Handcrafted Love

Just in time for St. Patrick's Day, here are five of my emerald-hued favorites from Etsy...

1. Air plant in green blown glass bottle, $25 from tohold 

2. Stained glass aspen leaf (made from Carlsberg beer bottle), $52 from westernartglass

3. Oh Darling poster, $25 from fifiduvie 

4. Hoppiness note card, $4.25 from smilelifestyle

5. Knotted Dots Bracelet, $138 from tqbdesigns

Add One More Must to My Web Routine...

I have a new addiction and it goes by the name of Pinterest. You may have seen the little icon I added to the left there on my blog last week. This website allows me to "pin" pictures I find during my googling, blog reading, or website discovering all in one place. I can organize my pins onto different boards, so that I can keep my project inspirations separate from pictures I just think are lovely.

But my favorite part? I can set it up to be notified every time someone likes my taste enough to repin one of my pins onto their own board(s). I am loving it so much. It's like having a stranger come up to you and tell you he/she likes your shoes. AND it happens hourly (some days).

Though it is very affirming to my self-esteem, it has the added benefit of being a very handy replacement for simply bookmarking blog posts, recipes, or pictures I like.  Not only can I access my Pinterest account from any computer, organize my boards and pins very easily, but I am also constantly inspired by others' pins and boards too.

We're even using a board for my sister's wedding registry. This way she can post things from multiple websites all in one place. (We plan to have people add a comment to the item if they purchase it so she won't end up with accidental duplicates.)

There's Nothing Like the Internet to Make You Feel Inferior

Until I started blogging, I thought of myself as pretty clever and talented. I believed I was an excellent writer and among the highest percentage of crafty people. Then I started reading blogs. And damn, there are some FANTASTIC blogs out there in the ether. My bubble of delusion has been burst.

Crafty people who put my crafting to shame, like Jessica of How About Orange and Amy of eat, drink, chic.

Writers whose prose sparkles in comparison to mine, like Lyn of another damn life and Persephone of What Possessed Me (seriously P's travel writing is unbelievably fantastic).

People who are so creative and funny, it must ooze from their veins like Molly of Catalog Living and Rhett & Link (see below).



And decorators who have the most sophisticated visions like Paul of Sweet Paul and Sweet Paul Magazine (Spring Issue coming soon!)

Sure, I have some talent, but my amateur skills pale in comparison to so many people out there. (I tell myself that many of them are making a living from their particular phenomenal talents, but it's not always true.)

I ♥ U

In honor of Valentine's week...a short list of some things I love.

Photo by Maggie

1.  Books: Life Lessons in Literature

2. Collaboration Songs




3. Artistic Talent 

4.  Paper Crafts: Calendar of the Month projects

5. Good Recipes: Homemade CheezIts

Tucked in with Some Reading

Sometimes nothing warms your heart quite like the cool dry wit of the English...

From The Last Stand of Major Pettigrew: A Novel  by Helen Simonson 

"Yes, she's been gone some six years now, " he said. "Funny really, it seems like both an eternity and the blink of an eye all at the same time."
"It is very dislocating," she said. Her crisp enunciation, so lacking among many of his village neighbors, struck him with the purity of a well-tuned bell. '"Sometimes my husband feels as close to me as you are now, and sometimes I am quite alone in the universe," she added.

America wielded her huge power in the world with a brash confidence that reminded him of a toddler who has got hold of a hammer.

"Look here, it's all very tidy and convenient to see the world in black and white," said the Major, trying to soften his tone slightly. "It's a particular passion of young men eager to sweep away their dusty elders." He stopped to organize his thoughts into some statement short enough for a youthful attention span. "However, philosophical rigidity is usually combined with a complete lack of education or real-world experience, and it is often augmented with strange haircuts and an aversion to bathing. Not in your case, of course-you are very neat.'"
"You are very strange," he said. "Are you saying it is wrong, stupid to try to live a life of faith?"
"No, I think it is admirable," said the Major. "But I think a life of faith must start with remembering that humility is the first virtue before God."

"But I must ask you, do you really understand what it means to be in love with an unsuitable woman?" "My dear boy," said the Major. "Is there really any other kind?"

