B. on a Whim

2016-07-20T11:02:00.003-05:00

Friends and friends of friends,

I’m a word nerd. Card-carrying.

Sentences and paragraphs and pages... These are a few of my favorite things.

If they’re not yours - and in fact, give you overwhelming twitchy anxiety - OR if you’re short on time and have bigger, better things to do (Netflix binges totally count)... let me craft grammatical magic for you.

Résumé in need of polishing? College admission essay creeping up? I wave my magic word wand. You wave goodbye to standard. I turn yawn-inducing cover letters into unforgettable anecdotes. (Boom. YOU’RE HIRED.) Maybe you need a fine-tuned eye to give term papers the once over? Down for that too. Red pen not included. Blog content, ghostwriting, special projects? Checkity check.

Give your thoughts a voice. Be heard. Be accurate.

It’s as easy as giving me a shout. We’ll do a quick consult, assess the need and get to cranking out gold. (This is the part where you, now entirely relieved, are encouraged to kick your feet up and sip something tropical through a silly straw.)

Whatcha waiting for?

bmiller32@mac.com
@brookiemiller
817.925.4818
Or we can keep it right here with a direct message.

Pricing personalized per project. (Say that three times out loud real fast.)

- Consultant
- Editor
- Wordsmith
- Creative & Editorial

2016-07-08T21:49:00.003-05:00

I fell asleep to red and blue lights, projected from the television. Strobing against the wall. Pounding the back of my eyelids. The voice of the police chief, cut with muted sirens, carried me into a restless stupor.

“Sleep has always been the privilege of those at ease.”

I read that this morning on Twitter.

Privilege. Ease.

Paralyzed by grief, those words ricocheted off the knot in my throat. They settled in my gut. Nauseous. Angry at myself. Angry at my silence.

I wanted to scream “ENOUGH” after Orlando.

Instead, I penned my pain privately. I remained silent publicly. Social media saturated with two cents… the world doesn’t need mine, I rationalized.

I wanted to scream “ENOUGH” after Alton.

Ashamedly, I buried my head. I bit my tongue. I’m not black. It’s not my place.

I wanted to scream “ENOUGH” after Philando.

Black lives taken. Innocent lives taken. Senseless, horrifying, abominable. And these within 48 hours. On the heels of Trayvon, Sandra, Tamir, Freddie...

My god, what have we done? My god, what can I do?

Snap the silence.

The comfort of neutrality is poison. In accepting the role of passivity, I am abetting the issue. And I won't do it a second more.

Before I could put swirling thoughts to paper… before I had the chance to open my mouth and relinquish my reticence…

“Do you see what’s going on in Dallas?”

The text lit up the phone, plugged in on the bedside table.

“Turn on CNN.”

ENOUGH. ENOUGH. ENOUGH.

I’m screaming it. I’m begging it.

I’m acknowledging that our system is broken… that daily I’m shielded by the whiteness of my skin. I’m mourning the lives taken. Someone's father, brother, neighbor, husband. Precious human lives. Moreover, I’m condemning violence - “a descending spiral ending in destruction for us all.”

To my friends in law enforcement, thank you for your service and sacrifice. I appreciate those of you, the outstanding majority, who are just. Especially the officers of Dallas, dedicated to preserving and protecting our First Amendment rights - and then our lives - last night.

To my black friends, I love you. I stand beside you. I've grappled with racial injustice in a silent vacuum - speaking about you, but not with you. Mostly out of fear I'd fumble the message or say the wrong thing. I’m sorry it has taken me this long to to seek dialogue. I'm here. How can I be a better ally? How can I support you?

To all, I pray hard for a world where differences unite us, not divide us.

Love is our duty.

2016-05-10T13:21:00.000-05:00

Puppy breath. We could barely wait for it. A Weimaraner, a Golden Retriever, a German Short Haired Pointer. We tossed breeds and breeders around for six months. Weighed the pros and cons. Debated if the time was right with our unpredictable schedules. We wanted a puppy to love. A young, tiny thing to raise and snuggle and yes, even potty train.

And then we met Loo.

On a gray, unseasonably warm Sunday at the end of January. Both dog lovers, in need of a fix... We wound through stalls at the shelter, kneeling to love on each one. Saying their names in our baby-talk voices. Wiggling our fingers through the chain link fence, even though the signs say not to.

She was tucked on the far outside corner. We sauntered down her row, past some rather vocal dogs... a cripplingly shy dog... an enormous dog named Brutus. And there she was. With a look on her face that almost read, "where have you been all my life?"

