Today I am thankful for

This was a grumpy week.

No reason why, as nothing went terribly wrong, but it was just one of those weeks where it was a struggle to not be a grump. Some days I lost.

But now it is Friday, and I have a great weekend planned so I need to end the grump. What better way to turn it around then to think of the many things for which I am thankful, even if I let them get overshadowed by the cloud of grump this week.

I am thankful for fall flavors, and by that I mean the abundance of salted caramel products everywhere. I cannot get enough of Starbucks salted caramel got chocolate, and don’t even get me started on the new Salted Caramel Kiss shake at Good Stuff Eatery. Yes, it is even better than the Toasted Marshmellow one.

Ok, so I am also just thankful that we live SO CLOSE to Good Stuff. My waistline does not share this sentiment.

I am thankful for Sundays, that blissfully come every week and give us a break from our lives so that we can enjoy church, eat with friends, and then take long walks in this pretty city that is on the brink of fall.

I am also thankful for Wednesdays, because on Wednesdays UMD has a farmer’s market, and at that farmer’s market is a French boulangerie stand. These. Pastries. Taste. Every. Bit. As. Good. As. Ones. In France.

I am thankful for technology. ( And no – I don’t mean the iphone 5 that apparently came out this week. I think iphone updates are kind of like new facebook interfaces – unnecessary, confusing, and pointless, but eventually we all get tricked into thinking we need them. I shall content myself with my iphone 3. ) I usually hate technology, since it doesn’t work for me more times than it does, but even I am thankful for how it allows me to keep in touch with those I love and don’t see enough.

I am also really thankful that technology allows the world to know that cats can fit in vases, they do get stuck in boxes, and that Justin Bieber can conjugate the French verb avoir.  Wherever would we be without Youtube?

I am thankful for my husband. Two months tomorrow! Here he is making dinner one night when I had class late. Yes, we ate much later than usual, (“Cooking is hard! How do you do it every night? You have to have everything ready at the SAME time!!!”) but it sure was good. Our home is one with lots of laughter and every time I am laughing so hard that I can’t breath and I have to slump against the wall because I can’t stand up, I know that I married the right person.

 What are you thankful for this weekend?

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This time last year…

… I was fretting that I didn’t have any “business attire” clothes for functions.

… And I hated would rather not have been living in DC.

… And school was miserably overwhelming, and miserably unfulfilling, and basically miserable.

…And I couldn’t make it in or out of the city in my car without getting hopelessly lost and ending up in Baltimore before I could turn around.

… And I thought that James would propose before the end of October and that then my attitude about the city would magically change. (He didn’t, obviously, and my attitude needed to learn to change itself on its own, because no single event can really change our attitudes for more than a little while.)

But a lot can change in a year. A lot did change in a year.

Thankfully. Or blessedly, or miraculously, or surprisingly, or all of the above.

Though I could still do with some more business attire clothes.

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This is truth, this is freedom, “This is Water”

Did you know/care that yesterday was Constitution Day? In the Wegmann home, we did, as we are both graduates of Hillsdale College, and that fine institution instilled in us some pretty fierce Constitution love. Am I saying that the Constitution is perfect? Yes Pretty close. What I am saying is that I am in awe of the eloquent and masterful document crafted by a few devoted men that has managed to (mostly) peacefully govern a nation for several hundred years.  Yes, it has been amended — by a process that it itself set in place for this event. Everytime we peacefully transition to a new leader, the Constitution wins a victory that many other countries have bled in their streets. As my friend Jenny once said, “Yes, times have changed, but human nature hasn’t changed, and the Constutution shows an understanding of human nature.”

It established a nation that believed in Freedom, above all else. Unfortunately, my heart breaks at what we have done with the idea of being free. It used to be that freedom was a governing principal that inspired us to protect those less-able, build our lives as we saw fit, and speak our hearts in safety. Now I see freedom being used as the excuse to live without limits, without consequences, without apologies. We think that choice is always best, in every sense, to every extreme, forgetting that choices have consequences. This is hedonism, in its purest form. To quote my most famous Camus play Les Justes, “I cannot let you say that everything is allowed. Thousands before us died so that we might know that everything is not permissible.”

