File this one under "random," for sure, but how awesome is this washi-taped Mini Cooper? It's so bright and cheerful and I love those stripes.
I'm not car-obsessed by any means, but I'm actually soon to be in the market for a new vehicle—I like to joke that my current one is held up by "duct tape and wishes," and I am not exaggerating when I say that (it's especially amusing when I have to valet park at the Ritz for an event or something)—and a Mini is at the top of my list. I love them so much. It helps that everyone I know who has one does, too.
Last week ACS sent me a link to a Buzzfeed piece about the old Cincinnati public library. The library's current iteration, which was built after its predecessor was torn down in 1955, is a nondescript, regular-looking building, but you guys—the photos from its heyday are take-your-breath-away beautiful. Just look at them. I mean...there are no words. Well, except one: love.
File this one under the "love" category: How to Write Letters is a “manual of correspondence, showing the correct structure, composition, punctuation, formalities, and uses of the various kinds of Letters, Notes and Cards,” penned by J. Willis Westlake in 1876. I discovered this via the wonderful Brain Pickings, which is a site you should totally bookmark if you haven't already. There are tons of great excerpts from the book in Maria Popova's article on Brain Pickings, but here's my favorite:
"Take pains; write as plainly and neatly as possible—rapidly if you can, slowly if you must. Good writing affects us sympathetically, giving us a higher appreciation both of what is written and of the person who wrote it. Don’t say, I haven’t time to be so particular. Take time; or else write fewer letters and shorter ones. A neat well-worded letter of one page once a month is better than a slovenly scrawl of four pages once a week. In fact, bad letters are like store bills: the fewer and the shorter they are, the better pleased is the recipient."
In an era where we fire off emails, tweets, texts and Facebook posts without a second thought, this makes me want to sit down with some of my favorite notecards and pen a handwritten note to all my friends. In fact, I just might do that. And I think that's a good thing.
Photo: My own. A few weeks ago, when I was at my parents', we were going through some old papers of my grandparents' and found a bunch of my grandfather's—my mom's dad's—old letters. I love them.
This is by far one of the best things I've come across on the Internet lately: "Ask Amy," in which the amazing Amy Poehler responds to questions about life that are submitted by teenage girls. Topics range from stress to crushes to body image to anxiety, and Poehler's answers are funny, of course, but they're also well-thought-out and kind and insightful. Watch the one about makeup, above, and you'll see what I mean. Love.
Have you heard of Humans of New York? My coworker Beau introduced me to it, and it's awesome.
Photographer Brandon Stanton set out to photograph 10,000 New Yorkers and plot their photos on a map, "but somewhere along the way, [the project] took on a much different character," he says. "I started collecting quotes and short stories from the people I met, and began including these snippets alongside the photographs." Now the project has almost million followers on Facebook and Tumblr, and it's no wonder: Stanton's photographs, quotes and observations are thought-provoking, hilarious, moving and—yes—incredibly human. Below are a few favorites; I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
"If you could give one piece of advice to a large group of people, what would it be?"
"Take those phones you're on, shove 'em up your arses, and go to work."
"I came to America when I was 14. My mother told me that books were too heavy to bring, and I had this crazy idea that I'd never be able to replace them, so I copied all my favorite Russian poems by hand."
"I'm 92 years old."
"What's your secret?"
"Lots of sex."
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" "A big boy." All photos by Brandon Stanton
Holy moly: These monogrammed succulent planter boxes from Rooted in Succulents are amazing. I want an "M" so, so badly. Totally awesome, right?
P.S. I don't know what it is, but despite my black thumb, I am really into plants lately. I bought a dwarf Meyer lemon tree a few weeks ago and I'm kind of in love with it, and I'm itching to start a herb garden. Any gardening tips are much-appreciated—I grew up with huge orange trees in my backyard but never actually did anything to care for them, and, um, I've killed succulents before. So yes: tips welcome! xo
Here's a something fun to start the day: Daily Dishonesty was created by graphic designer Lauren Hom, and is a fun "tribute" to those little lies we tell ourselves every day. Above are the three that I can most relate to (or three that I feel most comfortable sharing publicly, ha!); you can follow along and see new dishonesties here. Man, I love the Internet sometimes.
Happy Friday, friends! How were your weeks? As is the case after any holiday, mine was busy but also productive, which is always a nice way to feel as the weekend approaches. And while I don't have any firm plans for the next few days yet—aside from picking up a little (live!) tabletop Christmas tree and getting the majority of my gift shopping done—I'm really looking forward to spending time here in Sarasota, enjoying the perfect weather we've been having lately. Oh, and I'm totally baking something this weekend, too, whether it's the brioche I was salivating over in this post or this orange gingerbread with cream cheese frosting from Joy the Baker (hello, holiday-appropriate dessert). I promise to report back on what I made next week.