Her fishhook tail shook back and forth with a voracity that suggested we had pockets stuffed with treats. (We didn't.) She pressed her wet, black nose against my palm. Danced in circles as we called her name.... Loo. Short for "Love," said the laminated note on her kennel. Her markings - feet and tail dipped in white, like she'd scurried through wet paint; and a similarly white arrowhead that stretched from her forehead to her snout. Her ears - perky, both standing at full attention until something caught her attention; then one would fold in half, cocked back in earnest, as if she too wanted to understand.

She had to be ours. We knew it. (We'd figure out the logistics - like how to install a doggy door... and who would sit her when our seasons overlapped - later.) But when we asked about adoption, the volunteer said it'd be another week or so before she was ready. We shrugged.

"Call back then."

So we did.

To the tune of, "she's already been adopted."

Crushed, we moped for a few weeks. How did she slip out from right out underneath us? Would her new family love her as much as we would've? (Not possible, we reasoned.) And then we revisited our "puppy" conversation. Scoured the web and paper and Craigslist for spring litters. Nothing jived. Nothing felt right. And truly, a little piece of my heart was still tied up in that silly, sweet-spirited, strawberry blonde Carolina dog from the shelter.

So much so that I quietly checked the APA website every couple days. A morning ritual of sorts. A cup of coffee, fingers crossed.

Upon my second sip four Saturdays ago.... I leaped up with the laptop.

"Is this her?! Is she back?!"

"I'll be damned."

Frantic, I banged out an email to Austin Pets Alive. "WE WANT HER." Worried that every precious second in between was a chance she'd be spoken for.

Refresh, refresh. I checked my inbox incessantly, waiting to hear of her status.

"This has to be a sign..."

"Don't get your hopes up..."

Ding.

She was available. Currently in a foster home. And would we like to meet her tomorrow? Turns out, Loo had been a busy girl. Pregnant, birthing and nursing six squirmy pups since we'd seen her. (Unbeknownst to us.) Now her babies had been spoken for, and she was ready to find a home.

We sped south down the interstate the next morning, chatting of dog beds and obedience techniques... (Who will be the softy? Who will be the strict one?)... arriving 20 minutes early to our "meet and greet"... like two antsy kids on Christmas morning. Her foster mom showed us pictures of her babies, a video of her solving a treat puzzle ("She's brilliant!") ... Filling in the blanks since we'd last seen her.

But I wasn't fully attune. Instead, my eyes were on this dog, whose eyes were on a squirrel... and then a bird... and then me. She came in for a hug, tiptoeing on her hind legs, all 32.5 muscly pounds.

"Gotcha, Sweet Loo. Finally."

2015-10-14T16:53:00.000-05:00

Whirlwind season.

That’s what I’ve lovingly dubbed my life, from now until January.

Nutshell: If my head’s not spinning, I don’t feel like I’m doing enough.

(Minus Saturday nights when I inhale free time, exhale responsibility and occasionally land at the neighborhood karaoke dive…. or Sunday mornings when I sleep ‘til 10 - okay 11 - and lazily sip two cups on the porch, with some combination of yoga posing/Cowboys watching mixed in for good measure.)

Notable happenings:

I’ve become somewhat of a live mascot connoisseur.

First SEC Network assignment - Wal Mart parking lot pre-dawn, following an overalled stranger in a pickup truck through remote Ozark back roads to a hog farm where a snorting, charming 400-pounder called Tusk did tricks for grapes. Then his human dad served us BBQ… which was delicious until I thought about Charlotte’s Web.

I wanted to pet Mike at LSU, but he wanted to rip my face off. At least that’s what his trainer said. “Tiger bait” – that’s what they call first-time visitors. Wasn’t in the mood to be mauled, so we eyed each other through thick steel bars. (Sidenote: growing up, I wanted a tiiiiny baby tiger. And this seemed like a very real possibility in my 1995 brain after watching the movie “Indian in the Cupboard.”)

Fast forward past Vandy because Commodores aren’t particularly cute and Florida because wild gators are an actual liability….

Que, the Georgia bulldog in waiting, had his own hotel suite. We chilled. I buried my face in the neck of that stout little fur baby – hashtag dog person - and sneezed violently for the next three hours. Worth it.

Much as I want to insert my first Saban encounter here….. we caught him on a good day. Equal parts smirk and genteel. And that is how I knew Georgia was going to get their asses handed to them before a cleat had ever hit the field.

Minor milestone status: I celebrated five years with ESPN last month. They mailed me a Mickey Mouse pin.

On the phone setting up an interview last week, lady on the other end was like, “You have the coolest job.” YUP. I pretty much do. Running and gunning and herding metaphorical cats, rain or shine. (More former than latter as of late… drizzly Athens, soggy Knoxville.) But full disclosure -- being gone three-ish days a week has got me like HIGH FIVE FOR HOMEBODIES. Somebody put that on a t-shirt. Crosswords, crockpots and couch naps. Where it’s at, y’all. Spoiled rotten getting to flit about the Southeast then return home to the best city in all the land. Nothing makes that more apparent than hotel beds. Though room service did hook it up last Thursday -- popcorn and wine for Scandal.

