Embarrassment of Riches

The lost days

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Fri, 17 May 2013 10:50:00 +0000

I developed chest pain two Saturdays ago while lying in bed (we had slept in instead of going on our usual run). I gripped my chest all the way to Fort Green for a doughnut at the Brooklyn Flea. Surely it's just a pulled muscle, I thought. l had to ask Shawn - repeatedly - to slow down on our walk to Brooklyn Heights Saturday afternoon. And then on Sunday morning, as we started out on our run, even a light jog caused an excruciating vise-like sensation in my chest. The possibility that this was a muscle pull grew dimmer with each footfall. After only a few blocks, I dejectedly threw in the towel. I was pissed that this mysterious chest pain was cutting into my running - so pissed that after some anxiety-inducing Googling, I decided to spend a beautiful afternoon in the emergency department to get to the bottom of it. Shawn thought I was being a bit of an alarmist.

I'm glad I sought out good care instead of heading to the closest hospital. An x-ray and an ultrasound showed that I had primary spontaneous pneumothorax (a partially-collapsed lung), and before I knew it, I was being sedated in order for two cardiothoracic surgery fellows to insert nine inches of tubing into my chest cavity (via a space between my ribs). For three days, I stayed at the hospital as fluids (mainly blood) were suctioned out of me into a little box that went everywhere I did (and because that tube was so painful, everywhere consisted solely of my gurney and the bathroom 10 feet away from it). As for the cause, it could have been a fluke, or pulmonary endometriosis, which I met all of the criteria for.

I had a collapsed lung and all I got was this lousy pillow

Between Sunday and Wednesday afternoons, I was often distracted from the pain and boredom by sweet emails, texts, calls, gifts, and visits. Shawn was a fixture at my bedside, winning the nurses over after an initial Terms of Endearment-style tantrum about my staggeringly high blood pressure (it was 180/110 at first) and lack of pain meds. He brought me my favorite foods because the hospital meals were unsurprisingly awful, and tried to steer guests away from questions about my health and toward gossipy, lighter conversations. At the time, I was thankful it was in me that hospital bed and not him, but then it dawned on me that my husband actually had it worse than I did. He was so terrified for my health, and hated those times when I was in agony, that the whole experience took more of a toll on him than on me. I hope none of my loved ones ever have to spend time in the hospital - it's awful for everyone involved.

This contraption helps me build up lung capacity

The moral of the story? If you think something is wrong, don't ignore that little voice in your head.

Ice Cream Social

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 22:19:00 +0000

After a year and a half of living in our Park Slope apartment, I decided it was high time to entertain. The house was coming along (I'll share some photos soon!) and I had several separate groups of girlfriends I wanted to bring together. An artisanal ice cream-tasting was admittedly precious, but I wanted to give guests a task to focus on in the event of conversational lulls (which ended up being few and far between).

I set out pints (nine in all) and many, many little spoons for sampling. There were also scoops and bowls for those who decided to commit to a flavor. The long ice-filled tray of ice cream on my big farm table was quite a sight to behold; regrettably, because I was scrambling to get ready, I didn't have time to take many pictures.

It's not a party without prosecco

With Usha and Shawn's help, I converted one wall of my husband's office into a photobooth of crepe-paper streamers, since much of his photography gear, including a giant lightbox, was set up there already. Guests naturally gravitated toward the ice cream one room over, so pictures were once again an afterthought.

Rachel and me

I ordered the crepe paper from PaperMart.com and spent an evening cutting it up while glued to the news (at the time, authorities were closing in on the Boston marathon bombing suspect). The metal tray was purchased from Jamali, a treasure trove of vases and other garden-supply accessories that I pass when I take the long way in to work. I'm currently trying to figure how to utilize it for my next party (too bad we can't stand seafood; it would work wonderfully as a raw bar). Cash and Carry Paper, an amazing store in Indianapolis, came through for me on the tasting spoons when so many other retailers failed. I had taken an impromtu trip there two days before the party (not for spoons of course, because that would be certifiable). Sadly they don't ship.

P.S. Daina has more pictures of the party on her blog.

Day Trip to Napa

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 01:31:00 +0000

About a week before we left for San Francisco, I confessed to Shawn that I had done something a bit impulsive related to our trip. "Tell me you didn't register for a race there, did you?" he asked wearily. See, in 2012, Shawn chauffeured me to three different marathons, logging over 3,000 miles behind the wheel. For one of those races, we were supposed to fly, but Hurricane Sandy changed our transportation plans. With those unused plane tickets, I promised Shawn we'd go to a destination of his choice - and there would be no running involved. He chose San Francisco. We timed it to coincide with our eighth wedding anniversary.

Fortunately, he needn't have been exasperated - I had booked us a rental car to drive to Napa for the day. It wasn't initially on our trip agenda, but it ended up being the perfect way to spend the last day of our vacation, which happened to be our actual anniversary.

A Day and a Half in San Francisco

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 23:04:00 +0000

I had an incredible tour guide on my first trip to San Francisco, so for Shawn's inaugural visit, he and I essentially retraced the steps Lauren took me on. From our hotel, we walked up Fillmore to the Marina District, where we had lunch at Tacolicious (we were on East Coast time, and we were famished). We walked back and forth on Chesnut Street then headed to the water, where we strolled along the Embarcadero to Crissy Field. We gazed at the Golden Gate Bridge from the beach for a while, then headed over to the Palace of Fine Arts, which Shawn found as impressive as I originally did. (It didn't help that the weather was absolutely perfect.) From there, we talked up Lyon Street. "This street is rather....unremarkable. Does it get better?" Shawn asked. A minute later, he saw the famed steps looming in the distance. He was incredulous: "Are we going to climb those?" We were sweating by the time we reached the top. A stroll through Pacific Heights took us back to our hotel. That night, we had dinner at State Bird Provisions (a tough reservations to come by back in January, but luckily I'm both a planner and an early-riser). It was deemed the best new restaurant of 2012 by Bon Appetit, but no one who worked there let that go to their heads. Everyone was so nice. (Our server, who could have passed for Chris Parnell: "You've never been here before? You're going to love it. This place is off the chain!")

