Is this why my culinary aspirations have stalled?  Is this why I’m jealous of my fellow chef’s accomplishments while I look on from the sidelines?  In the kitchen, I’m focused on the final dish, the finished product,  what the other chefs are doing, and how I don’t measure up.  What if I gave myself permission to play in the kitchen, if I tried to make a dozen awful dishes, if I cooked like no one was watching?

My version needs tweaking – a thinner slice on the rinds, a bit less sugar and more lavender.  I think I might try canning chutney this weekend.

Lemon Lavender Marmalade

source: ehow.com

Why would strong, intelligent, self-sufficient women allow the 1970’s hairy muffs to fade out of vogue??!!

It’s been some time since I’ve had a bikini wax.  In fact, the last time I endured this torture, the term “Brazilian wax” was just beginning to be uttered – and was consider too risqué by the salon I  frequented.  Don’t misunderstand – my boxwood is finely pruned, but I’ve been a home gardener for the last five or six years.

Well, it’s the guy’s birthday this weekend, so I thought I’d surprise him with a professional hair cut. I had an appointment last night for a “playboy wax”.

When I arrive at the salon, I’m ushered into a dimly lit room and told to undress – shoes, pants and panties. I still have my silk work blouse on. I hop up on the table, scooting my hooha toward the foot with my head on a bolster. The esthetician walks in, flips on an incredibly bright spotlight pointed directly at my nappy dugout and spreads my knees.  No time for long introductions, show me your goods and let’s get down to business. Warm wax is smoothed on a patch.  The feeling is quite pleasant – like warm maple syrup.  A cloth strip is placed over the wax, gently, lovingly and then – RIP!!!  A huge snatch patch is torn out by the roots.  Over and over again, warm wax, soft strip, RIP!!   I try not to flinch, but I know the RIP!! is coming and I feel like I’m jumping an inch off the table. The patch of hair never comes out completely clean, so she reapplies the strip over the same spot to remove the stragglers. There’s a rhythm to it – wax (nice!), strip (also nice) RIP!! (pain), rip (pain), rip (pain) rip (pain).  I try to breathe, relax, close my eyes….but, oh this just isn’t a normal trip to the spa! “Now for the Yoga,” she says in her thick Russian accent.  “Yoga?” I think, “what’s this?  I get yoga with my torture?  Hasn’t she done all she needs to do down there?” My knees go above my head, I grab the back of my thighs – she’s got a full view of my kit – and my caboodle!  I’m made baby smooth – with all modesty discarded.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sore and a bit raw with sticky wax remnants in the danger zone (“no, I’m fine.  No need to clean there”). She’s left me with just an inch of landing strip. Yes, I paid money for this and, yes, I tip her as well.

Nectarine and Preserved Lemon Ice Cream

2 cups fresh nectarines, seeded and unpeeled

3-4 slices preserved lemon, finely chopped

1 1/4   cups sugar

Juice of 1/2 lemon

2 large eggs

2 cups heavy cream

1 cup milk

1/2 – 1 vanilla bean pod, scraped

Puree nectarines in a food processor.  Add 1/2 cup sugar and lemon juice and combine.  Add preserved lemon to taste.  Cover and refrigerate for 2 hours, stirring the mixture occasionally. Test flavor and add additional preserved lemon if needed.

Whisk the eggs in a mixing bowl until light and fluffy, about two minutes.  Whisk in 3/4 cup sugar, 1/4 cup at a time.  Whisk for 1 minute more until completely blended.  Add cream, milk and vanilla bean and whisk to blend. Add 1/2 of the puree and blend.

Transfer to an ice cream maker and freeze following the manufacturer’s instructions.  About 2 minutes before ice cream is done, add remaining puree. **

** Adapted from Ben and Jerry’s Fresh Georgia Peach Ice Cream

from pul.se

He glared at me filled with bitter rage, His 6’1” hulk towered over my child’s frame.  “Goddammit, you’re going to ride that bike and I don’t want to see you again for at least an hour.”

We were visiting my parent’s friends, Bob and Sarah, in Cedar City.  My brothers and sisters were old enough to stay home and bow out of this trip.  I was only 10 or 11 and had to go with them.  I was alone with my parents.

Bob, an older, retired man, realized I was most likely bored moping around their house while the adults sat around the kitchen table, catching up.  He offered me use of an old bike.  Scared of being a bother, I declined the first two times he brought it up.  By day five, however, I was going stir crazy and asked if he minded my using it.