Additional travel observations a third of the way through the footbawl calendar:

Airports/airplanes are where seemingly nice, mild-mannered people transform into monsters.

-- Nah, it’s cool business traveler. Spread those legs out. Keep brushing your cheap chinos against my knee. Personal space? OVER-clap-clap-RATED-clap-clap. How ‘bout a nibble of my pretzel while we’re at it.

-- Excuse me, sir. You’re in my seat. YES, MINE. Here’s my ticket… Yep, definitely MY seat. No, we don't need to call the flight attendant. No, I don’t want to trade. Yes, I'm sure. Really sure. 16A pardna, get to steppin'.

I’ve watched a grown man bull rush two rows AND an elderly passenger upon arrival, baffled as to WHAT COULD BE THAT URGENT. I did not suppress laughter when he proceeded to face-plant over his fancy boots in the jet bridge.

Then the handsy couple sucking face at baggage claim... haven’t seen that much tongue since “A Christmas Story.”

And though generally a semi-patient person, my rage knoweth no bounds when made to stand in an empty security line and watch a woman leisurely slurp the remains of her V8 juice before both being permitted to pass through the X-ray machine. Barely made my flight, but sure am glad you got your daily serving of veggies, ma'am.

Still, hands-down-most-thrilling occurrence thus far... acquiring TSA pre-check status. Yessah. Wore a light jacket, double-laced my tennis shoes, and stuffed loads of liquid toiletries into my carry-on… BECAUSE I COULD.

It’s the little things in life.

2015-05-10T16:02:00.002-05:00

"Would you like to tag Melissa Shugart Miller in 12 photos?"

Yes, I click.

Then realize the face staring back at me is my own. In every single photo.

After being momentarily creeped out by Facebook facial recognition technology, I was flattered.

You are the spitting image of your mother.

I'd heard it my entire life. Friends, family, strangers at the grocery store. A polite sentiment parroted by relatives trying to make small talk, I thought. A passing phrase accompanied by the occasional eye roll or cheesy grin.

But as it goes... age and wisdom, hand-in-hand.... the expression has come to carry considerable weight.

I keep my fingers crossed the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

And that goes well beyond superficiality.

Though she's incredibly beautiful on the outside - enviable bootcamp biceps included - her inside is radiant. Truly. A selfless, nurturing, servant's heart. The first in line to offer a prayer, a home-cooked meal, a momma-bear hug. Feisty and fun-loving, with this razor-sharp sense of humor that happens to make cameos at the most unexpected / hilariously inappropriate times. (See Instagram for reference. I'm not saying she was the one doing the macarena in a Darth Vader helmet. But um, she was.) We get absolutely tickled at each other's antics, and there are days - more than she knows - that I wish we lived in the same city, so popping in to get a pedicure and catch up on life wasn't a special occasion.

Mom, you are the glue. You always have been. I love being your daughter. And I'm so grateful you're my mother.

2014-09-23T13:05:00.000-05:00

"BYE FELICIA."

He hollers from the bottom of his three-year-old belly to the top of his three-year-old lungs.

This is, I reckon, unconditional love in its finest form.

Big brown eyes and a crop of blonde hair, hurling at me, one hundred miles an hour. Dropping cult-classic one-liners because he knows I'll giggle. And so will the tables around us. (Yes, I taught him. It will never not be funny.)

"What're you having for breakfast, dude?"

"This," he grins.... half-open packet in his fist, sugar crystals sticking to his cheeks.

He's the closest thing I've got to kids until I'm blessed - not hashtag, the actual kind - with my own, and I'm already praying they're as brilliant and adorable. (I'm terribly biased, of course. I get him at his best. No tears, no potty training. But still.)

My heart melts like a pat of butter on the short stack I'm cutting into kid bites for him when he looks up and says, "Thank you, Brookie!"

(Little man has never met a stranger, but he's already mastered the gift of making you feel like the most important person in the room.)

When he asks me to read him a nap-time book, we pick out two.

"Peppa Pig!"

"Does Peppa have a friend named Salt?"

He doesn't laugh at my joke, but tossing the Nerf ball high enough to hit the ceiling is a riot.

We flip pages, and heaps of energy dissolve into sleepy eyes as his little head hits his Star Wars pillow.

"Sweet dreams, Paden. Love you."

"Love you most," says that tiny voice.

No way, kid. No way.

2014-02-24T16:41:00.000-06:00

After two hundred thirty-seven cupcakes* and ensuing outbreak of something that felt a lot like the diabeetus, I'm giving my KitchenAid a break.

I went to the grocery yesterday and didn't buy butter. Not one stick.