On Sunday morning, we rode the bus to the Mission and hopped on line at Tartine. The forty-five minutes flew by because of the sweet girl in front of us who struck up a conversation. A gentleman in front of her and the couple in front of him joined in too. Again, we marveled at how friendly San Franciscans were. Figuring we might as well make our time in line count, we ordered a morning bun, a frangipane croissant, and a double pain au chocolate by the time we finally got to the pastry case. After breakfast, we traversed the blocks of the Mission (Shawn stumbled upon lots of street art, minutes after remarking that San Francisco lacked it), until a downpour (apparently uncharacteristic for San Francisco) forced us into Farina for several drinks. We had hoped to watch the Sexy Jesus contest in Mission Dolores Park, but alas, it had been cancelled. That night, after climbing the hills to Union Street to window shop, we met up with Lauren and Taylor for a meal at flour + water. As they drove us back to our hotel the long way, I realized how much more of San Francisco there was to explore. It would have to wait for our next visit, because we had planned to spend our last day in Napa.

San Francisco: Where We Stayed

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Sat, 06 Apr 2013 00:25:00 +0000

Shawn and I spent last weekend in San Francisco, and since a highlight of the trip was the very first place we landed (not including the airport), I thought I'd start there.

When I visited my friend Lauren in San Francisco a year and a half ago, we spent some time on a pretty stretch of Fillmore filled with boutiques and restaurants. It's the area I zeroed in on right away when searching for a hotel for us. Most of the lodging in the city seems to be concentrated in the Financial District, Union Square, and Fisherman's Wharf - three areas we didn't even plan to visit, let alone stay in.

I used Yelp to find hotels near a block on Fillmore I remembered liking, which led me to Artists Inn. Usually I'm willing to pay a little bit more for character, but this time it wasn't necessary - the rates were very reasonable. When we arrived, we were welcomed by the owner, Denise, who walked us through her home, out the back door, and through a lovely courtyard to show us to the Studio room. (There was a back entrance so that we didn't always have to come in and out of her house.)

I wish we could live in that studio (it would actually be possible - there's a kitchen and a full bath). It had high beamed ceilings, was filled with light, and there was art everywhere.

My husband couldn't help but look through all the art. He remarked "this guy is obsessed with a redhead" (we knew the artist was a man because there was a stack of his business cards on the counter). When Shawn said, "I wonder what his story is," I googled the artist to find out he was the late husband of the woman who had shown us to our room. (The obituary even included her nickname - "redhead.") I had a nice little cry from that realization.

This hotel made a wonderful trip really spectacular. We liked it so much that we ended up cancelling our restaurant reservation and celebrating our anniversary there on our last night with takeout pizza and a bottle of wine purchased in Napa earlier that day.

An Update

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 01:37:00 +0000

Here's what I've been up to...

Following the Rehoboth marathon, I took a two-week hiatus from running. Shortly after resuming my favorite pastime, my right knee decided it had other plans for me. I had to cease running for two months. There's a particular kind of grief associated with running injuries; I would add anxiety (already in no short supply!) to denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Fortunately, unlike last time, I've cycled through the stages quickly - quite literally, in fact.

I have joined the ranks of those who are addicted to SoulCycle. My love for SoulCycle is not unapologetic; I'm often justifying it to myself and sometimes even to others. It's outrageously expensive. SoulCycle so very carefully calibrates their brand and cultivates an aura of exclusivity, practices that usually make me bristle. Plus, I've never been a fan of the pack mentality - there's a reason I didn't join a sorority in college. But I'll be damned if those 45 minutes aren't the highlight of my day. Still, at $34 a pop, I still really hem and haw over the cost. I don't belong to a gym, don't have daily a Starbucks habit, and I brown-bag my lunch on weekdays. SoulCycle dates with my husband (who went from reluctant to fanatical after one class) have supplanted our dinners out. For now, this line of reasoning justifies two rides a week (I am fiercely loyal to Stevie and Ben T).

Recently I started physical therapy to strengthen and stabilize my knee, and I'm beginning to build my mileage back up. Shawn has been running with me again, so even though we're only logging five miles three times a week, at least we're doing them quickly - he really pushes the pace. I may curse him at the time (in between gasping for breath), but I'm thankful for his company, and for making me a stronger runner. We've been ending our weekend runs at one of our favorite restaurants, where you can buy pastries and coffee from their to-go counter and eat it in the posh adjoining hotel lobby. (True story: Rachel and I once saw Bradley Cooper AND Leonardo DiCaprio there while nibbling on muffins.)

Lest you think I eat nothing but baked goods, let me disabuse you of that notion. Since the New Year, I've been carefully monitoring my caloric intake (I love the My Fitness Pal app). 1350 calories don't go very far, so the old days of wining and dining are no longer. With the extra time on my hands I've taken on some apartment-beautification projects (and well, yes, we've been streaming plenty of television series, too).

I've sewn pillow covers and shades for the living room with the Singer I got for Christmas. I painstakingly gold-leafed desk legs only to unbox the desktop to find a huge crack in it. Thanks, Ikea! And I finally painted my dressing room. What color did I paint it, you ask? I went wild and chose...white. Bright white. (It was a dingy off-white before).