In the meantime, if you're looking for some fun reads, here are three links:
Did Robert Burchfield, former editor of the Oxford English Dictionary, "covertly delete thousands because of their foreign origin" from the dictionary—or was he just a good editor? Regardless, it's pretty fascinating. (The New Yorker)
Ann M. Martin's 10 favorite Baby-Sitters Club books (!!). I was obsessed with the BSC when I was younger; I most identified with Mary Anne (take from that what you will). (EWvia the Fug Girls)
Have a great weekend (the first one in December! Eek!), and I'll see you back here on Monday! xoxo
Photo: My new cake stand (with scalloped edges!), which I am in love with. Thank you, thrift store.
We need to talk about Swedish Dream sea salt soap, because I am pretty sure it actually is the stuff dreams are made of. I'd seen pictures of the soap on numerous design blogs but had never thought about buying it until I walked into a little store up the street from my office*, picked it up and took a whiff. I left without purchasing it that day, but thought about it so much afterward that I went back not 24 hours later to buy it, and I'm so glad I did. I don't know how to describe the scent other than that it's the perfect mix of salty and soapy; it smells like the ocean but it also smells clean, like how you'd expect to smell if you took a shower after a couple of hours of swimming in the sea. Man, I love soap.
*The little store up the street from my office is called Tortoise & Pearl, and it is filled with awesomeness--everything from gorgeous handmade jewelry to home goods to vintage clothes and shoes. If you're local (or planning to visit Sarasota), it's a must-visit. Here's the shop's Facebook page, if you'd like to take a peek (though it's not updated too often).
Last year, sometime in March, I got really sick with what turned out to be a bad UTI (I'm sorry) but that I originally thought was some sort of gastrointestinal issue—I would be sick to my stomach for two days and then recover, only to have the whole process start up again a week or so later. Needless to say, it was not fun.
Wow, if that opening paragraph doesn’t make you want to keep reading this blog post, I don’t know what will. Urinary tracts! Vomit! Yay! (Again, I’m sorry.)
Anyway, one of the days I was particularly sick was after I’d tossed back a huge cup of really, really strong coffee. Here’s a fun fact about me: I like caffeine. I probably like it a little too much. After a cup-and-a-half of coffee, I start to sound like I’m on speed. “How much caffeine have you had today?” is a question I get asked pretty frequently, and it’s usually because I’ve started talking a mile a minute, thanks to the caffeine.
(Side note: Did I ever tell you my nickname in high school was “Speedy”? I gave a presentation in my freshman English class and was so nervous that I plowed through what was supposed to be five minutes of stuff in less than three, earning myself that nickname, which stuck with me for four years. Good times. Also: Oh my God, I need to JUST FOCUS on writing this blog post. Back to the story at hand.)
After I got so sick (again, from what I assumed was the huge cup of coffee I drank right before all the sick), the doctor I went to—even after he determined that the problem was not a gastro thing—suggested I cut back on caffeine for awhile, just in case. So I did: I switched my morning cup of coffee to chai tea and I was really good about avoiding most caffeine at all cost, save for the occasional iced tea every now and then.
But, you know, things change. People change. And more than a year later, I found myself craving something stronger than tea every afternoon at 3 p.m. So I started drinking the occasional latte. Then I started making cold-brew (see: here). And then recently I decided that it would probably be better for my body if I imbibed the majority of my caffeine in the morning instead of in the middle of the afternoon, right on the precipice of that point where the caffeine might cause you to not be able to sleep at night. So I did. Specifically, I did so with a French press. And it was a game-changer.
For years, I cycled through $10 coffeemakers from Target—you know the kind: plastic, white, breakable—and when I started drinking cold-brew, all I really needed was a wooden spoon and a jar. But when I started making hot coffee in the morning again, I decided to get a French press (specifically this jaunty little green one, also available at your friendly neighborhood Target). And it’s so simple and the coffee is SO GOOD. Seriously, I now look forward to the taste of the coffee and not the cream and sugar. You have to pay a little more attention to brewing time with the French press, but seriously: all you do is pour water over coarse coffee grinds, stir and press. Easy-peasy. Coffee, I love you.
Are you guys coffee drinkers? And if so, do you French press?