Get that side glance out of here.

Drowning in one of those clicky-listicle time sucks (a la BuzzFeed but with food) - HOW TO COOK PERFECT FLUFFY QUINOA! TEN SIMPLE KITCHEN TIPS TO BLOW YOUR EFFING MIND! - I got inspired to go savory.

(Get Inspired to Go Savory. Dibs. Tagline dripping with Martha potential.)

What screams Sunday supper, I asked the soup aisle.

The nice lady stocking gluten-free pretzels was all, "Pot roast and potatoes." I appreciated the gesture, because she didn't look like she ate meat... but really, I only had eyes for cream of chicken.

Tossed two cans into my eco-tote (Austin, forever frowning upon paper and plastic) and drove home windows down, blaring Ray - Charles, not Sugar - because Y'ALL, I had a plan.

Chicken spaghetti.... just like Mom used to make. Except spicy. And no mushrooms allowed. (I've been known to pick out every last gloppy fleck by hand in protest.)

It's not the original - scrawled on card stock and tucked inside an ancient, dog-earred Southern Living - but it's Pioneer Woman. So it's close.

A Kick In Your Mouth Spicy Chicken Spaghetti Recipe

OTHER TIPS, THE LIKE AND SUCH AS: Instead of green peppers, chop a couple jalapenos. Don't rub your eyes. Crush a cup of Lays and sprinkle atop for bonus good times. (Because all good Southern children know, a casserole sans smattering of Ritz Cracker or salty potater chip layer is NOT a casserole.) Don't bother plating. Stick the fork in, bubbly and oozing cheese. Give half away. Or eat a bowl for breakfast. Boom. You did it. Here are some pictures.

*Yes.

2013-07-25T23:54:00.002-05:00

Like if baby diapers, hairspray and cotton candy had a threesome.

I smell them before I see them.

Then I roll my luggage right into their heavily-perfumed web.

Glitzy, glossed, bedazzled and bejazzled. These broads are a sensory potpurri. Dressed to the nines, if the nines were a sad rack of JC Penney prom dresses.

"What's the occasion?"

(Because the superlative sashes didn't give them away.)

"Honey. We've taken over," says SAPPHIRE STAR CONSULTANT.

"We're all here for Mary Kay," echoes MISS ENTHUSIASM.

"Mary Who?"

That's the woman in floral near the front of the pack. She has no sash. (Presumably her sales skills are crippled by her penchant for Lucite. Or maybe she's not employed by the pink mafia and genuinely as amused by the gaggle of semi-aggressive makeup mongers as I am.)

Thought bubbles grow above my head... Why the H is the elevator taking so long? And... if I'm still violently allergic to artificial fragrance... dear sweet baby Jesus, please someone have an EpiPen.

"What are you here for?" asks QUEEN OF FACIALS from behind a tube of lipstick, puckered and pursed.

"Big 12 Media Days."

Which have now ended, hence swapping pumps and blazer for sneakers and a limp pony. (I almost feel the need to reason.)

"Now, what exactly is... the Big 12, is it?"

I explain that I work in television and spent two afternoons asking grown men questions about a game.

"No, the season hasn't yet started."
"Yes, the place was crawling with athletes."
"No, they're in COLLEGE. Yes, all of them." Perv.

"Do you like what you do?" says the silver-haired one.

Before anything audible can escape, I'm surrounded.

"Why don't you come with us?" purrs FACIALS. "Come as you are!"

She's eyeing my wrinkled t-shirt and chipped polish.

"Yes, sweetie. Yes."
"You'll wake up every morning LOVING what you do."
"L-O-V-E."

I'm overwhelmed by a chorus of surround-sound, syrupy-Texan and I'm waiting to be thrown over their sequined shoulders and dragged to a dark corner of the convention center.

If they could've done so sans legal implication, I do believe they would've. But their lusty sales pitch is squelched by the elevator ding.

I wait. They cram in.

"I'll hold for the next one, ladies."

"You sure?"

The doors inch closer.

"I'VE GOT A SAMPLE OF FINISHING SPRAY."

Three inches, two inches...

"RIGHT HERE IN MY PURSE."

Muffled as it slides shut, whisked away are the women of Mary Kay and their finishing spray.

I pageant-wave goodbye.

2013-06-17T00:00:00.000-05:00

A heavy-handed pour, watered down by smothering humidity. The kind of night where ice cubes disappear before doing their job. Condensation rolls from the glass and trickles through the slats of the picnic table, stinging bare legs.

We don't notice. We're laughing. Smiles a mile-wide and stories flying.

Sex, nostalgia, conspiracy theories. Taboo takes a back seat as I order a second round.

When skeletons crouch at the edge of our conversation - as they do - we acknowledge truth can be a hard pill to swallow and take a big gulp. Slowly, they come dancing out. Buoyant and brutally real.