This past winter I found myself more anxious than usual. Much of the time I was on edge, sure that I was about to witness some sort of calamitous event. The city that I loved so much started to look like an obstacle course of potential tragedies. I took a break from news (including twitter), which helped (though it had the understandable effect of leaving me pretty ignorant). Besides my ever-supportive husband, a contingent of girlfriends also really stepped up to keep me from completely retreating within myself. Rachel is my Soulcycle partner in crime; instead of getting together over wine and sushi, we spin and then indulge in softserve, our first shared obsession. Usha, Vanessa, Amanda, and I have a formed a supper club of sorts; dinner dates with them are always a treat. I also recently met up with Laurel, who I'm not entirely convinced isn't my sister from another mister, for a manicure at Valley Nails (below). I see lots more nail art in our future. And even though they're farther afield, I can always count on Lauren and my dearest, oldest friend Emily.

Spring holds so much promise; I'm looking forward to it.

Marathon #5

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 12:27:00 +0000

I finished the Indianapolis marathon hungry to run another, so I signed up for my spring race right away. It soon became clear that I couldn't wait til March to scratch the itch. A crazy plan began germinating: why not run another marathon asap? My best friend Emily raved about Rehoboth last year, and it met all of my requirements: flat, (ostensibly) cold, not crowded, and near enough that my poor husband wouldn't feel the need to accompany me. I impulsively signed up.

That night I blurted "IregisteredforaDecembermarathonbutdon'tworryyoudonthavetocome," hoping Shawn wouldn't be too exasperated. Even though I was giving him an out, he worries about me overtraining and injuring myself. I also felt guilty that we would be "losing" a weekend to running yet again. As soon as he got wind of the beer-soaked afterparty, he decided he didn't want the reprieve. In fact, he once again embraced his role as ground support with gusto (so much that my fellow runners "awwed" when he handed off my supplies to me).

Leading up to the Indianapolis marathon, I was a woman possessed. I studied the course map obsessively. I watched a time-lapse video of the course every day. I kept my social calendar clear the week before, lest any of my friends pass on a cold to me. The marathon consumed every waking moment and many of my sleeping ones, too (in the form of dreams). This time around, the most thought I gave to Saturday's race involved the weather forecast. Each time I checked it, the projected temperature had gone up. Then possibility of rain rose steadily too. Because my ideal running temperature is a crisp 30 degrees, I was positively panicking.

My lack of mental preparation (other than hand-wringing over the weather) meant that crossing the (unadorned) start line on Saturday was when it hit me: I had 26.2 miles ahead of me. It was an uncomfortable revelation. For the first 9 miles or so, I ran alongside Emily, who is much faster than I am. My (admittedly rather vague) pacing plan was already out the window and I worried my quick early miles would come back to haunt me. At the turnaround point for the half marathon, I contemplated taking it. I feared when I saw Shawn at mile 11, I'd throw in the towel - not because I was hurting (yet), but because the road ahead of me seemed endless. I simply couldn't fathom it. I did the only acceptable thing: shut my mind off, turn my shuffle on, and put one foot in front of the other.

These guys finished fourth, fifth, and sixth, respectively.
Knowing I would see Shawn again at mile 20 helped. The course was also quite pleasant: every few miles, the scenery changed drastically. There were wooded trails, neighborhoods, and a path through the dunes of Cape Henlopen State Park. It was an out and back course, but it wasn't soul-crushing the way the Toronto Goodlife Fitness marathon was. In fact, because I like familiarity, it was nice to double back over the same terrain I had already covered. As I had predicted, the time I borrowed at a very high interest rate for the first nine miles with Emily came due with 6.2 miles to go. Those last miles were a test: like the Austin and Toronto marathons, the only thing that kept me running was knowing the faster I went, the sooner I'd be done.

My fourth marathon was the most fun I've ever had while running, but in signing up for my fifth, I was chasing more than just that runner's high. I hadn't left it all out there in Indianapolis. It never felt hard. Only a few months ago I ran a 4:06. I wanted to see if I was really a 4:12 marathoner or if I had a faster race in me.

Gun time/chip time discrepancy of about a minute.

I can now safely say that yes, I am indeed a 4:12 marathoner, at least this season. Although it was a very different experience (certainly not as painless or euphoric), I replicated the end result from five weeks earlier: I crossed the finish line 4 hours, 12 minutes, and 29 seconds after I started, a whooping 23 seconds faster than I did in Indianapolis.

Double-fisting it. (Kidding! Those are Shawn's. No alcohol for me!)

A PR will have to wait. Another reason I ran this race is because I knew I needed to take a break from marathoning. Rehoboth was my swan song: I've vowed "no more marathons" for a year (though my conviction wavers with each passing day). This temporary, self-imposed restriction on distance isn't because I've lost my desire to run long, it's because I know myself well enough to realize I need to reduce my mileage for my health's sake. The more I run, the more unbalanced my body becomes.

With my running inspiration/childhood best friend Emily
I'll be back to Delaware in a year for my triumphant return to marathoning. I just pray it'll be colder next time.

Delaware Day Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 12:14:00 +0000

Despite spending my adolescence in Maryland, I never had been to Ocean City, Dewey Beach, or Rehoboth. (Booze-filled trips to the Eastern Shore were a rite of passage for my high school classmates, but that held zero appeal.) This past weekend, while visiting my parents in St. Michaels, Shawn and I took a quick trip to Rehoboth Beach. He shot these pictures there and in nearby Lewes Delaware while I was otherwise occupied (running a marathon).

Bergdorf Goodman's Holiday Windows

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 00:35:00 +0000

Our field trip to view Bergdorf Goodman's holiday windows was the advent activity for December 2. We both agreed this year's display wasn't quite as show-stopping as last year’s (also here and here). The streets were downright quiet compared to the usual hustle and bustle of midtown. Perhaps it's my imagination, but I think our collective mood is still dampened by Hurricane Sandy.