A few years ago—and oh, God, at this point it was probably six or seven years; HelloI'mOld.com—I went through a major obsession with Lush Cosmetics. I blame it on my friend Hayley. You see, Hayley is the person who introduced me to Lush and who fanned the flame of a soap phase so intense that I actually, on numerous occasions, drove 30 minutes to Orlando International Airport—the only place within 50 miles, at the time, where it was possible to buy Lush products—to pick up pounds of bath items. I am not kidding. It was bad for my wallet—I was a few months post-graduation and working part-time at Office Depot back in early 2006—but good for my soul (especially because it meant I got to see Hayley). And my skin. I smelled delightful, you guys.
After I moved to Sarasota in September of that year, my Lush obsession quickly faded—it was nearly impossible to get my hands on the stuff; I would have had to drive to Orlando or pay exorbitant shipping fees if I bought online. But I still loved the producs and what the company stands for—they're passionately anti-animal testing and all of their products are vegetarian, if not vegan—and whenever I was near a store, I'd pick up a bar of soap or some other yummy-smelling bath item. I'm not a big bath-taker—I'm much more a shower girl—so using a bubble bar or bath bomb felt incredibly luxurious. I liked that.
Fast forward to a few days ago: I was at the International Mall in Tampa and while ACS attended a business meeting, I (ahem) went shopping. I got a polka dot shirt (of course) on sale at Zara; I browsed the racks at J.Crew...and then I smelled that unmistakable floral scent. Lush was nearby.
Of course, I couldn't help myself, especially since my birthday was the next day: I walked in and headed straight for the bath bombs, wishing Hayley was with me, too. And one huge, round pink bath bomb and a floral-scented bubble bar later, I walked out of the store with a giant grin on my face. It's the simple things, sometimes, isn't it?
I haven't used either of the products yet; they're still nestled in their little bag. I'm saving them for a special occasion. Maybe I'll use one this weekend, and drink a glass of wine and read my new book. Who knows?
A couple of years ago, while reading A Cup of Jo, one of my favorite blogs—and maybe one of yours, too—I came across a photo of a Reese’s peanut butter cup cake: two layers of devil’s food cake with chunks of Reese’s peanut butter cups mixed in, topped with a chocolate peanut-butter ganache that’s then studded with even more chopped-up Reese’s cups. Be still my heart. (And actually, my heart would probably literally be still if I ate too much of this cake—it is definitely one of the richer and more unhealthy things I’ve ever put in my mouth.)
I baked the cake a couple of times after reading that blog post, which was published back in 2009—how could I resist after seeing the photo? Here it is again, because why not?—but then kind of forgot about it, although it always popped up in the back of my mind when I had to think about Occasion Cakes—you know, cakes you make for holidays, birthdays and the like. I am a big fan of the Occasion Cake, not only because they receive a lot of oohs and aahs when presented—I am a Leo, after all—but because they’re special and kind of fancy; they only make appearances at certain times. (See: this giant coconut cake, which takes two days to make and is curiously heavy, and this classic chocolate cake with buttercream frosting, which is just a treat. Even if you forget to add baking soda, which I once did.)
Anyway, I needed to whip up an Occasion Cake recently and, as usual, I began flipping through my mental recipe file to figure out which one I wanted to make. I was starting to think that a classic yellow cake with vanilla buttercream—basically, these cupcakes in cake form—would do the trick, but then the Reese’s cake popped into my head…and stayed there until I found myself in the checkout line in the grocery store, clutching one too many bags of gold foil-wrapped Reese’s cups and probably being judged by the people in line behind me.
The cake couldn’t be easier to make, mostly because it starts with a box mix. Now, listen: I am a huge proponent of making baked goods from scratch; in fact, I generally hate using box mixes. But trust me: In this case, Betty Crocker really does the trick. After you doctor up the mix with eggs, buttermilk, oil, etc., you throw in a ton of chopped-up Reese’s peanut butter cups and stick the whole thing in two round cake pans in a 350-degree oven.
After they cool, you make the chocolate peanut butter ganache—which is easy as, um, pie: dark chocolate, heavy cream, peanut butter and confectioners’ sugar—and frost the cake. Then you garnish the whole thing with even more of those Reese’s cups, as mentioned above. Then you eat a slice, and you know what? After that, you just feel happy.
I take comfort—just a miniscule amount, though, I swear—that some of you may now have the song that this post’s title references in your heads now, too.
Anyway, happy Wednesday, friends—how are your weeks going? As of this past Monday, I am back to my usual routine after nine whopping days off—nine days in which I went to St. Augustine, spent time at my parents’ house, ate a whole lot of cookout-friendly food and also an $8 ice cream cone—yes, seriously, $8; I’m making my own from now on! What is the world coming to? (Also, hello, I have apparently turned 90)—and slept past 10 a.m. on several occasions. It was glorious.
