1. This quote really makes me want to read a novel by Anne Michaels (a new discovery for me). (via)

2. In my bright fantasy kitchen with white subway tile and tons of sunlight, this country farmhouse enamel bakeware fits right in.

3. This lipstick, Heat Wave by Nars, is the surprise of the year for me. It’s a wildly flattering orangey-red (not an oxymoron, apparently) with a poppiness that is modern and fresh in a J. Crew model kind of way.

4. Let’s go back to that dream kitchen and put this ceramic basket on the counter filled with strawberries.

5. These make for a very cheerful note to self, don’t they? (via)

6. I’ve been thinking about time lately: how I spend it, how I waste it, how to spend more of it doing what I love most. I loved reading this short e-book, Tell Your Time. Amy‘s approach is practical and straight-forward, and even if I didn’t end up making charts for my hours, it did really make me think about my time in a new way.

7. I snipped boughs of lilacs at my mom’s house a couple weeks ago and put them in a blue vase on my bedside table. Their fragrance was a sweet consolation when it was time to wake up. (via)

Happy weekend!

Things in the kitchen have been going uncharacteristically well. In the past, I’ve put a lot of pressure on dinner to transform my days and have stood in deli sections of grocery stores having near meltdowns about what to cook. But lately, I’m happy to report, the matter of dinner has been shockingly easy.

You wouldn’t think a night of Chinese takeout would result in a week of serendipitous, off-the-cuff cooking, but there it is. I believe its key role was that of confidence-booster. One night I threw leftover steamed broccoli in the food processor with toasted walnuts, garlic, and olive oil, and out came a creamy pesto. We ate it on pasta that night, and later in the weekend I spread it on a leftover heel of baguette for a snack. It was bracingly garlicky and shockingly good. The effect of that pesto was that I stood a little taller: maybe I know more than I give myself credit for. Maybe all this reliance on recipes is slowing me down.

For many of us, I think this might be true. Think of all the recipes you’ve read in life. The cookbooks on the shelf. The blogs we turn to for inspiration. We know how to cook dinner. We know the little tricks, that shallots or garlic or lemon or chile pepper can perk up an otherwise simple dish. But maybe it’s our desire for something new, something more creative, something more beautiful that keeps us looking outward when really, we’ve already accumulated quite a number of the answers ourselves.

I’ve been afraid to write about this for fear the ease would stop, but it’s like this: there’s food in my fridge, and somehow I am able to bring bits and bobs together into simple, delicious meals, again and again. This has been going on for about two weeks now. There’s been no agony, no frantic looking at recipes at 4 o’clock. I don’t know if the stars are on my side or I finally decided to rely on what I already know, but guys: it’s working! Here’s what I’ve gleaned as the takeaways of this system:

Buy an anchoring protein. For me it’s roast chicken. I’ve got my easy method that turns out something succulent with zero effort, and on Sunday nights we eat what feels like our most traditional meal of the week: roast chicken, a big green salad, and some kind of grain. Throughout the week, I throw leftover roast chicken into lunchtime salads and then on one weeknight later in the week I’ll made a chicken curry with my favorite store-bought sauce, steamed cauliflower, and whatever seasonal produce I’m feeling excited about (see below).

The template stays the same but the details change. One week our chicken curry will be madras, the next, vindaloo. Sometimes my lunchtime salads are made with quinoa and spinach. Then it’s farro and pea shoots. The roast chicken stays the same, but the dressing on the salad changes. We haven’t been doing this for months and months, but so far this spring, it feels like a system that works.

Buy seasonal produce you’re excited about. This is key to changing up details in the template. I felt really excited about the ruby red radishes last week. I sliced them so thin you could see through them when held to the light and tossed them in a salad with the tenderest butter lettuce. The next day, I felt happy to throw them in a lunch time dish with leftover chicken, spinach, and a lemon dressing. Next, asparagus. I chopped them up and added them to our late-week chicken curry. I peeled them into long ribbons another night and tossed them with pea shoots. The creative challenge became, “what else can I do with this wonderful vegetable using what I already have on hand?” Another key: Keep veggies in plain sight in the fridge so they’re not forgotten.

