This handmade broom for perfecting his sweep.

This classic henley for showing off his dad bod.

This face oil for pampering.

This navy platter for entertaining.

These hooks for organizing.

This sore muscle salve for rejuvenation.

This scented candle for making the place smell nice.

This special edition knife for picnicking.

Action items:

Like last year, in an effort to ground all of this gift-giving in something a bit more down to earth, here are a few things we can do today to help fathers of all kinds:

For Families with Two Dads: Take a photo. The Family Equality Council connects, supports, and represents LGBTQ parents and their children. Their Snap it and Send it initiative encourages LGBTQ parents—and everyone—to “snap and send” photos of forms that only have a place for a mother and a father. It’s a call to action to acknowledge the diversity of families.

For Families with Incarcerated Fathers: Send children’s books. Last year many of you sent books to the DC-based nonprofit Hope House, which supports families with incarcerated fathers by connecting dads to their kids. The Hope House looks for children’s book donations on an ongoing basis for their Father-to-Child Reading Program, which records the voices of incarcerated fathers reading children’s books to send to their children.

For Men Who Have Babies: Support Men Having Babies, a national nonprofit supporting gay men who would like to become biological parents. They educate prospective parents about the process of becoming biological fathers and run an assistance fund to offer financial support to fathers during the surrogacy process.

Survival Tip #165: Paint the plunger.

The handle anyway. It’s probably advisable to leave the rubbery part alone. But the wooden handle? Why not help it along a bit? Maybe it still has the remains of a price tag sticking on it somewhere. Maybe it’s a bit dusty and little used, but it lacks a cabinet for hiding away in inside a tiny apartment. Get a bit of sandpaper and a bit of paint and brighten the sucker up a bit. Ditto anything else that needs cheering.

If you’ve been reading for awhile, you already know that I consider white paint to be the Wite-Out of adulthood. Am I revealing my age? (33, for inquiring minds.) Does anyone even use Wite-Out anymore? Regardless of color, when I paint utilitarian objects it’s to achieve a bit of calm, a bit of cohesion, to encourage a bit of a disappearing act. But if bedazzling is more your speed, then of course go for it. Rhinestone encrusted toilet plungers wouldn’t be my preference, but they might well be yours. The point is consideration, and identifying how particular objects contribute to the sum of your space.

Last week, as we waited for what felt like forever to be given the go-ahead to move back into our apartment, I busied myself with at least ten little projects. On nights after the kids were asleep, I snuck back upstairs to dabble with a  paint brush. What I was fixing weren’t glaring problems, really, but little things that grated. A liquor-box-turned-craft-box that I rescued from the trash years ago and never painted is now gray, and sits more quietly on a closet shelf we’re experimenting with leaving exposed, without a curtain to cover it. A wooden footstool we’ve used since long before we were married is now white, better to match the bathroom where it lives. The plunger, well, you already know.

In a week where I felt restless, tackling little projects helped me feel better, mostly because channeling my energy into change I could see felt better than waiting for change that I couldn’t. I eventually also decided to embrace a few projects of a slightly larger scale and greater budget (more on those to come) but where time or budget is lacking, this kind of dabbling can be just as affecting. 

So, paint your plunger. Paint the wine crate if you’re sick of staring at it. Paint the wooden piece that keeps your toilet paper roll in place. Patch up the bit of paint you knicked while dragging your dresser across the floor. Here’s a friendly reminder that paint goes far and you won’t need much. If you lack a larger stash to steal from, or want to experiment with a particularly daring hue, you can always order a jar of sample paint and see how far you can stretch it.

For the curious:

I dipped into paint supplies I had for other projects for the objects you see here, Benjamin Moore’s Natura Paint in Simply White OC 117 (the same color as our walls) and Farrow & Ball’s Plummet (more on this to come!)

Tiny apartment survival tips #1 – #164.

From nowhere, humidity.

In windows, air conditioners.

Stretched over bellies, rash guards. 

On little brown feet, starts of tan lines.

On strawberry plants, pale pink.

On noses, sunscreen.

On ankles, bug spray.

In backyards, chainsaws.

Curbside, moving trucks.

From car stereos, bass.

After dinner, ice creams.

Before dinner, ice creams.

On necks, sweaty curls.

Parkside, ice cream trucks.

On the sidewalk, sprinkles.

At bedtime, wide eyes.

1. this hammer.

{for being endlessly handy this week and always.}

2. these shoe boxes.

{because after three weeks it’s awfully nice to be putting things back in their proper spots.}

3. this linen closet.

{because even though our move has been delayed until monday (fie), we’ve started unpacking some of the smaller things.}

4. this step ladder.

{for being left downstairs and available for last minute paint scraping and fixture cleaning, and other fastidious nesting activities.}

5. this white radiator.