Different as the years (seven-ish) and miles (two-thousand-some-odd) and experiences that separate us, we're bound by the unyielding branch of a tree that sways and creaks and weathers the wild.

And we'll hold a little tighter when you need it, they promise.

Because that's how family works.

2013-03-24T22:30:00.001-05:00

"Excuse me, sir... Is there marijuana in your salsa?"

Two tables over, a gray-haired man and his wife poke curiously at their half-empty ramekin.

"I'm tasting a very distinctive herb here. And I can't quite place it."

Our waiter (also their waiter) tries desperately to smother a smirk.

"How awesome would that be if there was."

Ah, brunch in Park Slope. Our initiation to Brooklyn.

A borough I kind of, sort of, accidentally might adore.

Food. The theme of the weekend.

Arthur on Smith.

Where Bjork simultaneously dined on the same codfish dish as Cara. "Bjork, as in Swan Bjork?" "Yep. That one." "She was here?" "Right in that corner." "And we didn't recognize her?" "She had on normal clothes." Sipping on Tito's (the only vodka stocked) and devouring warm oatmeal-crusted bread smothered in honey butter and sprinkled with sea salt, a love connection was made. Via Twitter. "You guys, my future is becoming clear. Joe, the owner, is NOW FOLLOWING ME." A real-life screenplay waiting to unfold. And when it does, we're casting adorable 1990s Meg Ryan and Anthony LaPaglia as the leads.

Buttermilk Channel.

Where I questioned the idea of cornmeal cheddar waffles until I ordered them, drowned them in syrup and realized they made SO much sense. Without a stroller in tow, we were definitely the minority. Trending in Carroll Gardens? Toddlers. (So hot right now.) Go after noon and you will wait. Worth it.

Al di La.

Where old friends and new friends oooh'd and aaaah'd over decadent Italian (after examining the menu with an iPhone flashlight app, extensively) until we shut the place down. Three of four women wanted to procreate with our gorgeous singer/song-writer/artist/magician/server, Brett. ("He could be gay?" "Don't care.") Ricotta frittelli with fresh whipped cream and chocolate sauce happened. As did the creation of hash tag #JESUSBROOKE.

ABC Kitchen.

Where we nearly paid forty five dollars for a black truffle burrata. ("Ten grams, shaved right in. Served bubbling hot.") Got free drinks after a west coast waif knocked mine over with a gargantuan handbag that weighed more than she did. ("I can tell you're not from New York because you're not screaming at us," mused her Dodgers-capped date.) Highlights included a near-perfect charcuterie plate (piles of prosciutto) and roasted broccoli/pistachio/sweet potato salad. Decided my future home should be decorated identically to this gorgeous space in Union Square. Also decided: we're really, really good at eating.

2012-09-09T23:33:00.000-05:00

Football is back.

Which means Sunday and Monday are the new Saturday and Sunday.

I didn't join a fantasy league. (Already regretting it.) Because gambling stresses me out. As do chopsticks. Different story, different time. Sport-related strategy and fine-tuned motor skill... neither a strong suit.

Ah, well. Less time setting rosters. More time swirling Nutella and taking naps on the balcony.

I've reached the pinnacle of weekend productivity.

*Notable off-season acquisitions include a Broncos rooting interest. I know.

{Nutella Swirled Blondies Recipe}

2012-09-06T22:31:00.000-05:00

"Go ahead and pop off your contacts. The doctor will be right in."

Enters a blur of a man with a blur of a clipboard.

Or something square and white. I can't tell really. I can't see.

"Says here you work for... ESPN?"

"Yessir. Well, actually, the Longhorn Network."

"What does ESPN have to do with the Longhorn Network?"

"It, um, owns it."

"Those guys?"

"Yes?"

"Well I got to tell you... I'm not real happy with either of them. Not many people are."

Here we go.

Rant city.

He takes me on a winding journey through carriage and distribution and exclusivity rights. A crescendo of passion and deprivation and non-violent threat. (In a dim examination room).

I nod at a featureless face. (Still without contacts here.)

I politely interject. (Five times is probably borderline impolite.)

"Business negotiations are far above my pay grade."

"Yes, but... c'mon. Someone should've thought it through before launching a network to no one."

Air your grievances, good sir. But not so close to my face. And might I add, your knowledge of the cable industry is truly outstanding for an optometrist. NOW STOP TALKING AND MEASURE MY EYES.

And the next time a form asks for Employer, I'm writing down "nail technician."

2012-08-26T20:18:00.002-05:00

Three minutes left in the spin cycle.

He bellows through the door. Tall. Maybe six-and-a-half feet. A hulking ginger.

"Looks like they're remodeling around here."

"Yep." I don't look up from the pile of towels I'm folding.