The 25 days of Christmas: 2012 edition

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 16:01:00 +0000

Last week, I realized with a start that the clock was ticking: if I was going to make an advent calendar for my overgrown child (Shawn), I needed to get my ass in gear and have it ready by December 1st. He loved last year's, and on Thursday night, when he confessed he was especially excited about the impending holiday season, I knew I couldn't not make one. We now have a full-blown yearly tradition on our hands here. Yesterday morning, I sneakily stopped by Jam Paper (heaven!) on my way to work to pick up my supplies. Because I always wake up incredibly early on Saturday mornings to do my long run, I knew I could pull this off as a surprise - none of that locking-myself-into-a-room-while-he-wonders-what-I-have-up-my-sleeve business. Oh no, I'm beyond that now. After getting dressed, eating toast, foam rolling, and stretching, I assembled everything while Shawn was still sleeping soundly. I slipped out the door at 6:30 for my run and he was none the wiser.

When I got home, Shawn woke up and finally ambled past me toward the wall of paper bags. I was trying to act nonchalant as I entered my splits into a spreadsheet while watching him out of the corner of my eye for his reaction. He let out a little "oh," covered his mouth with his hand, and looked like he was going to cry. The note in December 1st's bag directed Shawn toward his present.

I lucked out that my long run was also the perfect cover for the procurement of the first day's present: a little Christmas tree. We hadn't planned on getting a tree this year, but ornaments are one of my favorite advent gifts: inexpensive, timely, and sized perfectly for my little brown bags. Once I decided to make an advent calendar, a tree was back on the table (literally - it now sits in the center of it). I intentionally ended my 10 miles in Greenwich Village, where I knew I'd easily be able to find a tree merchant. Home my two-footer rode with me on the subway, where I left it outside our front door. (I even brought the newspaper in - and mentioned it to Shawn - so he wouldn't open the door and see the tree before he discovered the advent calendar. Let me tell ya, I did everything right to ensure I pulled this off.)

Shawn said he wasn't expecting an advent calendar this year, and the month of December snuck up on him anyway, so he was completely blindsided. The priceless look on his face definitely proved that I accomplished my mission.

Best Laid Plans

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 00:30:00 +0000

A while back, I emailed a grocery list to my mom so that we'd have all our usual favorites on the Thanksgiving dinner table. Shawn and I spent last week rhapsodizing about mashed potatoes and dressing and (vegetarian) gravy. Wednesday night, I baked two pies to take with us to Maryland - one double-crusted salty caramel apple; the other crumb-topped sour cream apple - so that I could concentrate on making my signature dish (macaroni and cheese casserole) once I arrived on Thursday. The Tofurky was in my parents' fridge, defrosted and ready to roast. Our dirty laundry was sorted and sitting at the door. All week we had been preparing our dog to see "grandma and grandpa" (said in a silly voice that gets her ridiculously excited every single time).

My alarm went off at 4 AM Thanksgiving day. We loaded up the car we occasionally borrow from our neighbors, buckled Chloe in, and turned the key in the ignition to set off on our journey...and the engine sputtered, then died. We had a dead battery on our hands and no recourse - there wasn't a car rental place or an auto repair garage in the borough that was open. A jump would have maybe gotten us to New Jersey, where we would have inevitably been stranded once we stopped to fill up the tank. While Shawn unloaded the car, I was on the phone with my mom (yes, I called her at 5 AM) bemoaning our situation when I heard the most horrific sound outside - metal on metal for what seemed like minutes. Just as I started to wonder what on earth was going on and why Shawn hadn't come back inside, he did - white as a ghost and shaking, having witnessed a car crash on the corner only to watch in horror from the passenger-side door, pie in hand, as one of the SUVs barreled up the street toward him, sideswiping parked cars all the way and sending sparks shooting out from its undercarriage. He barely escaped being hit (yet somehow didn't drop the pie). And just like that, my pity party was over thanks to a terrifying dose of perspective. (The driver was apprehended and arrested, but the occupants of the car it crashed into abandoned it, prompting what can only be described as a manhunt, helicopters and all. Their truck remained on our corner, totaled, for several hours.)

Once the morning's bizarre events were behind us and reality sunk in, I decided to put our traditional meal on the table anyway. I had the pie; I just needed everything else. Off to Whole Foods we went with a grocery list a mile long. Somehow I managed to pull everything together (and go for a nice long run) before sitting down to all of our favorites by 1 PM. My poor mother was left to make macaroni and cheese on her own, and had to buy store-made pie at the 11th hour. The Tofurky she had picked up didn't go to waste though, because we ate it when we finally arrived on Friday.

Marathon #4 (spoiler alert: I didn't collapse this time)

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Thu, 08 Nov 2012 12:16:00 +0000

I started training for the Indianapolis Monumental Marathon in July, and although the heat took a toll on me and my pace slipped, my enthusiasm never flagged. This time around, I needed no extrinsic motivation to continue on. My longest training runs were some of the best of my life, and I suspected the marathon would be too. Looking at my training spreadsheet, it was clear I was slower leading up to this marathon than I was for Toronto. I wouldn't run a sub-4 hour race or even my fastest time, but I was okay with that - I managed my own expectations extremely well.

Because our flight to Indianapolis was in question, Shawn calmed my are-we-even-going-to-get-there anxieties by suggesting we rent a car and drive out. For twelve hours, he played chauffeur while I rested my legs in the back seat with Chloe. On our way, I had a bad headache (something I get once a month, like clockwork). A handful of memorable times in my life it has developed into a crippling, vomit-inducing migraine, and in the middle of the night that's exactly what happened. I counted my blessings that this occurred two nights before the race, and reminded myself that nothing during the marathon could possibly be as painful.