{because it’s still white. and on monday, i’ll be sleeping next to it (which is still not tonight, but better than tuesday).}

other things:

sobering perspective on missing children.

city maps.

confetti.

prince & knight.

obviously, same.

yours truly, in those new shoes.

As I thought about what I wanted to write, I remembered that, but of course, I remain very much myself and I’ve already written about most of these things.

So, while I continue to run around like a chicken with my head cut-off and scrape bits of errant paint from every surface, here’s a rose and a few past posts for getting in the home-improvement spirit:

White paint, here, there and everywhere.

Teeny, tiny super guy.

Painting furniture. (Old dresser, new tricks.)

Note to self. (Will be ignoring at my peril.)

What about you guys? Moving rituals I should add to my repertoire?

1. these chive blossoms.

{and the ridiculous distraction they were for my kids this week.}

2. this rhubarb jam.

{and the decision to make a very quick jarful right before bedtime.}

3. this cord.

{for making a wonky kitchen a little less so.}

4. this primed footstool.

{and getting around to projects ten years in the making.}

5. this quilt-turned-curtain. 

{anything to get these guys to sleep past five. yes, am.}

other things:

sign here. donate here.

quite possibly the very best rugs.

these are books, works of the imagination.

he was constantly teaching you how to appreciate things.

slowly but surely.

must plan escape. pronto.

forever bracelets.

psst!

Survival Tip #164: Seize the moment.

In mating season, male cardinals feed the females they’re hoping to woo. They don’t just gather the food, they coax it into the female’s mouth, morsel by morsel.

This week we’ve watched the firey red cardinal perch on our temporary apartment fire escape and crack open the husks of sunflower seeds to feed his companion. She sits nearby, waiting patiently. Or is it expectantly? Maybe she is not patient at all. Maybe she is bored by the ritual, wanting to carry on with her meal and faster, for heaven’s sake. But she remains there, opening her beak as the male slips bits of seed directly into her mouth. Temperaments aside, it’s clear there’s some kind of partnership at work. Some kind of finding their way together and working with what they’ve got. In this case, a handful of sunflower seeds in a soggy grapefruit feeder.

//

Last night, I went up to our apartment just to sit for a minute by my lonesome. By my wholesome? Whichever the case, I needed some quiet to sit and take it in. It’s a funny spot to find yourself, in the middle of a place you’ve called home, but without any of the trappings that make it feel like yours. There’s a sense of possibility but also an understanding that largely, things will stay the same.

For the past two weeks I’ve been channeling the energy I would normally put into finding solutions for our new spot into finding better solutions for the spot we actually call home. In our temporary apartment there are walls that I would paint and light fixtures I would tamper with. There are the remains of an old security gate that needs removing and a fireplace surround that needs caulk, or a scrub, surely both. The window panes are about five years overdue for a cleaning. Despite my urgings, I’ve left well enough alone. Any day now we’ll be given the go ahead to move back upstairs. We’ll bid this birder’s paradise adieu and someone else will make it theirs. 

Instead of washing windows, I’ve made secret boards on Pinterest. I’ve been stockpiling inspiration and tutorials and glimpses of what could be; feathering my virtual nest and trying to tackle tricky corners with a renewed sense of possibility.

//

Faye turns four on Saturday. I moved into this apartment when I was six months pregnant with her and climbing the ship’s ladder to the bed in our old place had become cumbersome at best. I’ve welcomed two brand-new babies in this apartment. Together with James, I’ve weathered the storms of infancy and toddlerhood. Of marriage and work, too. I’ve gotten my footing, lost it, and started over again. In these two rooms we’ve figured out, all of us, how to live as a family of three, then four. We’re still figuring it out. Indeed, everything is mutable.

We’ve made minor fixes to this space when there was energy and permission. We’ve lived with loveliness but also wonkiness and, sometimes, downright grossness. Now, quite by accident, we’ve been presented with something of a blank slate. Sure, we have a kitchen and a bathroom that we’ll never adore—and that we’ll never have permission to change wholesale—but we have, perhaps, a greater appreciation that we’re lucky to have both. The floor still needs scrubbing, but the walls are freshly painted. The soggy drywall and peeling baseboard have been replaced. The flaking, rusty radiators have been stripped down and repainted. In the midst of this temporary move I went searching for silvery linings and found white radiators. What luck.

With a limited budget and an apartment we don’t own, there’s only so much we can do, but I’ve decided to seize the moment. A week ago we ripped out an ancient mirror in the bathroom. This afternoon, I’m buying an electric drill. Tomorrow, a new mirror arrives to our door.

//

Last night, in our empty apartment, my cell phone pinged. “Dinner’s on the table,” the text read. Nourishment courtesy of a husband who knows how to give a bird her space. 