But I don’t really want a political debate, here, on the internet. What I want is to share with you some truth I heard over the weekend. James and I listened to David Foster Wallace’s  2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College this past weekend, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I had to share my favorite part. I encourage you to listen to the entire speech here (and part 2 here ), or read the whole thing (though you really should hear him give it) here.

 “Because here’s something else that’s weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship–be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles–is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It’s the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they’re evil or sinful, it’s that they’re unconscious. They are default settings.

They’re the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that’s what you’re doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving…. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.”

-David Foster Wallace, “This is Water”

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Endives with Roquefort Sauce

Every single time I buy endives at the grocery in the US — which is not frequent as they very rarely have them — I have to tell the clerk what the are, after giving them a second to frantically search through their produce book.

And I don’t blame them, because I had never had an endive before studying abroad in Paris during college. I lived with a host family, and by that I mean a deeply eccentric bohemian Parisian lady who had beaded curtains, multicolored walls, and large framed pictures of African children catching the rain in their mouths framed beside a copy of Les droits de l’homme. Ours was not a chummy relationship like some other study abroad students have with their host families, but we respected each other and got along without conflict, other than the time that she asked me to use less toilet paper. But oh could she cook! I have rarely, if ever, eaten French food that was as good as what I ate at her table. So many vegetables that I had never eaten, sauces that were amazing, and soups that made me like soup. Sometimes I would watch her cook, and I found the secret simple enough: cook everything in either wine, butter, cream, or all three. Yes that sounds like a heart attack, but miraculously I weighed less at the end of my time there than I have ever since. (Ok, so the metro was also on strike for a lot of my stay so I walked a lot too.)

When she first put les endives à la Roquefort, endives with Roquefort sauce, in front of me, I was skeptical. But it quickly became my favorite meal, the one I craved when I came back.

After the wine and cheese party that James threw me last week, we have a lot of extra cheese around and one of my French colleagues gave me a big hunk of Roquefort. James avoids the stinky cheeses, but I could not have been happier to find endives and baguette at Eastern Market and then come home for my Parisian comfort meal.


Endives with Roquefort Sauce, measurements approximate

  • Endives
  • Roquefort cheese (blue if you must substitute)
  • cream, 1-2 TBS per endive
  • sugar ( a pinch)
  • ham, or bacon (I left this out when I made it the other day because we didn’t have any)
  1. Bring water to a boil. Add endives and a pinch of sugar. The endives are very bitter, but boiling them in slightly sugared water cuts it nicely.
  2. Boil endives until tender, but not overly soft, about 10-15 minutes.
  3. Drain endives, and set them up on their end (points down)  so that excess water drips out.
  4. Meanwhile, make the sauce. You should make this over the stove… but sometimes I’m lazy and do it in the microwave. Combine cream and cheese (about a TBS sized chunk of cheese per TBS of cream — more if you want it stronger) and melt, stirring to break up cheese.
  5. Wrap endives in ham or bacon and cover in as much sauce as you want. (Confession: after I took thatt picture with the modest amount of sauce, I dumped a bunch more on. Because I love it.)  The sweetness of the ham with the bitter endives and the pungent cheese is PERFECT.
  6. After eating, mop up all the cheesy saucy goodness with crusty bread. Even if you think it isn’t polite — just do it.Variation: make a salad by dicing endives, granny smith apples and walnuts. Toss with olive oil, crumbled Roquefort, a little balsamic vinegar, and a pinch sugar.
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Black and White Banff

I love a good black and white photo. Don’t misunderstand me — I LOVE color. But I think that is just because I love drama, which can be created through dramatic color, or dramatic line and shape. This is kind of one of the great debates of art history — do you illustrate through color or line? Do you side with Delacroix or Ingres?