Fill your pantry with a supporting cast of grains. This also plays a big part in making the template approach feel new. Some days you just don’t want quinoa. I like to have red, brown, and black rice, farro, barley, couscous, and those bags of quick-cooking mixed grains sold at Trader Joe’s. Lately I’ve also been springing for fresh pasta in the refrigerated section of the grocery store. Maybe it’s psychological, but it feels so much more sumptuous.

Do you have some templates you turn to week after week? For those weeks when cooking feels really easy, what are your secrets?

It couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. Imagine a free, rainy afternoon brightened by a red envelope appearing in the mailbox, The House of Eliott tucked inside. This show, set in 1920s London, is one of the last BBC shows filmed on video, and you just have to get past that. It looks awful. At first. But they you start noticing the pretty tucked-up hairstyles, swingy light jackets of ladies, countless flutes of champagnes, whole streets filled with old-timey vehicles, and drawing rooms you’d very much like to curl up into with a tiny china cup filled with tea and a sweater wrapped around you, knotted at the waist. Then, it’s gorgeous.

Many of my closest friends share a recommended sub-genre on Netflix: “Period dramas with a strong female lead.” You too? Then you’re in luck. This is that, but with two strong female leads: sisters with faces so beautiful that enough is reason to watch. That they have modern ideas about what it means to be women in a fast-changing world is my very favorite thing about the show. Better even than the jaunty jazz soundtrack, the marvelous sportiness of their drop-waists, calf-length skirts and practical little heels, or the episode four sighting of a very young Minnie Driver, is that keen reminder of how hard women had to fight for the privilege of the Monday blues and a paycheck. It’s a delight. Have you seen it?

“In Perpetual Spring”

Gardens are also good places
to sulk. You pass beds of
spiky voodoo lilies
and trip over the roots
of a sweet gum tree,
in search of medieval
plants whose leaves,
when they drop off
turn into birds
if they fall on land,
and colored carp if they
plop into water.

Suddenly the archetypal
human desire for peace
with every other species
wells up in you. The lion
and the lamb cuddling up.
The snake and the snail, kissing.
Even the prick of the thistle,
queen of the weeds, revives
your secret belief
in perpetual spring,
your faith that for every hurt
there is a leaf to cure it.

— Amy Gerstler

This cookbook, originally published in 1947, is so delightful that its origin story is a mere cherry on top. Elizabeth Gilbert was up in her attic, finally unpacking boxes in a new home, when she unearthed a book by her great-grandmother. Gilbert writes in the introduction:

Of course, I’d seen the book on family bookshelves, and had certainly heard the name Gima mentioned with love and longing, but I’d never actually opened the volume. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was busy. Maybe I was prejudiced, didn’t expect much from the writing: the original jacket photo shows a kindly white-haired woman with set curls and glasses, and maybe I thought the work would reflect that photo–dated and ordinary, JELL-O and SPAM. Or maybe I am just a fool, willing to travel the world in pursuit of magic and exoticism while ignoring intimate marvels right here at home.

She rediscovered a gem. Gima, more formally known as Margaret Yardley Potter, columnist at the Wilmington Star, writes in what may sound like a string of opposites: charming but practical, direct yet flirtatious. I was sunk. The first chapter, “Weekend Guests Without a Weakened Hostess,” outlines how to cook for friends at the seashore without missing any vital beach time. Her approach is one of pure enjoyment and reliance on the important things in life: simple food, dear friends, and plenty of ice for cocktails. The result is infectious.

“Go your culinary ways with confidence and without apology,” she smartly advises. “Use only one standard in trying out strange foods or seasonings: that you like the result.”

To enter to win a copy, leave a comment here by midnight EST Sunday, April 29th. (US and Canada mailing addresses only, please.) And should you feel like springing for a copy of your own, proceeds from At Home on the Range benefit Scholar Match.

Update 4/30: Traci is the lucky winner (look out for an email from me). Thanks to everyone who entered!

I turned thirty last week, which felt like a very big deal in the months leading up to it, and then just like a wonderful thing that happened as soon as it happened. Any big life events–weddings, promotions, babies, round birthdays–arrive with a certain amount of pressure tagging along behind. In this moment, which somehow signifies something big, you better have your act together.

I couldn’t quite decide what I wanted mine to look like so I vacillated between extremes: I was either going by myself to an ashram to curl up in the quiet with my thoughts. Or I was purchasing a spangly jumpsuit to wear to a birthday bash held in the VFW party space tucked under a nearby subway stop. Choose your own adventure!