For the curious:

We gave every surface of our apartment a fresh coat of Benjamin Moore’s Natura Paint in Simply White OC 117. (Yes, even those formerly chipping and rusty radiators, prepped first with Ultra Spec HP Acrylic Metal Primer.) Many thanks to Benjamin Moore for supplying the paint and for helping us lay a new foundation.

Tiny apartment survival tips #1 – 163.

Waste Not is a collaboration with my friend, Carrie King. The premise is simple: Carrie, a food writer and editor, shares a recipe highlighting at least one particular way that we can curb food waste. I make it at home, take a bunch of pictures, and share it with everyone here. 

Growing up, I asked for corn chowder to be made for fully half of my birthday dinners. Didn’t matter how hot the early July weather was, I wanted silky, creamy chowder with sweet bursts of corn. As a kid, and in the original version of Carrie’s recipe below, there were pearly potatoes floating in there too. James is allergic to that particular nightshade and so I omitted them here. Potatoes or no, this chowder is delicious.

I’m always looking for simple ways to make a vegetarian broth and after this trial run, I’ll be putting my spent corn cobs to better use. Simmering the corn cobs in the broth renders the soup creamy without making it overly rich. A splash of cream or coconut milk at the end makes it decadent. Maybe best of all, Carrie finally convinced me to stop subbing in sweet paprika when a recipe calls for smoked. I’ll happily make a little space cabinet for this crimson wonder.
From Carrie:

Aside from Frosty the Snowman’s pipe, I don’t know of many uses for spent corn cobs. Maybe bird feeders? Bear in mind that I’m saying that with absolutely no authority on whether that would work and based purely on inspo from Erin’s ingenious half-grapefruit bird feeder. Just seems like corn cob bird feeders could be a thing.

Practical uses aside, I definitely don’t know any recipe that has you actually ingesting corn cobs. Nor does it seem very enticing—unless you’re looking for some serious ruffage. But still, ears of corn are so much more than just their rows of glistening yellow kernels. There is lots of delicious flavor and corn milk hidden in their nooks and crannies. I think of cobs as the bones of the veggie world. You’d use bones to fortify the flavor of stock or soup, and you can totally do the same with corn. So, before you throw your next batch of naked cobs in the compost pile, here’s a recipe that at least makes sure you milk them for all their worth.

This chowder revolves around the use of the whole ear of corn (minus the husk—although those are also useful in their own right—looking at you tamales). The cobs act as an instant flavor booster for any veggie, or even chicken, soup. Sometimes I even use them to boost the flavor of broth to make corn risotto. If you had enough ears of corn, you could make pure corn stock for sundry uses. Next time you’re looking to use corn kernels-only for dinner one night, save the cobs in an airtight container in the fridge, and throw them into a pot of soup or broth the next day.

This recipe also uses one of my current spice crushes—smoked paprika. If you don’t have any in your pantry, I’d say it’s worth grabbing next market run. 
I think it’s a handy spice to have hanging around because a little pinch makes anything it touches suddenly seem next-level fancy. It adds lots of interesting flavor complexity with zilch effort. Plus, for veggie based soups, stews, and chowders, it kind of fools your taste buds into thinking there might be some bacon swimming in the depths of the pot, but—spoiler alert—there’s not! Magic.

Corn Chowder

1 Tbsp olive oil
½ vidalia onion, finely chopped (about 1¼ cups)
1 green bell pepper, finely chopped
3 Tbsp butter
1 tsp smoked paprika
4 ears of corn, kernels removed from cob (about 4 cups kernels, reserve cobs)
4 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and cut into ½-inch dice (optional)
1 tsp salt
5 Tbsp flour
4 cups veggie stock
¾ cup cream/half & half/coconut milk
3 scallions or a bunch of chives

Heat olive oil, chopped onion, and bell pepper in a large pot over medium. Sauté until onions are translucent and peppers begin to soften, 4-5 minutes. Reduce heat if browning, you’re not looking for color here.

Add the butter, smoked paprika, corn kernels, potatoes (if using), and salt. Stir occasionally until the butter melts.

Once melted, sprinkle in the flour and cook, stirring, for 1-2 minutes, making sure it doesn’t singe.

Add vegetable stock (and 1 cup water if you use potatoes), stirring to ensure the flour dissolves into the stock. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to medium.

Add corn cobs (break or cut in half of too long for pot) and simmer for 15-20 minutes, or until potatoes are tender.

Stir in cream or half & half (or coconut milk!)

Taste for seasoning and add more salt is necessary. Remove and discard corn cobs.

Finely chop scallions or chives and scatter on top of chowder to serve.