Dancing, the Major thought, was a strange thing. He had forgotten how this vaguely pleasant exercise and social obligation could become something electric when the right woman stepped into his arms. Now he could understand why the waltz had once been as frowned upon as the wild gyrations that today's young people called dance. He felt that he existed only in the gliding circle they made, parting the other dancers like water. There was no room beyond her smiling eyes; there were no people beyond the two of them. He felt the small of her back and her smooth palm under his hands and his body felt a charge that made him stand taller and spin faster than he would have ever thought possible.

"I have no idea what I hope to accomplish. I only know that I must try to see her. That's what love is about, Roger. It's when a woman drives all lucid thought from your head; when you are unable to contrive romantic stratagems, and the usual manipulations fail you; when all your carefully laid plans have no meaning and all you can do is stand mute in her presence. You hope she takes pity on you and drops a few words of kindness into the vacuum of your mind." 

I love this book.

My Favorite: Picture

I adore this picture.

Nathan making introductions at Burns Night

The Big Sister Privilege

As the oldest sister of three girls in my family, being the big sister has meant a lot of different things growing up. It has meant that I have parented (way too enthusiastically, according to my mother and probably my sisters), I have protected, I have led, I have supported, and I have learned the exact ways to infuriate my sisters. In recent years it means I have become good at smoothing things out, helping iron out family worries and calming angry siblings down (until it comes to me, and then sometimes it falls apart).

It seems like a good preparation to be a parent; I definitely have that same pride when either of my sisters succeed and the same worry and sadness when they have to deal with hardship and heartbreak. It's better than being a parent though because I know I can count on them for the same things they get from me; someone to commiserate on the jackassery of my husband or boss, torture about every embarrassing thing I ever did or wore growing up, and unquestionable love even when I am the worst version of me.

They will never unfriend me, lose my number, or experience a major life event without me being the first to know. I have only one friend for whom this can be said, but I have two sisters for whom this will never change, no matter what I do.

Rabbie Burns, Ye Sly Auld Bas

Nathan and I lived in Scotland for a year right after college. There we learned many things: how to decipher Scots language, use words like "wee," "dram," and "rubbish" without feeling like "fannies," and all about the Robert Burns Supper. We've been meaning to throw one here since we returned, but the 25th sneaks up so quickly after Christmas that it has always been forgotten until too late.

This year, however, I thought of it the first week of January, just in time to order some oatcakes, find the lone store in all of Chicago that sells haggis imported from Scotland, and have Nathan's mom send his kilt. Oh yes, you read that correctly, his kilt.

Robert Burns Night is celebrated on or around January 25th, which is Robert Burns' birthday. He is a much-beloved Scottish poet, long dead. He wrote hundreds of poems, most famously "Auld Lang Syne." He also wrote an "Ode to a Haggis." His celebratory evening is quite the event, and we "did it up."

We had 12 people to a six course meal. People arrived in plaid and even one homemade kilt. We began with a welcome speech, toasted the memory of auld Rabbie, and piped in the haggis. Nathan did a lovely rendering of the poem above. We plan to work on our intonations for next year so we'll sound more authentic (like this guy) for next year.

We planned the menu to include all the Scottish dishes you would normally find a Robert Burns Night. We started with traditional Cock-a-Leekie soup (chicken and leeks and, strangely, prunes). Next, on to the salad course, complete with Drambuie Vinaigrette.

One of our guests recited a poem he had written in Scots (starts at 3:30). Next we had a cheese course served with oatcakes, then on to the haggis, roasted neeps and tatties (turnips and potatoes), green beans, and roasted chicken.

Another guest and his wife gave the Toast to the Lassies and the Toast to the Laddies (starts at 4:22), which were that perfect balance of funny and touching. Finally, we finished with Chocolate Scotch Cake and Edinburgh Fog (basically whipped cream with Drambuie).

It was a "stoatin nicht" in Burns honor. Many, many toasts (and quite a few toasted guests as a result), lots of laughs, and a great meal. Cheers!

Happy Monday

Dogs and Ok Go. Get ready to smile.

Another Foreign Futbol Game (Turkey)

As we leave the apartment, Sean finishes wrapping his black and white scarf around his neck and turns to us. "Everyone wearing team colors?"

I look down at my black shirt with a start. Uh, I guess. I didn't know it mattered that much. Apparently, it does because Sean and his Turkish friend from work later convince a friend visiting from Eugene that he needs to change his shirt. Though he's wearing navy blue with yellow, which are the colors of a rival team that's not even playing in the game tonight, Sean and the girl are convinced that this bearded American guy in the Che hat is going to be beaten down by an unruly soccer mob if he's seen in a navy shirt. It takes a lot of convincing because this harmless guy cannot fathom this happening.