But I couldn’t escape the idea that thirty required some serious reflection, that I should bring intention to whatever was coming next in the new decade. That seemed important and yet…it also seemed like a drag. On an airplane to and from California recently, I pulled out a notebook and kept my pencil poised above a blank page. What did I need to bring into my life to make it fuller, brighter, happier? I’ve written the same thing to myself a thousand times.

Reflecting feels vital to a deliberate life. If we’re not considering what really lights us up and connects us to what’s most important, than aren’t we just drifting along? But as my birthday drew near, it seemed like there were little signs stacking that I might be hiding some micro-managing control freak tendencies inside the idea of “intention.” There was a tarot card of a man so lost in his own reverie he fails to see what’s right in front of him. And then, more pointedly, the friend who gently suggested I didn’t need the help of hallowed yoga halls to encourage me to reflect. If the pressure to reflect had been on my back like an itchy sweater, maybe it was time to stop scheming and time to appreciate the life I’ve already created.

I liked that idea. What’s the point of expending so much energy to fill our days with beauty, community, and fulfillment if we rarely stop to enjoy them? Really enjoy them, like knee-deep in the thick pleasure of it. Forward movement is seductive to anyone with a sense of potential and a keen imagination. This is how things could be if we did yoga at dawn, had those shoes, lived in that house. This kind of thinking can be good. It helps us achieve goals, consider what would really make us happy, and actively work towards creating the kind of life we want to live. But it’s also a little bit dangerous. I thought I needed to escape somewhere quiet to think about what I wanted in life when everything I wanted was already back at home: My messy, chaotic, lovely home.

Abby Try Again turned thirty this week, too, and I loved what she wrote on her blog:

Yesterday was my 30th birthday.

It felt special but not, big and little, insignificant and significant.

I’m a believer in recognizing the power of each day-not just focusing on milestones…but I couldn’t help but be reflective.

Somewhere in between the extremes–”special but not, insignificant and significant”–is our calling to see the beauty in each day. In the end, my birthday was somewhere between those two extremes I had imagined and felt just right. I took a couple days off from work so I could really enjoy myself. Friends took me out for dinner and I ate a crazy good barbecue sandwich. I went to a yoga class overlooking the East River one morning, met a friend in a wood and water-colored restaurant for a lady’s lunch of white wine and lobster rolls, and then we wandered around the West Village together holding our noses to perfume bottles and sitting in the sun with iced cortados. Perhaps the sparkly jumpsuit part of my birthday had its moment when I couldn’t resist a Dynasty-like leopard print wrap dress. I don’t know where or when I’ll have the occasion to wear such a thing, but I’m trying to get comfortable with the idea that the moment can present itself like an unexpected gift rather than be willed and schemed into existence. The lesson of this year has been hitting me over the head again and again: enjoy what’s right before you. It’s more than you think. It might even be enough.

I think my style is progressing backwards. Right after college, one of my dear friends got a job at American Apparel. I remember sitting on my stoop talking to him on the phone about our low-paying jobs, and asking him what I needed from his new gig. “You’re kind of beyond t-shirts,” he said. And let’s just say that I smoothed my hands over the perfectly cheery vintage sundress I might have been wearing at the time and agreed.

But today I’m in love with a t-shirt (that lilac-colored one up there), and it’s the cornerstone of my spring uniform. Tuck it into a pencil skirt with a blazer and go to work. Tie a scarf on your head, slap on some jeans and platforms, and you’re ready for any kind of fun. Allow me to introduce you to my new muse, the Daybreak Tee. It’s linen jersey which feels a little grown up, and gives the fabric a streaky, almost space-dyed quality. It’s got an uber-flattering v-neckline, a scooped hem, and sweet little cap sleeves. It’s also $40: the most I’ve ever spent on a t-shirt. And this is where the cost-per-wear calculations come in. By the end of the summer, I think these little singlets will have proved themselves a great value.

And so for spring, at work and at play, I’m gravitating towards super-flattering basics punched up with quirky, personality-filled accessories and a swoop of liquid eyeliner to channel that ’60s starlet feeling. I find putting together collages like these so instructive both for shopping and getting dressed: once you have the template laid out, it’s much easier to pull it together in real life. A word about these Polyvore collages: I often choose items based on their color or shape, not because I’m actually going to buy a $500 A.P.C. trench coat. (Just felt the need to get that out there.)