The marathon went by in a flash - I rarely looked at my watch; I didn't care terribly about my time (which ended up being 4:12). My goal for this race was to enjoy myself, feel strong even during those last few miles, and not collapse at the finish. Mission accomplished. Shawn admitted afterward that he was concerned my mellow attitude toward time leading up to Saturday was just an act, and that I was secretly gunning for a big PR. Nope! I held back during the first few miles, letting the crowded course keep me in check. ("I'll see y'all again in about 16 miles," I kept thinking to myself.)

After mile 7, I slipped into a really comfortable groove, with my pace hovering right around 9:30/mile. I barely realized the miles were ticking by; I was too occupied with my surroundings. The homes on Washington Boulevard were as stately as I remembered them. Our house right off of College, where we lived from 2002 to 2005, looked exactly the same. Spectators were sparse, but their signs were hilarious. Half marathoners who were supposed to diverge from us at mile 7 were backtracking from mile 9 (they must have missed the turn-off?). Shawn, my hero, was waiting at miles 11 and 16.

Around mile 19, on a desolate stretch of White River Parkway, I finally pressed play on my shuffle. It was then that the drizzle turned to sleet, which I didn't mind one bit. I'd take it any day over heat and humidity (in my singlet and shorts, I think I was one of the least-dressed runners out there). The sleet pelted me for about four miles before turning to freezing rain. Even though the slick roads kept me from my goal pace, I was still flying past other runners by this point. My strategy had paid off: I had a lot of gas in the tank. Looking at the finishers data, only four other runners passed me in the last 7.8 miles of the race. Many of the runners making their way down Meridian were doing the death march, and I really felt for them – I’ve been there myself. I don’t relish passing others, but I could tell that several of my fellow marathoners seemed envious when I kicked past them in the final miles.

My finish seemed less remarkable than the dedication that so many others put into this race. Policemen and women subjected themselves to the ire of very angry motorists to keep runners safe at intersections. I made sure to say “thank you officer” each time I passed one. I tried to acknowledge every spectator and volunteer standing out in the freezing rain. In particular, there was one very dedicated person in the crowd. He zoomed around town to make sure he saw me at multiple points on the course, and he was waiting for me at the finish with our dog (because the hotel refused us a late check-out). Not only did Shawn keep me hydrated in the week leading up to the race (“drink!” he’d implore), he handed off fresh water bottles to me at miles 11 and 16, meaning I never had to slow down at water stations thanks to having my own supply. His outstretched arm also held opened packs of GU Chomps, a gelatinous brick of stuck nuggets he coaxed apart for ease of eating on the run. These precious supplies supplemented all the fuel I had crammed into my waist pack and started eating methodically every three miles from 5 on. I'm certain they kept me from ever hitting a wall or turning woozy, making their unpalatability worth it. Incredibly, during the race, as Shawn (in his distinctive red pants) would come into focus in the distance, I could see him moving toward the curb. Even in a crowd of runners, he always spotted me. I’d give him a big smile, thank him, and tell him I felt great as I snatched my supplies.

In all things, including and especially running, Shawn supports me far beyond what any sane person would. I never take his support for granted; in fact, I constantly marvel at it. Shawn drove me to Indianapolis and back to stand around in the freezing rain on a Saturday morning so that I could run a marathon. "Wouldn't you rather sleep in than wait around at various spots on the course to watch me run by?" I asked at the Toronto marathon, and I asked again at this one. He wouldn't hear of such a thing.

The smile on my face wasn't just for the cameras. I spent much of the 26.2 miles (well, 26.45 miles - I clearly didn't run all of the tangents well) with a goofy grin on my face. There were several times my eyes watered with happy tears. To be able to run so far (especially only a couple of years out from a cracked pelvis) and have someone cheering me on while doing it (just a few years after what seemed like the certain demise of our relationship) made me so incredibly grateful.

Marathon 4 is in the books; marathon 5 is on the calendar. I can only hope my next one is as fun as this one was.

Pictures 1, 2, 4, and 5 by Shawn.

Returning to Indianapolis

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 18:20:00 +0000

I lived in Indianapolis for almost 8 years after college. During that time, I scored my first grown-up job, married Shawn, bought a home, and got a dog. The city is also significant to me because it’s where I decided, come hell or high water, to become a runner. For the first couple of months in the spring of ‘08, I struggled within a few-block radius of my downtown neighborhood. Eventually I made it to Monument Circle a mile away, and then progressed to being able to run back home as well. Some of my fondest memories of the city were my runs on the canal, which I vowed not to set foot on until I could finish an entire 3-mile loop. Each of these milestones seemed momentous at the time.

Shawn and I eventually became a fixture of sorts; not a day went by when someone - be it a friend, acquaintance, or alarmingly, a stranger - remarked “I saw you guys out jogging.” Downtown was oddly bereft of runners, and we were admittedly recognizable, what with Shawn’s beard and my blond ponytail. The sight of us running together was nearly constant, until one day it wasn’t. At first that was because we had separated, but then, soon after reuniting, we left the Midwest for New York City.

Shortly after the Toronto marathon this past May, I began searching for my fall marathon. It had to be open for registration (eliminating sold-out Chicago), and it had to fall late enough in the season to likely be cold. Lack of hills was also a consideration. Indianapolis fit the bill on all counts, and it would be a hometown marathon of sorts.

When we arrived there Thursday night, most restaurants were closed at the late hour of 9:30. After a long drive, Shawn was more interested in a cocktail or two anyway, so we made a beeline to The Libertine, a bar that came into existence after we moved to New York. It turned out our bartender used to work at Clover Club, one of our favorite Cobble Hill haunts.