Nathan and I, on the other hand, lived across from a soccer stadium in Scotland and regularly saw the fan riots, and are not difficult to convince. We meet in a courtyard not far from the stadium which is filled with men happily drinking, cheering, and singing the various Besiktas fight songs. The din gradually increases as a large group surges past in a parade toward the stadium. Apparently it's the club fans following the van of players who have just been driven by the courtyard.

An old woman is steadily selling beer from a wheelbarrow filled with ice next to me. The din grows as someone begins playing a pan-pipe. A drunken guy begins to bob and weave. It seems to be a dance. His equally drunk girlfriend pulls her team scarf from her neck and holds it above her head. He grabs an end. They spin and kick, bobbing their heads and snapping their fingers in time (mostly) to the music, each holding an end of her scarf. Someone sets off flares. A man stands holding a flare in each hand. He begins singing and everyone joins in. It is, of course, a bunch of undecipherable words. But they are said with great feeling.

Later, at the game, seated in the top row of the huge stadium with a giant cloud of cigarette smoke hovering just above our heads, the continuous chanting ebbs and flows around us. It takes nothing more than a referee whistle toot to rile the crowd into a frenzy. At one point, the stadium seats seem to fill with white balloons as whole sections blow them up and hold them, popping them simultaneously upon receiving some unseen signal. The game itself is relatively boring, both teams well-matched.

Nathan grimaces as a man lights up a Turkish cigarette and moves to a seat just in front of him.  Sean is sitting in front of us, talking anarchy with the glassblower from Oregon. He is impervious to the smoke, the dull roar, and the soccer game. Meanwhile, Nathan has taken to roaming the back wall, trying unsuccessfully to escape the chain smoking fans surrounding us.

A call from the ref preventing the Besiktas goal from being counted elicits catcalls and cursing from the crowd. The last two minutes are exciting as the score is tied and there is now a fire lit under the fans and in their team. The cheering reaches a fevered pitch as Besiktas takes two or three more shots on goal, but to little success. The game ends in a tie.

Still, they haven't lost, and everyone seems in satisfied spirits. No euphoria, but no anger either. As the rival team and their throng file off the field they are surrounded by policemen in full riot gear forming a screen of plastic shields overhead, and someone half-halfheartedly throws a bottle. It falls far short of the target. We join the river of fans streaming through the gates out into the streets.

We wander through a darkened park, heading toward the lighted patio of a hookah bar in the distance.

I Wish It Were Spring

 

1. Lovely print to remind me to greet the returning birds, $18

2. Bright and sunny shoes to air out my toes, $29.99

3. Cheerful vase for those first spring flowers, sold out

4. A swingy dress for basking in the sun, $228

5. Live succulent wreath for the front door, $145

6. Cork board map with pins to track my spring road-trips, $24

7. The perfect chic camera bag and purse combo, $89

I Think I Can, I Think I Can

by dazeychic.etsy.com, Find this print here.

A Triple Chocolate Happy Birthday with Ganache on Top

This hardly looks like a spur of the moment birthday gift does it?

Except for cooking time, of course, the whole thing took me less than an hour. I am a HUGE fan of using chocolate ganache as icing. It is really really easy to make from scratch and it tastes oh so much better than buttercream, plus you can easily vary the amount since it is a 2:1 ratio of dark chocolate chips to heavy cream (example: 1 1/2 c. chocolate chips to  3/4 c. heavy cream, which is what it took for this cake).

"Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

One of my favorite songs just got a thousand times better!

Hanna

You know, it's rare that I find my correctly spelled name used in media or even on those keychains at rest stops, so when I do finally see it, I get rather excited. The unfortunate thing with an uncommon name, however, is that every use for a character name sticks pretty solidly in your memory.

The children's book where the kids had a pet goose named Hanna, I still remember clearly. Hanna dies, by the way. She always does. Nothing seems to doom a character so surely as naming her Hanna without an "h" at the end.

So I had mixed feelings when I encountered this upcoming movie today. While I do like the tag line, "Adapt or Die, " (so much so, actually, that I am considering tag lining my signature with it from now on. Although I would hope people would read it as they should adapt to me or die, not that I am willing to do the adapting.), I feel a little unsettled with this character sporting my rather uncommon first name.