"Maybe they'll add some more washers and dryers."

"Maybe."

"How much longer on that one?"

"Almost done." I bend down to unload pillowcases and sheets. I catch a glimpse of his socks, pulled shin-high under slip-on sandals. Both stamped with an A&M logo.

"Lived here for long?" he asks.

I'm not one for small talk. And I don't know how to politely explain that to a grown man in an authentic Fightin' Texas Aggie football jersey with matching maroon shorts. So I turn, grab my makeshift laundry bag - a duffel with a giant Longhorn monogram - and reply with one foot out the door...

"Have fun in the SEC."

2012-07-31T00:23:00.000-05:00

July.

2012-07-28T14:06:00.000-05:00

"Gimme S'More Cupcakes"

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups crushed graham crackers
1/4 cup brown sugar
5 Tbsp butter, melted

Bag of mini chocolate chips
Bag of mini marshmallows (optional)

1 box chocolate cake mix, batter prepared according to package directions

1/2 cup butter room temp
8 oz cream cheese (or one cup or one brick)
1 jar marshmallow fluff
2-3 cups powdered sugar
2 Tbsp heavy cream (or milk)

For the Cupcakes

Preheat oven to 350°

Line 2 muffin tins with cupcake liners, 24 cupcakes

In a medium bowl combine graham cracker crumbs, melted butter and brown sugar. Drop a tablespoon or two of graham cracker mixture into each liner and press down to form crust. Bake the crusts for 5 minutes and transfer to wire rack.

(Want an extra, drool-inducing dose of awesome? Once cool, sprinkle each crust with a mini chocolate chips and a pinch of sea salt before filling with cake batter).

Prepare cake mix according to package directions. (Folding in more chocolate chips is certainly not discouraged here). Fill liners 2/3 full. Bake 15-18 minutes, until cupcakes are set.

For the Frosting

Mix butter and cream cheese on medium speed. Slowly add in powdered sugar... Mix. Add heavy cream/milk... Turn up speed... Mix. Add entire jar of Fluff - it's going to be sticky - and mix (again) until smooth.

Last, But Never Least

After frosting the cooled cupcakes, make 'em pretty...

Sprinkle with crushed grahams & chocolate chips. Let the people know they're about to partake in a ridiculously decadent cake version of the campfire favorite, for heaven's sake. If you have a kitchen torch - I'm a pyro, so I do not - you could even roast some mini marshmallows.

Also, refrigeration is a good call. Unless you want 'mallow fluff dripping down the sides. Either way, they're kind of impossible to nosh without making a spectacular mess.

{Recipe adapted from Cookies & Cups}

2012-07-22T18:45:00.000-05:00

This is how you play refrigerator Tetris after a handsome farmer's market haul.

Bundle of summer squash - incoming.

Bag of baby carrots - you gots to go.

Into a tub of hummus? Nope. Cupcakes. (Don't act surprised).

Grate 'em up. Dump 'em in. Question who ever thought root vegetables belonged in dessert.

I used Paula Deen's Best Ever recipe - the irony - but left out all traces of raisin, pecan and pineapple. (Sorry about it, traditionalists). What I'm saying is, even if you hate carrot cake... you won't hate this carrot cake. Especially after adding a dollop of Salted Caramel Cream Cheese Frosting.

After the homemade caramel has cooled, add half a cup - more, less, more - to the cream cheese frosting. Give it a whirl in the KitchenAid. To thicken, add powdered sugar. To thin, heavy cream. Eyeball it. Go with your gut. If you can spread it on a cupcake, you're golden.

Bonus points: You'll be seeing 20/20 in no time.

2012-07-21T16:11:00.000-05:00

Putting an immediate and insatiable need for caaawfee on hold, I shed my 'creature of habit' tendencies for a breakfast date down south.

La Boite. The Box, if my shaky French is to be trusted. (Which it's not. High five for translator apps). Named for the repurposed shipping container in which it's housed.

What this atypical cafe lacks in space - 160 itsy-bitsy square feet - it makes up for in ridiculously authentic pastries.

Macarons. Palmiers. Flaky chocolate croissants.

Pair them with a seat on the shaded lawn and an iced Americano. Lick buttery crumbs off your fingers while a vigilant bird guilt-trips you for not tossing a few his way. Or... drop by for a dozen to-go.

They swear by keeping it local. But you'll swear your taste buds are on Champs-Élysées.

2012-07-15T14:17:00.001-05:00

It's like this speck of subculture, off a busy Burnet Road in the heart of central Austin.

The self-proclaimed "honkiest, tonkiest beer joint in town."

If you've driven past, you've seen the steeple. But what's inside... well, I wouldn't call it holy.