My answer is that I love them both, but I pretty much avoid anything that is in between. Go bold color or totally black and white, commit to color or commit to line — none of that muddied, dull, fuzzy stuff.

Which is why, when we were in that colorful Canadian paradise, I also took some black and white shots that I loved. What better lines than those lines of mountains carved by ancient seas and glaciers? Than trees that reach up forever and deserted roads?

Here is Banff in black and white. 

See more pictures from Canada here, here, here, and here.

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Birthday girl

This past week was my birthday and there has been a lot of celebrating around here. I am decidedly spoiled. Now I feel just the littlest bit guilty that all James got was a trip to Pittsburgh.  Here’s how we have been celebrating:

  1. Because he is sneaky and wonderful, James threw me a surprise wine and cheese party on Saturday. Surprising me is hard because I spend every waking moment anticipating and searching for surprises. But succeed he did, despite the fact that I started Saturday in a foul mood and almost ran into some of the surprise guests in the park near our house. He created a distraction, but he needn’t have worried as I was totally absorbed in instagramming an artistic photo of a bench.
  2. Nothing says “Happy Birthday to me” like wearing the primary colors all day long. Because on what other day do you get to look like an extra from Sesame Street? My awesome outfit was probably what inspired my students to sing me a “Happy Birthday.” Have you ever noticed that “Happy Birthday” is a song that sounds terrible approximately 99% of the time, as most people sing it off key. This one sounded like a funeral dirge. Really, I am just spoiled, because when I taught in KY the students were freakishly amazing at everything, but especially music, and the birthday song was a production in multi-part harmony.
  3.  Fall came in time for my birthday this year and so James and I got to take a beautiful and COOL birthday walk past the Capital at sunset before arriving at…
  4. Bistro Bis where I had the most delicious birthday dinner. (If you live in DC, go to Bistro Bis as soon as possible for the lobster bisque. It will change you. Or at least change how you feel about creamy blended seafood soups, which for me use to be pretty negative.)  The waitress found out it was my birthday so she surprised us with a dessert sampler on a plate covered with impressive chocolate script. 

Birthdays are the best days.

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Home in the city that so many hate

Sometimes James and I talk about how weird it is to refer to coming back to DC as coming home.  No one seems to think of this city as home. People pass through for a six-month internship, a one year stint in a first job, or a two year stay until an election sends them back home. No one seems to put down roots here, and thus everyone is constantly passing from one thing to the next, perpetually looking for something better.  And who even knows how much longer we will be here, but for now it feels like home, our first home.

Over the next two months you are going to hear a lot of nasty things about this city.  During elections it seems that Washington becomes the seat of everything that is wrong with the country. It is the symbol of gross spending, flagrant waste, diminishing virtue, empty words and broking promises. Everyone up for election this fall insists that they are not like this city, that they will not become like it, and they will turn it back to how it should be.

And a lot of that is true.

But in spite of it all, I do kind of love the city. Yes, it is the center of so much of what is wrong with our nation, but it also has constant reminders of so much of what is right, what has been right.  There is beauty, history, and hope intermingled with the pessimism, negativity, and corruption.

Last weekend we picnicked across from the Jefferson Memorial, and reveling in such a perfect late summer evening you could almost forget that you were in a city that the rest of the country frequently despises.

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If I were a real adult, I would drink coffee.

Confession: I hate coffee.

I can tolerate if it is cleverly disguised in a frothy costume of cream and/or chocolate and if it has any sort of –cino tacked on to the end of its name.  But other than that, I find it bitter and unsatisfying.

While I was living in France, I tried – and I mean really tried – to like coffee. It is served de facto during every break in the school day and for the first couple months I choked it down when it was offered, furiously dumping sugar cubes in it when no one was looking.  Eventually we arrived at the lessons on food and preferences and as I repeated “I HATE coffee, but I LOVE chocolate” in every class, the other teachers learned of my deception and henceforth served me tea.   Drinking coffee was also the civilized way to end a meal in France, and every time the waiter offered coffee and I declined, I felt the judgment tumbling down.