 

Though this actually looks like a good movie, I don't know if I will be able to bring myself to watch it. After all, with that surname, she's bound to die at the end.

Let Your Heart Be Light

Some of my favorite decorations around our house...

I love the picture of a table full of Santas eating lunch in Chicago in the '30's.
The sweater trees on the left are on my project list for next year.

The three dining room windows feature a banner per window with the words "Merry" "and" "Bright."

  

The oddest Santa I've ever seen. I was so happy to find him on
eBay because my grandma had one just like this.

Letters are cut out of pages from an old french history book.

My Christmas Helper

Hang a Shining Star Upon the Highest Bough

Our tree looks pretty magical, but when you get up close, you can find some truly odd stuff hanging on it.

Some of my favorite ornaments...

Yes, that's a camel hanging near the top of the tree. Apparently, my grandfather played with it when he was little. We do a lot of the tie-a-string-to-something-and-make-it-an-ornament sort of thing in my family. I love him (he's even got fur!).

There are small paper snowflakes all over our tree saved from when we lived in Scotland. We couldn't spend much money on Christmas ornaments we weren't going to bring back, so I was really creative with our decorations that year. I don't know how long these will last, but I love seeing them on the tree every year. I didn't bring back the gold spray-painted holly leaves and pinecones that we also had on our tree there, though I did cave and buy three etched glass balls like the one on the right from the place where I worked in Scotland. I don't know why we sold them at our little tenement museum shop on the Royal Mile, but I love them.

Possibly it's a little known fact that when I lived in Indianapolis I was an elf at Christmas time. This ornament was hand-carved by Santa for me just before he moved to Florida and I moved to Chicago. He signed it "To Hanna Love, Santa" on the back. He was an amazing Santa, sitting at his workbench in the middle of the mall, hand-carving ornaments when we weren't busy that he would then sign for the kids. Every ornament had different carving on it, so they were all one-of-a-kind!

When we were in college, Nathan and I started giving each other one ornament every year (you can guess whose idea that was, I'm sure). Nathan's ornaments to me tend to be either very creative (cat ornament on the left has a picture of our cat taped to its face) or very odd, like the Mexican wrestler on the right.

My ornaments for him tend to lean to the sentimental, of course. I made the one below two years ago to memorialize our first Christmas in our first home together (that's our building).

I Hope This Gets to You

Gorgeous song and the most creative music video I've seen since OK Go's. You also can't beat the romantic backstory...

Office White Elephant

We had our Christmas Holiday Party this year, and I finally got something good in the white elephant gift exchange.

So true, so true.

The girl sitting next to me got an off-white ceramic vase that looked like two opera gloved hands reaching up into the air. The opening for the vase was in the palms of the hands. Yikes, it's awful.

The Whole Package

http://www.theydrawandcook.com/2010/12/thimble-cookies-by-echo-and-celeste.html

I encountered this blog last week, and I can't believe how very cool They Draw and Cook is! There are multiple postings every day of artists' illustrations of their favorite recipes, and right now they're featuring holiday-themed recipes. Not only is the art fantastic, but the food and drinks all sound delicious as well. I can't wait to try some of them out.

http://www.theydrawandcook.com/2010/12/todays-food-network-favorite-rudolphs.html

http://www.theydrawandcook.com/2010/12/tartiflette-by-elisabeth-lafon.html

Naked Turkish

One experience I did not expect to have when we headed to Turkey was being naked among the Turks. This is because I had not really read up on what to do in Turkey because if I had, one of the things on nearly every list is to visit a Hamam, or Turkish bath.
 Our impending trip to the Hamam came up in conversation at breakfast with a large group of Americans also living in Turkey. I became very nervous about the trip after hearing from the girls in the group, "Be prepared, they'll be fascinated with your nipples" and "Turkish woman can't handle how hairy we are." WHAT?! My unease skyrocketed. "Just how naked am I going to have to be? Also, THEY ARE GOING TO COMMENT ON MY NIPPLES TO EACH OTHER? In Turkish?! Should I find out the word for nipples so I know if they're commenting, or do I want to stay oblivious?"