But the return to work and the daily grind is always kind of a bummer, no matter how much you love your job, and for the past couple of days I’ve found myself thinking about what else I want to do from now until Labor Day—what weekend adventures I’d like to go on, what experiences I’d like to have, what things I’d like to make (that gold brick DIY from a few weeks ago has me itching to spray paint everything gold. Not the cats, though, don't worry). And I love making lists, so I thought, Hey, why not make a list? And then I thought, Hey, why not share it with the Internet?
So there you have it, Internet: herewith my rest-of-the-summer bucket list.
1.Take a road trip with my mom. Last year we went to Savannah; this year we’re thinking Charleston.
2.Make ice cream. The $8 cone experience reminded me that I do, in fact, own an ice cream maker—I won one from Shelley in a giveaway last year. Homemade mint chocolate chip, here I come. Oh, and key lime and graham cracker gelato, too (be still my citrus-loving heart). Also, how hard is it to make waffle cones, you think?
3.Swim as much as possible. Preferably in the ocean.
4.Cut my hair (more on this to come).
5.Paint one wall in my house with chalkboard paint. (I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit recently; at first I wanted to do a whole wall in my living room, but now I’m thinking the kitchen is my best bet, mostly because I constantly want a place to write weekly menus and scribble to-do lists that’s, well, not a small pad of paper. Also: I am kind of obsessed with chalk.)
6.String up café lights on my “porch.” I use quotation marks because my porch is not so much a porch as it is a tiny strip of wood that’s screened in, but a Very Awesome Person bought me said lights—which I’d been talking about incessantly and, let’s be honest, probably annoyingly, for a year—and I’m excited to get them up.
7.Go to Adventure Island with friends. (I love water and water rides but am terrified of roller coasters and have a tendency to get slightly motion sick, so this should be interesting and may require alcohol.)
8.Do a huge closet clean-out—opening the door and looking inside is starting to make me anxious.
9.Take a cooking class here.
10.Watch a lot of sunsets on the beach.
How about you—what’s on your summer checklist? Please tell me; I would love to know.
Friends, this week I would like to tell you a little bit about my weekend.
I should preface this by making note of three things: 1. Friday was my last day of work for AN ENTIRE WEEK (oh, yes, I am off for the next four days); 2. It was the weekend before A Certain Someone’s birthday, so I decided to make our weekend together as much of a surprise as possible; and 3. It is July in Florida, and so you should imagine a glistening layer of sweat over everything I describe.
Also, I’m quickly discovering that, if you can swing it, destination birthdays are pretty awesome. I say this having only taken part in one destination birthday celebration—this weekend’s—but, in my opinion, it went over rather successfully. Here’s a snapshot of what we did last Saturday.
A Certain Someone (who from now on shall be known as ACS) and I, after rendezvousing in Jacksonville—which is about two hours north of my parents’ house outside Orlando, for those of you playing along at home—headed to St. Augustine, one of my favorite places in Florida. Yes, it’s a little touristy, but there’s so much history—Castillo de San Marcos! The Catholic basilica! The nation’s oldest schoolhouse!—and so much culture that it’s easy to brush aside that small detail. (Also: Everywhere in Florida is somewhat touristy. It just is.) Plus, St. Augustine is beautiful. It’s on the water, the architecture is gorgeous, there’s a big green park in the middle of the historic district—it’s just lovely. Every time I visit, I think, “Hmm. I could live here.”
But back to the story. After a few days of fevered research, I’d booked us a night at the St. George Inn, which overlooks—surprise!—St. George Street, the historic district’s main road and one that is accessible only by foot—no cars allowed. It’s full of quaint little shops and eateries, and it’s also close to the fort and the water, so after reading tons of reviews on TripAdvisor, visiting the St. George Inn website no less than 10 times one day and looking at every photograph of it I could find, I made the executive decision that it would be a good choice—and it was. We stayed in a third-floor room that was enormous; it had tile floors, a king bed, a good-size bathroom and a view of the charming Huguenot Cemetery. The only thing I found slightly, um, odd, was the fact that there was not a sink in the bathroom—no, the sink was located in the bedroom portion of the room, which meant that you had to actually leave the bathroom to wash your hands. Now, I don’t know about you, but I tend to engage in some Secret Behaviors when I’m in the bathroom—I take an extra minute to brush my hair, examine my face, adjust my outfit, touch up my lipgloss—and you really couldn’t do that in this case. Well, I mean, you could, but the person staying with you would be privy to all of it, which kind of renders the phrase Secret Behavior meaningless, does it not?