// NOTES:

You could blend the chowder to make it even more creamy. In this case, you might even get away without adding the cream or half & half, if that’s your preference, because the pureed corn kernels will really amp up the creamy factor. If you blend, you might have to loosen the soup up with a touch more veggie stock or water.

Instead of chives, you could chop up some scallions to scatter on top.

Omit the smoked paprika if you’re not into it/don’t have it on hand.

Thanks to Carrie King for writing this post and developing the recipe. When Carrie’s not encouraging me in tiny-apartment cooking adventures, she’s a food writer and editor. Her cookbook work includes Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner….Life with Missy Robbins and The Chef Next Door with Amanda Freitag. She has contributed to Gather Journal and Life & Thyme and works as recipe editor at Marley Spoon and Dinnerly. Thanks to culinary school and lots of time spent in kitchens, both professional and home, she can cook just about anything, but usually just wants a few couple few slices of pizza.

For the curious:

Our black enameled cast iron is from Crane; I got ours from East Fork Pottery.

Our checked napkin is from Fog Linen.

What about you guys? Corn cob enthusiasts out there?

The first of the neighborhood roses and these words:

1
Only now, in spring, can the place be named:
tulip poplar, daffodil, crab apple,
dogwood, budding pink-green, white-green, yellow
on my knowing. All winter I was lost.
Fall, I found myself here, with no texture
my fingers know. Then, worse, the white longing
that downed us deep three months. No flower heat.
That was winter. But now, in spring, the buds
flock our trees. Ten million exquisite buds,
tiny and loud, flaring their petalled wings,
bellowing from ashen branches vibrant
keys, the chords of spring’s triumph: fisted heart,
dogwood; grail, poplar; wine spray, crab apple.
The song is drink, is color. Come. Now. Taste.

2
The song is drink, is color. Come now, taste
what the world has to offer. When you eat
you will know that music comes in guises —
bold of crape myrtle, sweet of daffodil —
beyond sound, guises they never told you
could be true. And they aren’t. Except they are
so real now, this spring, you know them, taste them.
Green as kale, the songs of spring, bright as wine,
the music. Faces of this season grin
with clobbering wantonness — see the smiles
open on each branch? — until you, too, smile.
Wide carnival of color, carnival
of scent. We’re all lurching down streets, drunk now
from the poplar’s grail. Wine spray: crab apple.

3
From the poplar’s grail, wine spray. Crab apple
brightens jealousy to compete. But by
the crab apple’s deep stain, the tulip tree
learns modesty. Only blush, poplar learns,
lightly. Never burn such a dark-hued fire
to the core. Tulip poplar wants herself
light under leaf, never, like crab apple,
heavy under tart fruit. Never laden.
So the poplar pours just a hint of wine
in her cup, while the crab apple, wild one,
acts as if her body were a fountain.
She would pour wine onto you, just let her.
Shameless, she plants herself, and delivers,
down anyone’s street, bright invitations.

4
Down anyone’s street-bright invitations.
Suck ’em. Swallow ’em. Eat them whole. That’s right,
be greedy about it. The brightness calls
and you follow because you want to taste,
because you want to be welcomed inside
the code of that color: red for thirst; green
for hunger; pink, a kiss; and white, stain me
now. Soil me with touching. Is that right?
No? That’s not, you say, what you meant. Not what
you meant at all? Pardon. Excuse me, please.
Your hand was reaching, tugging at this shirt
of flowers and I thought, I guess I thought
you were hungry for something beautiful.
Come now. The brightness here might fill you up.

5
Come. Now the brightness here might fill you up,
but tomorrow? Who can know what the next
day will bring. It is like that, here, in spring.
Four days ago, the dogwood was a fist
in protest. Now look. Even she unfurls
to the pleasure of the season. Don’t be
ashamed of yourself. Don’t be. This happens
to us all. We have thrown back the blanket.
We’re naked and we’ve grown to love ourselves.
I tell you, do not be ashamed. Who is
more wanton than the dancing crape myrtle?
Is she ashamed? Why even the dogwood,
that righteous tree of God’s, is full of lust
exploding into brightness every spring….

– From the poem What To Eat, And What To Drink, And What To Leave For Poison by Camille T. Dungy in her book Black Nature: Four Centuries of African American Nature Poetry.

1. these binoculars.























{but mostly two very enthusiastic bird watchers.}

2. these post-nap curls.

{nope. never cutting them.}

3. these spring flowers.
{and a mom who brought them.}      

4. all of the incense.

{never enough in a new-to-me apartment.}

5. these stars.

{and someone’s insistence they hang from my bed.}

other things:

the slow motion oh shit.

what to do about oak cabinets.

“i am a candy person.”

there’s been too much rain this week.

delicate and resilient (mostly beautiful).

such a great shape.

pizza and salsa.