It didn't help my comfort level that Nathan would have our friend Sean with him to translate, and I would be heading in alone as there are separate baths for men and women. The hamam we were headed to was the historic, the Cagaloglu Hamami, which was built by Sultan Mahmut the 1st in 1741 to provide revenue for the Hagia Sophia Mosque. I'll tell you a bit about Sultan Mahmut and the Hagia Sophia in subsequent posts, I'm sure.

We paid for our bath and a scrub down, got our kese (basically a loofah mitten) and the little blocks that showed what level of bath we had paid for, and headed into the main room together. Immediately I had a hail of Turkish being spoken at me. "This is the waiting area for the men," Sean explained. Oh.

"How is this going to work?" I asked. "Aren't you guys going to be in there longer than me? Should I just wait for you when I get out?"

"Aim for 7:30," he said. If you need to ask someone what time it is, say "Zaman yedi tane otuz tane?" he added.

I headed down the woman's hallway. The hallway opened up into an atrium with balconies that went up two stories on either side. I was directed up a flight of stairs and led to a little paneled room with cubby holes. I was given a key to one, told to undress down to my underwear, handed a small red towel, a peshtamal, to wrap around my waist and plastic sandals to wear into the main room. As I shuffled topless down the hallway, I suddenly realized I couldn't remember my Turkish phrase, not even a little bit. Something yedi something otuz...ugh. Apparently my Turkish disappeared along with my shirt.

The woman's area looks just like this.

I made it to the main room, which featured a gobek tasi, a large marble octagon-shaped stone about 2 feet off the floor on which approximately 25 people (in this case, topless women of varying nationalities), could comfortably fit lying down. Apparently, a fire is built under this large marble stone, which heats the room and causes a sauna-like atmosphere. The women lying in the center of the stone were steaming as they waited for their turn to move to one of the 8 sides where they will be scraped, massaged, and washed. I climbed up past the equally topless tellaks (women who are a combination of masseuse and washerwoman) spread my towel out on the marble and laid down.

A view of the ceiling in the main room of the Cagaloglu Hamam.

It was somewhat difficult to relax as I was wracking my brain to remember my Turkish phrase, and I kept getting smacked on the forehead with the large droplets of water that were falling down three stories from the beautiful domed ceiling, but the room was lovely. Everyone's voices were that combination of echoed and muffled like you often hear at an indoor pool. Splashing sounds came from the little alcoves around the room where women were having their hair washed. A tellak tapped me on the ankle and gestured me to the edge of her corner. I scooted myself into position on my back and handed her the little block that said that I had also paid for a keselenmek, which is basically an exfoliating scrub down.

The dark, short and bent old woman doused me with a bucket of warm water and set about scrubbing my arms, stomach, and legs with my kese. I had heard that the mitten ends up gray with dead skin, but I must have been remarkably exfoliated already because mine was unsatisfactorily the original beige color after my scrubbing. She rinsed me, then brought out a large bag with a small bar of soap in it. She accordianed the bag causing a cascade of bubbles to drip down out of it onto my stomach, which is a very odd, though soothing, sensation. She then soaped me up and massaged my arms, clavicle area, then had me flip so she could get my back, shoulders, legs, and then feet. Surprisingly enjoyable, especially because thankfully she avoided the particularly awkward areas. I had been psyching myself up to be cool with whatever was coming my way because I didn't want to come across as a prudish American. I suppose my sigh of relief gave me away anyway though.

After the final bucket of water over the top of my head, she pointed me into an alcove behind her to await a thorough hair washing. I sat there alone, with my bangs dripping in my eyes, in my underwear, holding my sopping and cold peshtamal and wondered if I had understood her correctly. Wait here? For her? She looked busy in there. I gingerly pulled a copper bowl out of the cistern next to me and dumped it over my head.Was that it? I stood up. I sat back down. I stood up and peered out the arched doorway. A different old bent lady in her underwear waddled over with some shampoo. She uttered a string of Turkish which I took to mean go back in and sit down. So I did. She soaped up my hair and then poured another bucket of water on my head. Somewhat less soothing this time. I was getting tired of buckets of water on my head.

Then she pointed across the room and said something more in Turkish. I found my sandals and shuffled questioningly across the room to another alcove. This one had a neck-deep pool in it with a small fountain arching over one end. I stepped out of my sandals and into the pool. Sitting in a pool in a small low lit room by yourself is not the most stimulating of experiences, so I spent 10 minutes or so floating and then I headed back out to the marble slab. I laid there for what felt like hours (but was likely only 5 minutes) and decided it must be 7:30 now. I headed out into the foyer to find out.