And I genuinely feel bad about my lack of coffee love because I find the whole thing so aesthetically pleasing on every level. I love the smell of the freshly ground beans and the color of dark coffee through the glass pot. I love the pretty accessories – the French press or the endless varieties of cups, mugs, and thermoses. And I love the ritual of it all, the grinding of the beans, then the slow gurgling drip in the pot, and then finally, the slow consumption that marks (for coffee drinkers) that yes indeed, the day has begun.

James does not hate coffee. Quite the contrary: if he could find a way to have it injected directly into his system, I’m pretty sure he would.  Our kitchen is very coffee equipped, with the regular pot, the espresso maker, the French press, the perfect mugs, the fancy-pants grinder, etc.  And I wish I was a coffee drinker.

Because coffee drinkers get to be in that special club where it is cool to indulge your addiction. The carry those mugs around all day like a badge that says “I am part of that world that understands and appreciates ritual, refined taste, and habit.”  They are automatically more adult and professional just by having a mug making rings on the edge of their desk, especially if said mug advertises some obscure band/book/place/elitist inside joke. And I want to be there, in their world, drinking their coffee.

Confession: All of this is why, when James leaves for work in the morning, I carry his mostly empty mug around until I have to leave. Pretending is the first step.

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Weekends-are-for-fun*: Charlottesville

After a whopping three whole days back at school we had a long weekend, as did most of you, I imagine.  As much as I would rather have this day off in October when we will all be dying for a break, I wasn’t about to turn it down now.

And so I rocked out my Saturday at a local Starbucks where I read Proust until I wanted to die, which admittedly wasn’t super long. But then on Sunday James and I headed down to Charlottesville to visit Zach and see Thomas Jefferson’s university.

(Fun fact: I had actually been to Charlottesville once before when I went to look at apartments for Zach but it was kind of the most awful experience ever as it was in my pre-iphone days and I got hopelessly lost and the real estate lady that I called for help just kept asking if I could see the rotunda. No. That is why I was lost and calling for help. This time it was better, I promise.)

Charlottesville, other than being home of the stunning UVA campus, is also home to more fun murals, good food, and trendy little stores than should be allowed. I am definitely not cool enough to live there longterm.

It is also now home to a large percentage of our friends from college which means that we will probably be heading back sometime soon. (Also so that we can eat at The Local again, which was so delicious that I couldn’t even take a picture because that would have meant turning away from my plate. Some things are better honored by not documenting them.)

 * Let’s be real: in order for my academic career to continue, weekends really need to stop being for fun.  But who wants to read Weekends-are-for-studying-and-laundry-and-scrubbing-mold-off-the-shower-curtain?

 

 

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August is over.

I have conflicting emotions about August. I kind of hate it, because by this point summer is so hot that you stick to everything you sit on and the humidity settles around you like a constant blanket of ick. I’m tired of my summer wardrobe and as I settle in for another day of sweating, I stare longingly at my boots, scarves, and knit tights  and think Soon we will be reunited because fall will come and save us from August.  But I also mourn that with August’s passing, summer is over. And we have to wait nine more months before we get another one.

This August was special. It was the magical month of August Recess — where James got home at 5 — and pre-school calm, where I had very few responsibilities. It was our special month, stolen from the rest of adult life, where we got to focus exclusively on each other and crafting our life together.

And it was beautiful.

our neighborhood. decorating. mom comes to visit so we go to Founding Farmers because I just can’t get enough of that place. kitty in a window. the New Wegmanns. we can’t stop playing this game. row houses. reflections. a perfect place to stop and sit. post-dmv trauma treat. Capital tour. besties. Eastern Market. enjoying the sun porch. enjoying restaurant week at The Caucus Room. metro waiting. America. dinner with friends. dinner party at home. husband at Ted’s.  friends we couldn’t do without. mirror image.

Till next time, August.

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