. He was smart and witty and charming, and we shared tons of super esoteric interests and experiences. Conversation flowed easily and always left me smiling. But I was totally blindsided when he confessed to feeling more than friendship. Things got awkward and we stopped spending time together. I was bummed, because I genuinely enjoyed his company. But, who's to say, maybe a clean break was better for him. You need to ask yourself which worst case scenario is more unbearable: your existing friendship exploding into awkward nothingness, or your heart and dignity being subjected to the slow burn of unrequited love. Once you know, you'll know whether to play it cool or play with fire. If it's the latter, I say spell it out in English plain enough that not even the thickest-skulled caveman could misunderstand. As long as you maintain a ladylike smile, I don't think you need to worry about further jumbling post-traditional dating gender roles. Good luck!

Two (Indecision 2012!): I didn't fall in love until I started dating my husband because one of three pieces were always absent: It wasn't the right time, the right place or the right person.  Before you jump into this, I would recommend you consider those three things.  I know two women very well who have done this -- asked boys straight out about what their relationship was or wasn't or why they had never had a romantic relationship with a given boy.  One ended with assurance the relationship was NOT going to be romantic (ouch) and the other one is engaged to the boy she asked.  What made the difference? Who knows.  But I do know that the 2nd friend and her friend were a little older than the first pair and that they knew one another REALLY well.  They knew that there was a good chance it was the right person -- both had a vested interest in seeing whether things would work because they already knew that they cared about one another a great deal.  It was the right time in their lives -- they both were looking to find someone to settle down with and had lived enough of life that they wanted to find someone to live it with on a more permanent basis.  Finally, they were in the right place -- professionally, geographically, emotionally.  Ask yourself if those three pieces are present, say a little prayer, then do as you see fit.   

Three (Harsh Realist): How do you make this happen? Um, don't do anything else. 

I really appreciate your bold move in asking him out, but if he was secretly pining for you he would have taken advantage of your alone time and made it clear that you were cruising on a two-way street of love. And correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds like that didn't happen at all. I know this sounds harsh, but in the words of a guy I know "men are only 'thick-sculled' when it comes to women they're not interested in." Ouch, I know, but he has a point. In my humble opinion, it's not worth the emotional trauma of chasing after him and having to face rejection head on. Especially if you'll continue seeing him around all the time. So, be proud of yourself, and take that strong lady-power places it'll be appreciated!

Four (Impressed): Oooh! The passion, the thrill--the intrigue! I find this to be very exciting. Clearly you're pretty balsy--which is cool. Aaanyway, I think a lot of elements factor into whether your presumptive paramour thinks your evening was an actual date. First, do you usually hang out together? Alone? For dinner? Did you dress up? Did he dress up? Who paid? You may want to ask some of these questions and--depending on the answers--reevaluate the situation. Regardless, you can always write him a quick note explaining how much you enjoyed your evening with him, and suggesting something else you two could do together. Depending on his response, you'll probably be able to see where you stand a little better. No matter what happens, congratulations on being an empowered woman! Sometimes I like to pretend that I'm one, too. After reading this, I'm not sure I would qualify...

Five (Highly Paid Analyst*): Awwwww dude, that sounds weird. For an insight into the Male Mind, I'll refer you to two sources: a previous lady-asks-guy-on-date Ask 5 (graciously answered by some of our favorite gentlemen), found here, and my very own psyche. It is possible that this man, much like myself, always finds a decidedly non-romantic interpretation of others' blatantly romantic gestures towards him. I can easily see how this obtuse boy could morph 'hot dinner date with strong, independent woman who don't play by no arcane "gender rules"' into 'friendly catch-up over a meal with old family buddy', because I've done similar things myself. It is also possible that this guy is a yeller-bellied-lily-livered coyote, put off by your strong, confident ladyhood (a.k.a. he's just not into you).

I think that you can choose either painful or disappointing. Painful: tell him plainly that you think he's neat. But say it like this -- "I romantically like you". As unromantic, indelicate, and potentially humiliating as this option is, it totally disallows any misunderstanding. Either he thinks you're super keen too, you get married, and have lots of fat babies,** or you end up avoiding each other's awkwardness at family BBQs for the next few months. Disappointing: let it go. Ignore the dude, release any notions of your amorous future together, and find another mister with whom to have lots of fat babies.** Or you could just listen to one of my sisters. Yeah. Do that.

*Full disclosure: I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about.
**Assuming you want fat babies. Svelte babies are also an option, as well as no babies at all. Whatever you're into.

Have a question? Ask 5. You'll have a 1 in 5 chance that 

someone will see it your way!

Just send your questions to:

fivetdsisters@gmail.com

What Every Performer Should Know: The Hamlisch Rule

Please excuse me if I ramble. 