Men's Waiting Area
Frank Tophoven/Laif/Redux

My mangled phrase brought only a look of utter confusion from the tea lady until I pointed at the imaginary watch on my wrist. She promptly pointed at the clock on the wall to my right. Ugh. Also, it was not yet 6:30. This was going to be awhile. I ordered some apple tea, realized I had no pockets and therefore, no lira, and was at a loss. The lady explained in very limited English that I could pay after I got dressed.  At 6:30, I headed up to change my clothes, peered out into the men's waiting room, got stared at a whole lot, (my boys not in sight) and picked a seat to wait, hoping that they'd venture out before 7:30.

Luckily, they did. Their experience had been similar, though they didn't have a pool to luxuriate in like the women. We organized our tips, and I ventured in to find my particular bent, half-naked old woman to tip. I couldn't identify her, so I tipped the lady who was in the corner where I had been and hoped that it was her. We set out into the evening, clean, smooth, and exhausted. Apparently, luxuriating takes it out of you.


All images from Google Search. Yours? Let me know, and I'll credit them.

So Much to Do

As thoughts of all I have to get done this week swirled through my head, I came upon this print.

How fitting.

Seb Lester,  http://www.seblester.co.uk/

Teşekkür Ederiz (Teh-shek-urr Ed-eh-reem) Turkey!

Which means, thank you very much, (I tend to think of it as "with sugar on top" because I remember the phrase as two-sugar dream), and is pretty much the only Turkish I managed to learn. Sadly, it took me seeing it on a receipt in the airport on our way out of Istanbul for me to fully wrap my head around the pronunciation, so it was not used to impress the locals.

Actually, I did not feel that we did a particularly good job of impressing the locals while we were there except when we were able to assure countless people (taxi drivers, shop keepers, anyone else realizing that we were American) that yes, we did vote for Obama, and we were indeed very glad that he is President. Don't get me wrong, people were certainly welcoming of us, and very nice, but the complete lack of language skills left us feeling rather lost, pathetic, and as if we were unappreciative of their culture (far from the truth).

Both Nathan and I lapsed into a variety of unhelpful Romance languages as we attempted to communicate. Obviously, my pidgin French and his Spanish were of no help as Turkish is based on languages from Central Asia (Oghuz). Funnily enough we did get the occasional "auf wiedersein" from shop keepers. I could not decide if I was more flattered to be mistaken as a nationality other than American (sorry, but we just don't have good reputations abroad, guys) or offended that people thought I was German. Couldn't I be French or Italian? Looking in the mirror, of course, I realize that this is an absurd wish.

Yeni Rakü-
Never trust a drink that turns cloudy in water.

A curious note about Turkish: if the "i" is dotted the "i" sound is a long e sound (see above in the "reem" part), if not, the i has a completely different pronunciation. Beats me what. (I was probably told this, but I'm sure it was during one of the countless times I was repeating "teşekkür ederiz" to myself in the hopes that I would manage not to mangle it my next attempt.) I also remember that there are eight vowels, based on four of the vowels we have, but with each of the four having two different pronunciations that actually make them separate vowels. This means that even now I butcher the pronunciation of Rakü (Ruck-uh), the Turkish alcohol that we had at dinner one night. Sadly, it's gross, unless you like anise.

It's interesting that I started my Turkey posts with the language. Obvious, I suppose, since that's the first thing you encounter in a foreign country that truly convinces you that you're "not in Kansas anymore," but in our case the language was the first of many Turkey experiences that humbled us. I'll definitely touch on some of the other experiences in subsequent posts, but I hadn't realized until now that humility played such a big part in our trip. Please don't mistake humility for humiliation because none of our experiences were bad, just humbling.

Being dependent on others for directions, patience, forgiveness, and even (in the case of our trip to the Hamam, the Turkish baths) their washing of you are complicated situations to face. It was hard. Frustrating to get lost and not understand ANY of the signs, difficult to be asked what you are sure is a basic question and be completely clueless, and uncomfortable to be (mostly) naked around strangers you can't understand. Nathan and I are pretty good travelers; we talk to strangers, we ask questions; we make connections, so it was certainly extra hard to swallow our pride in how self-sufficient and adventurous we are in our travel when suddenly we couldn't. But that's where the humbling came in. Humility makes us aware. Aware of the sights and sounds of the city, sure, but also of connections to strangers even without language and the effort that they take to make these connections.