On Friday, our one full day in Indianapolis, we visited the three restaurants we miss the most - City Cafe for cornflake-crusted French toast, MacNivens for vegetarian haggis with neeps and tatties, and Yats for spinach-mushroom etoufee and b&b over rice with a few extra orders of bread. There is nothing like Yats in New York City; I savored every bite.

We also spent a few hours visiting with friends and walking around our old neighborhood, the Mass Ave district. Our beloved Julian Opie installation was still there, joined by some impressive new public art.

The period right before we left Indianapolis was characterized by heartbreak, and it surprised us both that our brief return dredged up a lot of difficult memories. Fortunately, I have new memories - 26.2 miles worth of them - to help edge out the old. (More on that later!)

Shoe Shopping

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Sun, 28 Oct 2012 00:22:00 +0000

Brooks: Run (Un)happy

After what has seemed like an endless training cycle, my next marathon is seven days out. As if sick cubiclemates, the impending Frankenstorm, and the reemergence of some suspicious aches and pains weren't enough to worry about, I've had a last-minute shoe freak-out. A few weeks back, I realized I was due for a new pair. Unfortunately, I discovered that sometime during the last 500 miles, Brooks "upgraded" the model I had grown quite fond of, and there were no more Ghost 4s to be found anywhere in my size. I grudgingly bought the Ghost 5s, despite my qualms about changing shoes so close to race day. Today my concerns were sadly validated when I finally figured out that the blister-inducing irritation to my heels was courtesy of the seams Brooks introduced to the new model. (As best I can tell, they just serve an aesthetic purpose - my heels may be in agony, but the lining is two-toned!)

See what I mean with the seams?

Cue the panic. This last-minute shopping assignment seemed akin to trying to find a flattering dress the day of one's high school reunion. Actually, I viewed it as a even higher-stakes endeavor: running shoes can literally make or break you (as I learned when Vibram Fivefingers likely caused my pelvic stress fractures).

Enter the Asics Gel Nimbus. (I know, I know - a brand change! So close to race day! Am I crazy?) I marched into a running store today to make sure they hadn't been drastically retooled since I last ran in them. I stopped wearing Asics about a year ago, after I became frustrated that pair after one-hundred-forty-dollar-pair disintegrated on me too quickly. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though: I plunked down the money knowing I just need these shoes to last me 26.2 miles. That is if pneumonia, a hurricane, or injury doesn't prevent me from stepping up to the start line in the first place.

Running in Riverside Park

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 16:08:00 +0000

When it comes to running, I am not a meanderer. My course is planned out the day before, and I don’t veer from it if I can help it. See, on long runs, I switch into auto-pilot mode to conserve my physical and mental energy, and a predetermined route is one less variable to worry about. So inflexible am I that a forced detour of only a block can really throw me off my game. A go-with-the-flow runner I am not.

That’s why, on Saturday, it was extremely uncharacteristic of me to swerve northward into Riverside Park instead of continuing along 79th Street to the Hudson River, where I planned to turn toward downtown. My stomach was overriding my usual desire for order: if I tacked on a few extra miles before turning around, I would finish near City Bakery instead of further south in Battery Park. Battery Park is woefully bereft of post-run snackage. It’s a depressing place to end a run. (I know what you’re wondering: why didn’t I continue along my planned route and simply stop a few miles short at City Bakery? Because I would have been upset with myself for not running my prescribed 16 miles.)

Maybe it was the endorphins, or the crisp air (oh, to not be soaked with sweat), but I was instantly enamored of Riverside Park. No one has ever implored me to visit. Central Park gets all the glory. Why have my friends on the Upper West Side never sung the praises of Riverside Park? There are flat, open boulevards as well as winding paths. Happy, frolicking dogs abound, but there are blessedly few bikers or fellow runners. Even the sound of traffic on the Henry Hudson Parkway was lovely.

I form very fond associations with many of the places I run. Often this is simply because I’m grateful my running habit has taken me to ground I would not normally tread upon during my day to day existence. On top of that, there’s the magic of having a normally-bustling area (say, Times Square) almost exclusively to myself. Shawn was diagnosed with a herniated disc this past spring, so I’ve been running alone. This solitude has fostered an even stronger connection to my routes. When I have company on runs, my surroundings fade into the background, but when I’m by myself, they take center stage.

I was so excited to “share” Riverside Park with my husband that early Sunday morning we packed breakfast along with the Times and took the subway uptown. I was nervous I had oversold it, but Shawn was impressed. (Dinosaur Playground alone probably would have made the trip worth it for him.) We walked from 96th Street to 122nd and then back down to 79th. I’m already counting down the days til I’ll return for another run.

We can pickle that

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 13:39:00 +0000

As a child, nothing sent me into full-on meltdown mode at a restaurant like the pile of pickles tarnishing my sandwich basket. Pickle juice is a fast-traveling, pungent contaminant whose only antidote is a decisive amputation: quarantine by knife-stroke. Even in adulthood, with my myriad food aversions, those limp slices are one of the most unwelcome sights on my plate. Shawn, bless him, will extract the offending pickles immediately, or, if he deems the contamination bad enough, deftly switch his sandwich with mine.

One thing I've learned, thanks to living in Brooklyn during the Golden Age of Artisanal Pickling, is that not all specimens deserve the scorn I've heaped on them my entire life. The two reasons for my revulsion - soggy texture and the flavor of dill - aren't universal to all pickles. Depending on the type of vegetable, the brine, and the method of pickling, I've come to actually enjoy pickles. My gateway pickles were spicy, crunchy ones Shawn insisted I try at Wilfie & Nell a couple of years ago. I liked them so much I inquired with our server about their provenance so that I could purchase a jar. They were McClure's, and they opened up a whole new world to me. A few months ago, my Dad was reading through my blog archives and noticed I had taken a picture of a jar of McClure's. He texted to tell me that he dated Jennifer McClure (her married name), pickle matriarch, back in high school. She made prizewinning pickles even back then, and Dad joked that, had things turned out differently, I could have been a part of the (differently-named) empire.