What’s your uniform in this hard-to-dress-for season? Do you rely on the perfect cardigan, or a beloved trench? What do you wear on those days when a t-shirt is too little but a jacket is too much? And why did no one tell me how amazing a great t-shirt can be? (This feels like the moment when I discovered down was a bajillion times warmer than wool.)

Discovering I liked hip hop was like tasting ice cream for the first time. It came during a stretch of time where I was dipping my toe into all kids of newness (swimming lessons, playing guitar) that made a life of same old, same old feel wondrously new and fresh again. Despite creaky geriatric knees, I’ve tried to get back into running in the last several weeks with better form. After a day trapped in my own head and sitting still at a computer, it makes me so happy to cue up this mix and start moving. And if I were being completely honest, I would probably have to tell you that some part of me likes to channel Wonder Woman when I’m working out. I stop just short of the wrist bands, but I imagine that I am very tough and about to kick someone’s ass with my ferocious intensity. I am fit! I am a hero! I really wish I were wearing a tiara! It makes the moments go by with a bit more fun, and these songs are the perfect background to my toughness. (Also recommended for pre-going out mode, while you’re primping in the bathroom!) Happy weekend!

also available on Spotify

photo: raceytay

The spring air has been like a character in my life this week, like a messenger. It started to follow me first on Monday, a bright, cold, wind-whipping day. I trudged up a long tunnel of an avenue to get a bowl of spring soup: sweet peas and feathery dill tucked among dark, earthy mushrooms.

Twice this week, as I’ve been out and about after dark, coming home from an appointment or the drugstore, the air has felt nostalgic and a little out-of-season; I smelled a fire burning. It made the night seem snug and welcoming.

Wednesday night I walked home from the gym. I had been listening to the This American Life, “Switched at Birth,” and was feeling a little sad for it. Imagine being the mother who knew another woman had your baby. Imagine being the daughters who, after a lifetime of feeling out of place in small, needling ways, discover there’s a very big reason why.

And then I stepped outside. I was bracing myself for cold, maybe just out of habit. The air really felt like spring: warm, fragrant, sweet.

Every year I seem to forget how much I love New York in the spring. It’s the season when, after a dark winter of typing data about books in a gray cubicle, I walked up Sixth Avenue one March evening after work and realized the whole city was in bloom, trees flowering white up the wide street like an allée leading to a grand house. That particular walk ended at the Forever 21 at Herald Square, but the magic wasn’t lost on me.

There’s always a bit of discomfort for me as we come out of winter. I feel reluctant to bare arms; after a season of cocooned comfort, spring can feel exposing in a way I don’t always welcome. And I don’t mean physically––although that can be how the reticence manifests. I so relish the reflective turning-in of winter. Spring calls for coming out, for smiling bright, and reentering the social world; I don’t always feel ready. Some of you must know what I mean.

But then there will be a whiff of warm air and two heavy branches of cherry blossoms for sale at the florist for $7, taller than I am. I carried them home like a staff, and we slept under their pink blossoms these last two weeks as if we had just dozed off in a garden. Sometimes, when I am making the bed, I find a soft, pink petal that’s fallen into the sheets. The blossoms are past their prime now and the branches are ready to be carried out to the curb on trash day. I’m ready to go outside, too.

I spent the better part of a lazy weekend in bed reading Come to the Edge. It was one of those rare I-can’t-put-it-down books with the added appeal of being about first love, complete with riding on bicycle handlebars and romantic trips out of town.

I felt inspired to hunker down into someone else’s world: on Thursday evening, I overheard a group of three women at a bar drinking Miller Life High and discussing Jane Eyre at their first book club meeting. And then on Friday night, at a dinner party uptown where we ate off plates on our laps, I met a fellow whose book club was also reading Jane Eyre. He had just seen Jane carried from the bed of Helen Burns in the gray light of morning.

Winter is my favorite reading season: it calls for mysteries, the Gothic, Barbara Pym, and soothing childhood favorites. Fall comes next with its crisp back-to-school feeling, and summer is juicy, with paperback pages greasy with sunscreen. But what kind of reading season is spring? What books feel right in spring? Farm life? Paris? I’m ready for something new, ready to fall into a new favorite and another world. What are your favorite books for spring? Let’s get another ultimate reading list going!

Photo: WPA poster via