ANYWAY, weird sink situation (and my weird tangent about it) aside, the room was adorable, the inn as a whole was lovely and we were both happy to be in St. Augustine. After couple of sandwiches and cold beers at the little Irish bar/sandwich shop next door, we decided to go for a walk downtown, ducking into several shops along the way, then looping around to walk along the bayfront before heading back to the room again. I should note that we were taking our walk at around 3 p.m., oblivious to the fact that there was a HEAT ADVISORY in effect—the actual temperature was in the mid-90s, but the feels-like temp was hovering around 106. So, yes: walking around? Probably not the smartest idea, but we sure did sweat out our lunch.
Because our faces were about to melt, we made the executive decision to lounge around at the hotel for a few hours after the walk, cooling off in the air-conditioning before heading out for dinner. We ended up at Pizza Alley’s Chianti Room, which is a charming little restaurant that serves up classic Italian-American fare—think chicken parmigiana, veal marsala, fettucine alfredo, the usual. We both ordered chicken parm (plus a beer for ACS and a pinot grigio for me) and it was delicious; we waddled out of the restaurant and into the night feeling stuffed and happy.
Then came one of my favorite parts of the entire weekend: We’d randomly run into one of ACS’s good friends before dinner, and after exchanging excited hellos and “Oh-my-gosh-it’s-great-to-see-you”s, we told him we’d give him a call after we’d finished dinner. So we did, and the three of us ended settling onto the green-painted front porch of a little shop and chatting—about everything and nothing, the best kind of conversation—for a good long time.
But while we were walking toward our meeting spot, we passed a tiny bar where a pretty girl with a guitar was singing, accompanied by a violinist. The music was beautiful, spilling out onto the street and causing other pedestrians to pause and listen, and at one point, the guitarist stopped singing and just strummed along in concert with the violin. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but at that moment—standing on a street corner on a sultry, still June night—it was perfect.
Do you ever have those moments where you’re nostalgic for something while it’s happening? For me, this weekend was full of them. And they were magical.
Friends, I have written a lot about my love for the swan paddleboats at Lake Eola in downtown Orlando (see: here and here), and here is another post to add to the books.
You see, the thing about these paddleboats is that they are exactly what you picture when you hear the words "swan paddleboats." They are big, white, plastic, swan-shaped vessels that you lower yourself into and then maneuver around the lake via two sets of pedals. And no matter how many times I see them, they never fail to excite me. "Look at the paddleboats!" I squeal, pointing gleefully to the middle of the lake. "We should totally rent one sometime."
Well, Internet, this weekend we did just that.
I should say that the last time I was in one of these paddleboats I was approximately eight years old. My grandparents were visiting, which means it must have been around Easter, and my whole family went out for lunch at a lakeside restaurant that's now long gone. Afterward, we took a walk around the park, and my grandfather decided to take me out in one of the paddleboats, probably after I begged and pleaded.
The best part of this story, however, is that I insisted I would help paddle, but who are we kidding? I "helped" my grandfather paddle for about two minutes before I got tired and stopped, and I'm fairly certain that I did not put my feet back on those pedals for the whole rest of the 30-minute ride. I'm fairly certain that my grandfather's legs hurt pretty badly the next day, too.
The Lonely Island's "I'm On a Boat" was stuck in my head the ENTIRE time.
This time, I'm happy to report, I did help, but here's a funny story: The guy who rented us the boat was the only one working at the time, and right around the time we walked up, a long-ish line began to form behind us. The swan paddleboat renter guy was so, so nice and accommodating, but he forgot to tell us that the boats move best when you paddle slowly, not like you're participating in some sort of crazy fowl race. So we ended up paddling like maniacs, panting and sweating, for the majority of the ride--thank you, spin class, for strengthening my leg muscles, I really appreciate that--right up until we neared the dock again and the guy called out, "Oh, you guys are supposed to paddle slowly! I think I may have forgotten to tell you that. The boat moves better that way."
Thanks, Mr. Swan Paddleboat Renter Guy. I definitely got my cardio in that day.
Anyway, Jell-O legs aside, the swan paddleboats were just as fun as my eight-year-old self remembered. Plus, it was a perfectly sunny day, the weather wasn't too hot for Florida in mid-June and the water was a gorgeous blue.
And really, sometimes that's all you can ever ask for, anyway: a beautiful afternoon with people you care about in a big, white, swan-shaped boat.
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