I shrunk in horror when I realized the bike was located in the far recessed corner of the shed. “No, no,” I wanted to shout, “Nevermind, please, its okay.” Bob moved the mower out of the shed, rearranged the aluminum lawn chairs and wrestled the bike to the grass with a clatter.  My father looked on.

As soon as he set the bike down, I knew I was over my head.  It was a dusty, black men’s ten-speed and the top of the frame landed somewhere between my navel and my chest.  This bike was much too large for me.  I bravely took it over to the porch steps, swung a tentative leg over the center bar and took off – my feet didn’t touch the ground.  I rode it down the sidewalk without a hitch, but when I stopped to turn around, I instinctively jumped down, smacking my pubic bone hard on the center cross bar.

I dismounted the bike and limped my way back to the house.  “I think it’s too big for me,” I said as I brought the bike back to the porch.  My father would have none of it.  The malevolence that could flash from his eyes towards his own child always overwhelmed and shrunk me. I had inconvenienced Bob by asking to use the bike and I was expected to ride it now – to hell with safety or injury.  My father looked at me as if he wanted to squash me like a gnat if he could.

Upon waking this morning, I remembered this incident from my childhood.  I remember riding the bike back and forth in front of the clapboard houses, as I was commanded, dreading the end to the sidewalk where I must stop.  I tried using the fence to assist my dismount.  Almost every time, I bruised myself on the crossbar. I road the bike for an hour, came home, and didn’t ask Bob for anything again.

1. A pair of vintage 1940’s pumps, worn by me once
2. A autographed Hootie and the Blowfish CD – an embarrassment; don’t ask why I had it
3. A stamp collection started at age 12
4. A talking translator, in need of batteries
5. A pair of binoculars
6. A chipped cheese plate and spreaders

This auction-fest was less lucrative.  I cleared $62.51, with the big seller being the translator for $21.50.  The binoculars did not sell.

Things I’ve learned:

1. Auction small, easily packable things
2. Auction things that don’t break easily
3. Auction light things – postage costs are mostly determined by weight
4. People will buy anything, including expired film and chipped plates

I came to a decision about my posts – one of those “not so big things”.  You see, I’ve reduced their quantity.  I’ve marked all of the boyfriend posts “private”.  It’s time.  He’s no longer just some guy in my life – he’s important – and I would never want him to be hurt by the discovery of my silly musings.   If I can’t tell him my thoughts about us, I shouldn’t be telling you.  He deserves the most respect I can give him now, even if that means a less interesting blog.

“Aparigraha”.  The concept came to me in the middle of yoga class, when I was supposed to be focused on my breathing.  “Aparigraha”.  There was my answer.

Aparigraha is the yogic Sanskrit term for “non-grasping”.  Non-grasping, letting go, or “non-attachment” for the Buddhists out there.  All of this pain associated with my new work situation and the uncertain relationship status with the guy are a result of my grasping, my attachment.

In this life, nothing is FOREVER.  People, jobs and things come and go in our lives.  It may be a marriage for 20 year – or even 50 years, a relationship that’s 9 months new, or a career of 10 years, but at some point, change happens.

In life, forever doesn’t exist – we die, we change, they change, things wear out, get lost – things get broken.   We should delight in what we have NOW (its OK to hope that the good things lasts a very, very, very long time) – and temper our mourning when things must change and move on across the sky.

What’s on the auction block next?

I began thinking about how easy it would be for me to throw away 50 things – and what a waste. Instead of throwing out, how about finding someone who wants it?  Some of these “things” in my life have value, or their vintage, or irreplaceable (if only because no one makes them anymore).  Also, I can make MONEY if I sell them. So, instead of throwing out 50 things,  I decided to Ebay them.  To begin my purging process, I planned to sell some of my film camera equipment (quickly to be replaced with my new digital camera), but I came across other junk before I even got to the cameras. Stuff much easier to ship. If I get more than 99 cents for any of them, I’ll consider each sale a success.  Here are my first items:

Maui Jim Sunglasses – 2 pair.  Used.

God-awful ugly salt and pepper shakers that an ex-boyfriend gave me 10 years ago. Yes, they are pink cows. I really should re-gift these, just to see the reaction.

A flash for an old Canon camera. 

An old Polaroid instant camera and a pack of film that expired in 2003

And the best…expired 35mm film from 2002 and 2003.

Let the bidding begin!