Through an old orange door, a wall-mount AC unit held together with duct-tape chugs. Yellowed pictures peel from the wall and hot dogs boil in a corner crockpot atop a card table. Free for those who show up on a Sunday afternoon. Tubs of chili and grated cheese. A stack of paper napkins.

People from all walks line the long bar that Ginny still mans. It is her namesake, after all. Ginny's Little Longhorn.

A genuine jukebox advertises Willie... George... Jimmy. Handwritten placards, housed together in loopy scrawl. Trapped behind dusty glass as the band sets up in the back.

Regulars say it's the two dollar Lone Star and live music.

"Have you seen the inside? The dance floor's about the size of a postage stamp."

But the growing crowd isn't piling in for cheap longnecks.

They're lining up for the winning ticket.

Out back, tucked past a pair of vintage Chevy pickups - the main attraction. In a chicken wire cage.

Ginny herself plucks Penny, the hen, from the coop and escorts her across the tiny parking lot, where the party has spilled outside. A grand procession for a one-in-fifty-seven shot atop a plywood-covered pool table.

Patrons clutch their numbered squares... the first few chords of a steel guitar wail... and off she goes.

Pecking at feed on 17. Pausing at 9. Shuffling between the corner of 43 and 44.

The crowd gets louder and so does the band.

Until Penny settles on 2... scratches... and squats.

Bingo. Of the chicken shit variety.

The jackpot? One hundred fourteen bucks.

"If you win… it’s real nice if you buy everybody a beer."

Longtime friend Rocky Slay doesn't play much anymore. He comes for the hot dogs. And the spectacle. ("Old cars, motorcycles, tattoos and piercings. Bizarre people.")

But one thing he's learned... "You cannot make chicken salad out of chicken shit. I've tried for years."

2012-07-14T13:45:00.002-05:00

Cookies are my currency.

Nabbed an HBO GO subscription for a couple cups of flour, a bag of M&Ms and an hour in the kitchen.

Either I've got really generous friends or these cookies are that good.

Plowed through an entire season of Girls. (I don't care what you think about the show - love it, hate it, secretly love it but say you hate it - the music is spot on).

Now I'm onto Newsroom. Kind of/sort of my (work) life in a nutshell. Minus the actual news part, a level of seriousness and obvious control room gaffes. (Producers aren't hand-typing graphics to smite talent ten seconds before hitting air. They just aren't). Either way, plugs the gaping Sunday night programming hole.

YEAH BARTERING.

{Recipe: Mini Rainbow M&M Cookie Sandwiches with Peanut Butter Buttercream Filling via Sally's Baking Addiction}

2012-07-11T00:36:00.002-05:00

2012-07-01T00:08:00.000-05:00

Evening exercisers often do so because they want to be “tired out” by the time they hit the sack. However, the thermal effect of exercise is the same at any time of day; body temperature rises during and after physical activity. So the body will be "alert" when you're trying to sleep. Working out close to three hours before your bedtime can disrupt the body's circadian clock and may affect your ability to fall asleep and stay asleep.

THIS. This is how these cookies came to be. Thanks a ton, circadian clock.

And don't ask where I got that scientific nugget. (Cough. AskMen.com). Yep. Answers that sound factual enough to regurgitate, but I wouldn't put money on the factual part. Like, beef-cake Wikipedia.

Also. Can I just say... hiccups on the treadmill are deceptively hazardous.

And mini chocolate chips are adorable.

And if you know a chocolate fiend, it'd be a disservice not to mail them a batch.

{Chewy Triple Chocolate Cookie Recipe via Annie's Eats}

2012-06-26T00:06:00.003-05:00

You got the peaches?

I got the cream.

It's too doggone hot to bake. (Yes, I said doggone. Emphatic twang). Too hot to do anything really. (Decided after the steering wheel left char marks on my right palm).

But I had these ripe peaches and they were hanging out on my counter...

I didn't have the heart to toss them. So I cranked the oven to three-seventy-five.

(Musical intermission, anyone?)

Buttery, tangy, sweet, juicy. And perfectly portable.

These cobbler/custard/crumble bars have a lot to offer. Except shade.

Peach Custard Bars
{Recipe via Savvy Eats}

For the crust:

1/2 cup light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 cup (1 stick) cold butter
2 teaspoons lemon juice
Pinch of salt

For the filling:

1 14 ounce can sweetened condensed milk
2 tablespoons vanilla bean paste or vanilla extract
1/2 cup all-purpose or whole wheat pastry flour
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
4 medium peaches, thinly sliced

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and grease a 9×9 baking pan.

Stir the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and lemon juice. (It'll fizz. Like an old school science fair volcano). Cut the butter into cubes, and work it into the flour until the crumbs are pea-sized. (If, like me, you're not a fancy person with a fancy food processor, a pastry cutter or two knives will do the trick).