When the fine folks at CourseHorse reached out to me and offered a free class of my choosing, I was definitely dazzled by their extensive catalog. I've always wanted to learn how to throw pottery on a wheel, knit, sail, and play poker. But my newfound appreciation of pickles and my family connection to McClure's led me to choose a pickling class with McClure's pickles at The Brooklyn Kitchen (one of my favorite stores). I've been both intrigued by and fearful of hot-water canning (the boiling water! the threat of botulism!), so I figured I needed to arm myself with the skills to master this age-old practice.

As I swilled beer and noshed on pickles, the class listened to Bob (Jennifer's son, and co-owner of McClure's, along with his brother) explain how the company got its start. The class's location was fitting, since Brooklyn Kitchen was the first retail store to sell their pickles (and McClure's was the first food product to be sold at the store).

Bob then explained the process of hot-water canning, stressing the importance of sterilization and achieving the proper pH balance of the brine.

The hands-on portion came when we got to pack our very own jars full of cucumbers (I heaped on the red pepper flakes and skipped the dill). My pickles still need about a week before they're ready to eat, but even without testing them I'd say the class was a huge success.

Occasionally a friend from out of town will email wanting recommendations for a New York City-related present to give to a couple honeymooning here or a friend who just relocated to the area (last year I did a round up for Vanessa on this topic). My favorite gifts to give (and receive!) are experiences, but coordinating them can be tricky. I was actually going to suggest to CourseHorse that they sell gift certificates, but after poking around on their website I learned that they already do! It takes the hassle and guesswork out of giving an experience, and it's a great place to go for a pretty comprehensive listing of classes. (Many of the cooking classes I've taken over the past three-plus years here, like my tour of Murray's cheese caves and cupcake-baking, are listed on CourseHorse.)

I am not profiting in any way if you check out CourseHorse - I just think it's a great idea! They did pay my tuition for pickling class, but I'll definitely use them to register for courses (which aren't marked up from the price you'd pay if you went directly to the source) in the future (paying my own way, of course).

This post's title is a reference to this hilarious Portlandia skit.

Featured on...

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 17:35:00 +0000

During a chance encounter in the Flatiron District with Laura last Friday, she invited me to answer her five simple questions. Her blog offers a peek at a diverse bunch of folks, and I'm honored to be among them.

Off-leash

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 14:13:00 +0000

Until recently, Chloe had been off her leash outdoors a grand total of one time. Because she used that opportunity to take a flying leap from my parents' deck, she has remained tethered to either Shawn or me ever since. (Walking back from the gym on Saturday, we watched in horror as a pug dashed into busy 5th Avenue. The dog, miraculously, bounced off a sanitation truck's wheels and back toward the sidewalk, unharmed. The whole incident confirmed that you really can't be too careful.) Our landlords generously granted access to their fenced-in backyard while they were out of town, so Chloe was allowed to roam free under our watchful eye for the first time in ages.

As you can see, Chloe's hound instincts took over (though fortunately they weren't too strong: when a stunned squirrel fell into the flower bed, she was more perplexed than anything).

Happy Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 15:41:00 +0000

It was one of those mornings when oatmeal just wasn't going to cut it.

Tonight Shawn and I are going to Coney Island (I've only been once and it didn't end so well). I'll be waking up early tomorrow (by my calculations, about 3:30 AM) to get my first long run of this marathon training season in before the sun comes up. Then after our usual Saturday donuts and coffee, perhaps we'll head to the beach. On Sunday, two girlfriends and I are going to catch a showing of Magic Mike.

What's on deck for you this weekend?

The skin I'm in

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 20:17:00 +0000

True story: my skin has plagued me much of my life. I had acne all the way back in third grade, when I remember frantically rifling through my mother's makeup drawer the morning of my school's maypole dance for something to cover my blemishes with. (I settled not on concealer but a shimmery white Clinique eyeshadow - cringe). I've been on three courses of Accutane, one of which spanned most of my 20s. The drug is nothing short of miraculous but is (in my opinion) unfairly maligned.

My skin is finally clear, no thanks to genetics or even age; I credit all the years of Accutane. I am now (mercifully!) to the point where I don't feel it necessary to wear foundation - oh to not have to worry about blemishes! (I never thought I'd see the day.) But since I'm no longer taking potent oil-stopping medication, my face is definitely on the slick side if left unchecked. Don't get me wrong, I'll take that over my past skin woes any day. Especially because these three products (two of which are bargains) are proving to be such an effective oil-stopping regimen: Murad Oil Control Mattifier SPF 15, e.l.f. Studio High Definition Powder, and Palladio Rice Paper Blotting Tissues.

See? Maybe I'm a bit glowy after two hours in 90-degree temperatures at the beach, but certainly not greasy. (I use La Roche-Posay Anthelios 45 Ultralight Fluid on my face when I know I'm going to be roasting outside.)

What are your skin secrets?

P.S. Natalie, Jillian, and Becca shared their summer skin secrets too.

Some thoughts...

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 14:27:00 +0000

Shawn has considered upgrading our DSLR camera for a while now, but I've been cautioning him not to on my account. After living in New York City for over three years, I have finally reached a point where I don't feel the need to do everything right away, and I certainly don't feel the need to document it here. Gone are the days when I've lugged the Nikon around on the off chance that I want to take a picture for this blog. I've never done things simply to have fodder for Embarrassment of Riches, but at times the blogging process eclipsed my ability to relax and enjoy my surroundings. Recently, we happened to stop by the first evening of the Hester Street Fair, and while observing bloggers clutching their cameras and scurrying between tables to get shots of the food, I said to Shawn "I don't ever want to do that again." I'm happy to leave it to the professionals at Serious Eats (which I'm grateful for, because I love that website).