Our lovely cab driver, Hamdi, who collected us from the airport and assured us that Sean had sent him though he knew a handful more English than we knew Turkish. Even without the ability to have a conversation, he still wanted to take us to lunch, talk to us about the city, and tried to turn down payment for the cab ride. We had encounters like this all through our trip: the cab drivers who were anxious to get our take on politics, Turkey, etc.; the stooped ladies at the Hamam who were especially kind when I was clueless on how to pay for my tea while wearing just a towel; the football fans who were thrilled to see we were supporting their team and many more.

 

I'm sure the discomforts of this trip will fade from my memory, but I'm particularly glad we had them because they made some of the trip highlights much more vivid (a row of seated quiet hajj-goers sitting in front of the airport window swathed all in white, a crowded smoke-filled patio filled with red and black beanbag chairs upon which lounging backgammon players all sat, enamored by a tiny feral kitten scampering about, exhaling hookah smoke in smoke rings above their heads, and standing on the steps of the Blue Mosque as the sun sets and the call to prayer crackles to life) and forced me to grow as a traveler. I'll certainly learn how to say "thank you" in Japanese and Korean before our next trip at least, that's for sure!

All photos by me, Hanna McArdle, 2010.

Recent Conversation #6

Me: I had a disturbingly realistic dream about being pregnant last night. What I remember most about it was being pissed that I was going to be pregnant at Jess's wedding and trying to figure out how to still get an MBA. I was really relieved to realize it was just a dream.

Him:...Don't take this the wrong way, but I think you're going to be a very difficult pregnant wife.

Me: (Cackling maniacally.) You think? That just a niggling concern that you have?

I Need a Killer App

In the last month, we've been asked to bring an appetizer (oh, you were thinking technology, were you?) to at least two dinner parties. I have started to gain a repertoire of certain go-to recipes for a variety of dishes, but a fabulous appetizer is not among them yet. If I were allowed (Nathan is so picky!) to use something with puff pastry as a main ingredient, I would be set (super-tasty brie and raspberry tartlets, anyone?), but taking pastry off the table means that cheap and quick and "the best thing you ever put in your mouth" seem to go out the window.

The Food Channel c2009

For the first dinner party, we decided on prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, which I sort of guessed at since we had them at a catered party earlier this year. I roasted the asparagus in the oven after shaking the spears with olive oil, kosher salt, and pepper. Then I wrapped them in prosciutto slices and refrigerated them overnight (later we decided the prosciutto needed crisping in the oven too, so we put them back in right before serving). Next time I make these, I will definitely try wrapping the prosciutto before roasting the asparagus because I think that will both save time and keep the asparagus a little more crisp.  This was a pretty easy appetizer, though I would recommend it for a small group as large amounts of prosciutto and asparagus can be expensive (especially when asparagus is not in season).

Kara/www. forkedchicago.com

The most recent dinner that required appetizers was much bigger, so we needed to go bigger. After perusing many a cookbook (Nathan perused; I vetoed. No, we're not roasting chestnuts. No. No. Eh, too time consuming. No, I'm not going to attempt sushi for a Thanksgiving appetizer, sorry. Easy, babe, we're looking for easy.) We settled on stuffed cherry tomatoes (though cherry tomatoes were also not in season). Nathan picked three fillings: white bean puree, olive tapenade, and a bread mixture from the Martha Stewart Hors d'Oeuvres Handbook (yes, that meant quite a lot of ingredients and preparation, among them frying sage leaves to top the bean puree). I cored and scooped all of the cherry tomatoes. I made 60. It took awhile, but I got decent at it, and didn't wreck any of the tomatoes, although I'm sure Martha would not have approved of all of them, since some looked a bit raggedy. They were tasty, though not particularly inexpensive. I don't know if I will do them again anytime soon because the expense to prep time to tastiness ratio was (high? low?)...not what I was looking for it to be.

So that leaves us where we are now. Still looking for that illusive appetizer recipe. The one that elicits raves and leaves people eying the platter, contemplating licking it clean to get those last little bits. I'm worried that with the exclusion of puff pastry as an ingredient, it can't be found.