---

"Don't expect too much." "He'll probably tell you to stop after a few measures." "Don't get your hopes up." These were the words of wisdom echoing in my mind as Marvin Hamlisch entered the cavernous rehearsal studio in the bowels of the Kennedy Center. "What do you want to sing?" While you wouldn't guess it if you heard him play, classical music wasn't his thing. But I was an opera singer, so I gave him a list of arias to choose from. 

"Do you like Sempre Libera? Everyone loves that. Flashy high notes, familiar enough that it isn't intimidating but not so familiar that it's cliche." I concurred and we were off. For the next hour plus, we went through aria after aria and show tune after show tune. Once we were done, he asked "So are you in school? You shouldn't be in school. You need to be performing. Conservatory is great -- don't get me wrong. But for a performer, you need an audience. They teach you what's important to know. For a performer, the stage is the best teacher." 

He told me about his first job as a composer. He was playing piano at a party where he met the director Frank Perry. In passing, Mr. Perry mentioned they were looking for a score for his next film. Marvin got all of the information out of Mr. Perry that was possible (including his contact information) and by the end of the weekend -- it might have even been the next morning -- had delivered Perry a score for the film. 

Marvin and I performed together. He gave me notes on a musical I was writing and I wrote another musical because of them. We kept in touch for a while. I went off to Europe to pursue my career. After some serious health challenges, we lost contact.   

Even though I haven't seen Marvin for half a decade, he taught me the most important lessons an artist can learn: Give people what they want in a way you want to give it to them when they want it and don't spend forever making it "perfect." It never will be perfect, and people don't want perfection. They want an artist, a voice, a song, a score, a painting or a character that they can relate to. With flaws and imperfections and beauty and vulnerability. They are all part of the same whole.  They are what makes an artist an individual.

As artists, it's tempting to forget the audience' needs.  Too often, we're self centered and self indulgent in what we share with the world. We're prideful, only showing what we deem as perfect or what we think our peers will respect. But perfection is different things to different people and seeking it will be endlessly frustrating. To me, art's highest purpose is to entertain, to enlighten, to inspire, to evoke emotion and to change an audience in some way, big or small. If the only people we seek to impress are within our own ivory towers of artistic excellence or our hallowed institutions, we will find the audience is gone in 20 to 30 years. I find as I keep a broader audience in mind, I choose to sing and say more things I actually want to share and fewer things just for the sake of impressing others. 

Mr. Hamlisch's legacy as a composer will certainly lend him a serious measure of musical immortality. But to me, his broader lesson is even more important. Whether you're an opera singer, a legislator or customer service operator, there is a way that we can find common ground with our audience -- be they young or old, Democrats or Republicans, rich or poor, religious or secular. It might be hard work, but when we expect more of of ourselves, we'll touch more people than we ever though possible. 

And that, is exactly what Marvin always did.

Summer Nights...

  

Introducing... Something Wonderful

So easy, a child could make it.

So good, well, so good you just won't know what to do with yourself. 

A brand new panzanella...

Fresh Asparagus, Blue Cheese and Pumpernickle

with Olive Oil and Lemon Juice

This recipe is best with super fresh asparagus. 

Some asparagus can be bitter when it's raw.

That asparagus is better cooked. But if it's not

bitter, this salad is something of a revelation.

4 servings

1 lb. of fresh asparagus, washed and trimmed

6 slices pumpernickle bread -- I like whole rye bread

4oz Blue Cheese

2 tbsp lemon juice

1tbsp olive oil

butter and salt

Butter both sides of bread and lightly sprinkle with salt. If you have a panini press, grill bread there on medium high for about 4 minutes or until crispy. You can also broil in the oven for about 2 minutes on each side or until slightly crispy. Let bread cool. Meanwhile, wash and trim asparagus by snapping off the bottom inch or so. Depending on length, cut into 3, 4 or 5 inch long pieces. Crumble 2/3 of cheese. While your at it, break or cut your bread into square (the 100% rye bread is very thinly sliced) or cube inch pieces. Mix lemon, olive oil and remaining chese together. The cheese can be chunky, but the dressing should looks slightly milky. Toss cheese, asparagus and croutons together in a bowl. Dress and toss vigorously a few minutes before serving. It is really too good.

Coping

My sweet husband started a long month of working in the intensive care unit (or ICU) this week. The patients in the ICU are the sickest in the hospital and as such they require a tremendous amount of care and attention. For Dr. P that means getting to the hospital before 5 each morning, and staying there until 10 or 11 every night. It's a bummer. I honestly have no idea how he does it. I'm beat if I don't get 7-hours of sleep each night, and he's not even home for that long.

So what do I--as his wife--do to help him through these long days and too short nights? I ditch him of course and go play with my favorite baby sisters in the great state of Texas! I know, it sounds horrible. But I have his full support, and he has a week's worth of dinners in the fridge.