Press the dough into the prepared pan. Bake for 20-25 minutes, or until the edges begin to brown and pull away from the sides of the pan.

While crust is baking, slice the peaches. Stir together the sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, flour, lemon juice and cinnamon until smooth. (At this point, I was all "doesn't this need an egg or something?" Baked up just fine and passed the taste test without one).

Pour the sweetened condensed milk concoction over the crust. Press peaches into it. (I made a pretty design, but no one's judging you for haphazardly heaping them on. Especially because, if you save a little crust mixture, you can throw it on top crumble-style and the peaches disappear underneath).

Bake for an additional 15-20 minutes, or until the top is slightly firm. Allow to cool for at least 15 minutes before slicing and serving. (A la mode perhaps? I'm not saying you need vanilla ice cream, but c'mon... you need vanilla ice cream).

2012-06-25T00:24:00.000-05:00

- Summer peaches, begging to be baked. In a custard crumble. And yes, recipe is on its way.

- Enamored by banjos and big hair? Dirty River Boys at Antone's.

- Hey, those aren't tulips!

- Racking up the early-morning, backroad mileage. Coffee called shotgun.

- Boats and hoes.

- Lunch in Luling. City Market burnt ends have my heart.

- Getting more than I bargained for at Jo's. Leslie print in the corner speaks volumes.

- "Oh, you want to drink milk straight from these?"

- Trail run in triple digit heat. I make no apologies for the state of my front seat.

2012-06-21T02:09:00.001-05:00

The hull of a prop plane, long-defunct, juts from an empty field. As if it took a nose-dive into the red dirt years ago, and its rust grew roots.

A left at the lone blinking light and a right onto CR 112 until it butts into Bug Tussle, where pavement gives way to gravel.

A trailer painted like the Texas flag, parked in the corner of a dusty arena. A Sorrel horse, galloping under the guidance of a gentleman who tips his hat in our direction.

He waves our miniature production fleet through the gate.

I extend a hand and praise for the best set of directions I've ever received.

I'm allowed to say so, he nods, because I found the place.

He slings the rope with the precision of a scientist. It writhes gracefully in midair before jolting to life with a snap.

A patch of shade under the tin roof is prime property for watching Pat Ivey work.

He doesn't miss. Not once.

Ivey's skill is coveted by many, mastered by few. His pupils are a grab-bag of ages and ethnicities and backgrounds. City slickers. Aspiring cowboys. Retired professionals. Ladies. Little kids. Even a Londoner.

"London London?"

"He bought a roping dummy over there, believe it or not. Drags it out to the forest to practice. His friends give him a real hard time."

"How'd he find you?"

"Same way you did, I suppose."

No horse, no boots, no Texas citizenry required?

"Just bring your tennis shoes and a twenty-five dollar bill and we'll rope."

(If you can find the place).

2012-06-19T22:37:00.003-05:00

"Go ahead and rip up that order. He won't be able to afford it."

Stevie Ray Vaughan's mother, calling on his behalf, phoned Manny Gammage to let him know.

Before the record deals, the Rolling Stone write-ups, the half-dozen Grammys - Vaughan was just a seventeen year-old kid who wanted a fancy cowboy hat.

Gammage's wife, Norma, knew that.

Instead of trashing the ticket she'd just penned, she operated on stubborn faith.

And a young Vaughan, his first hand-crafted high-roller in hand, found a special message stamped inside...

Made especially for SRV.

The gesture wasn't buried in Vaughan's memory, or his fame.

Nearly two decades later (and two months before his untimely passing), he'd tell Leno - and the world - about Manny Gammage and his custom cappers.

Manny's youngest daughter, Joella Gammage Torres, recalls that story with particular pride. Though celebrities and politicians are a dime a dozen at Texas Hatters.

The walls, drenched in proof, do the bragging... Ronald Reagan. Robert Duvall. Penelope Cruz. Hank Williams, Jr. Willie Nelson. George H. George W. Chuck Norris. Colt McCoy.

Her father's apprentice until his passing in 1995, Joella now runs the family business alongside her husband, David, and son, Joel. Sewing, cutting, steaming, shaping. Second-nature for the third generation master-hatter, who's as quick to whip out nicknames as she is a tape measure.

"Seven and a quarter? Long Oval. Six and seven-eigths... that'd make you Skinny Egg. My son, oh, at least you don't have his! He's Bullet Head."

It's had a few different names, moved a few different places... Pasadena to Buda. Austin to Abilene.

"You're never gonna move outside of Texas, Dad. So why don't you just call it Texas Hatters and you'll never have to change it again."

One savvy piece of advice and ninety-something years later, this hatting legend - now right off Hwy 183 in Lockhart - remains a Lone Star treasure. And should be for generations to come, says Joella. The Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise too high. A Gammage family mantra.