Without a focus on New York City events, what does that leave? I run a lot, which you probably have gathered, and just joined a gym in the hope that strength- and cross-training will help on November 3, when my next marathon is scheduled for. Increasingly, we eat very simple meals I prepare at home, because forgoing meat and now dairy limits our dining-out options (especially because I eschew most vegan restaurants). We drink wine on our stoop, cuddle with our dog while watching Arrested Development reruns, and spend the weekend in Maryland when we're lucky. And in the summer, one of my favorite things to do after work on a nice night is head to Prospect Park. But this is not the stuff of fascinating blogs, folks.

Because he just started volunteering with an amazing charity, work that involves taking pictures of live performances at hospices, nursing homes, and other healthcare facilities, Shawn decided to finally make good on his threat and trade in our D90 for a D700. It's only because he brought it along in order to learn it that we have these pictures. No cringeworthy, contrived photoshoots here, just Shawn and me fiddling with his new camera on a very ordinary night for us in our beloved Prospect Park.

My current craving

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 13:19:00 +0000

My kitchen counter is crowded with piles of Trader Joe's Wasabi Roasted Seaweed Snack packages. They're only 99 cents each, pack an eye-watering wallop, and eating them imparts a (perhaps misguided) pride that I chose aquatic plant life over chips. I deem them far superior to Annie Chun's more expensive, less fiery version. Nori has always been my least favorite component of maki rolls, so this newfound obsession puzzles me.

P.S. Speaking of sushi, a heads up to NYC-dwelling vegetarians: we had dinner at Neta last night, where half of their a la carte menu of rolls was indeed suitable for us, a fact the recent NY Times review tipped us off to.

Blast from the past

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Tue, 26 Jun 2012 15:04:00 +0000

Growing up, I lived in six different houses (IBM's nickname, "I've Been Moved," is certainly apt). I was therefore surprised to happen upon a treasure trove of games and toys from my childhood while visiting my parents' current home in St. Michaels. How did these relics make the cut through so many moves? My folks had a particularly no-holds-barred approach to culling when they sold the suburban DC house of my adolescence to retire to the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I can only assume my mom stored these toys in her nursery-school classroom, then, once she retired, decided to keep them in case neighbors ever pay a visit with grandchildren in tow.

While I generally subscribe to the belief, like Jessica, that "the things are not the memories," in this case, they most certainly are. I'm old enough to have lived through several waves of 80s pop culture nostalgia, and some ubiquities (Chutes and Ladders, Rainbow Brite) need no recollection-jogging whatsoever. But latent memories of more obscure childhood toys are generally not unearthed so easily - unless you unearth the objects themselves.

I've been yammering about Pizza Party to Shawn since 2003, when I spotted plates at Pottery Barn that exhumed memories of my favorite game from my childhood. He ended up giving the plates to me for my 23rd birthday, and every time we use them, Pizza Party is mentioned. This past weekend, Shawn finally got a chance to play Pizza Party, something I thought could never be. Sadly, he did not seize this opportunity, so I refamiliarized myself with the rules while setting the pieces out by myself. It was as sad as it sounds.

If Pizza Party was my favorite game, Flower-garden probably was close second. The rules (and most of the plastic pegs) were missing from the box, so although I couldn't recall the point of Flower-garden, I remembered what I liked so much about it: the sense of tranquility those colorful little felt pieces and a leafy green cardboard square instilled in me.

Amongst the My Little Ponies in the SheRa Princess of Power bag was my long-forgotten but treasured Dream Dancer. Don't get me wrong, her dufflemates are great and all, but they aren't exactly hard to track down. Dream Dancer, on the other hand, is a toy I suspect many of you had but few remembered until now. True, she looks a little worse for wear: the years have not been kind to her. But if I had tracked down two working double-AA batteries, I bet she could still perform a mean pirouette.

I hope this little trip down memory lane was as magical for you as it was for me. On vacation, Shawn and I visited a toy store to buy our landlords' children some gifts, and we remarked that toys now are so garish. "They don't make toys like they used to" is a universal gripe, no matter which decade you grew up during. But oh, those poor bereft Gen Yers. At least a lucky handful of them (Rockville Nursery School students who attended in the late 90s/early 00s and had my mom as their teacher) probably got the chance to play with these cherished toys of my youth.

Lazy summer days

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Fri, 22 Jun 2012 17:41:00 +0000

Had I been more ambitious, perhaps I would have used my mother's sewing machine to whip up some new living room curtains. Instead, we're nearing the end of vacation and all I have to show for it is a slight tan and a recycling bin full of empty wine bottles. I even waived Shawn's very generous offer of an annual stick-shift driving lesson (I am a horrible pupil), because let's face it, with no opportunity to practice back in New York City, I'd promptly unlearn everything (same goes for the card game Euchre). I have kept up on the running (which is no easy feat here) and cooking (we've had all but one meal in). Two of these pictures are from a quick trip over the Bay Bridge to the capital city of Annapolis, which I don't recall ever visiting as a child.

Out of office

noreply@blogger.com (Kate (Embarrassment of Riches)) — Tue, 19 Jun 2012 12:05:00 +0000

Our vacation tally thus far: three naps, two runs, four frankfurters, one trip to Target (just one!), and countless negronis. I've made it my mission to grill everything, which, if our pizza is any indication, will be a smashing success. (That's homemade cashew "ricotta" on that pie, by the way.)