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Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Guess what.

The results are blurry, but IN. Two pink lines. Pregnant!

We are due on May 25th, 2007, and will find out hopefully December 29th if it's a boy or girl!

Sorry to have been so quiet the past couple months, but between sitting on this info and losing a precious grandmother, I haven't had much to say. More in the days to come, hopefully.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Fa, la, la, la, la...

Guess what day it is...

At 5:36 am this morning and enroute to my train, S and I stumbled up the cold concrete steps of our local Starbucks and found ourselves in a Winter Wonderland. Snowflakes pasted up all over the windows, piles of red and green bags of Christmas Blend in the windows, graphically creative displays of wreathes and Christmas trees everywhere in the store added up to a mildly overwhelming experience at 5:30 in the morning.

I have no idea why I get so excited when Starbucks breaks out the festive red cups and the hauntingly delicious Egg Nog Latte hits the menu again, maybe it's because I know Christmas and all that comes with it is just around the corner. I remember vividly the day they hit stores last year. The train station was empty as I made my way to work last year the Friday after Thanksgiving. Shuffling quietly to the escalators, crabby because I got stuck with coming into the office, I could see one other person walking down the hallway, a shining red Starbucks Christmas cup in their hand. It was a brightly lit beacon, guiding me down to the store, smells of steaming egg nog and spicy peppermint mochas wafting down the hallway.

Suddenly, I felt MUCH better, and realized I could use the day to crank out all our Christmas cards at my desk, while happily sipping on my drink.

It's the simple things I suppose.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006


We had a deluge of rain two nights ago. Something like 5 inches in 2 hours. Our 120 year old house somehow managed to weather the storm with gathering only 1/2 inch of water in our Underground Railroad root cellar. I was incredibly grateful as I watched our neighbors cart out padding, furniture and carpet that afternoon.

What is it about thunderstorms that makes me so happy? I don't know, but it was wonderful to see the display of constant lightening, flickering by the second and filling the black sky with a yellow glow. The sound of thunder shook the house and I burrowed deep into the down comforter, shoved my face into S's shoulder and fell sound asleep.

Life was good, until the power went out and stayed out until 10:30 am the next day. Hopefully the milk is still good...we'll have to see.

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Bliss at Claimjumpers

The Chicago suburbs are new lucky recipients of the football sized, baked fresh daily, Chocolate Eclair, to be found at Claimjumper's in Lombard. My mom-in-law and three sister's-in-law split it this past Monday night and I had to physically restrain myself from burying my face in it and snorting the hot fudge up my nose.

Our waiter-in-training called us "dolls" and proceeded to tell us about his girlfriend being seven weeks pregnant, then about his sister who is ALSO pregnant, with a convicted felon's child. But then he brought out four individual dishes of whipped cream to go with the eclair, so it was all ok.

I highly recommend the California citrus chopped salad and the mini cheeseburger "sliders."

Mmmmm. I love food. 

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Breakfast with the Family

I wish I'd had my camera last Saturday morning, around 10:00 am.

My mom, dad, sister and husband, Scott and I made the 74 mile trek out west to Rockford to spend time with Grandma and Grandpa. Before we met up with them, we decided to fortify ourselves with a Swedish Breakfast at the Stockholm Inn, a popular Scandinavian restaurant that features dirt cheap, "retiree" prices and an amazing kitchen that bakes all their breads and coffeecakes fresh each day.

Now, just so you understand, Rockford has a huge population of Swedes. None of us could figure out why, but it's a huge part of the culture. Blue and yellow flags hang everywhere, even the local hospital is "Swedish American." I am 1/4 Swedish by descent, but thanks to Grandma's influence, it is the dominating culture in our family's heritage. The food, especially the breads and sweets, are a personal Achilles Heel.

So anyways, back to the story. We arrive at the restaurant and are ushered to our table, surrounded by bustling and buzzing bluehairs, excited by the smells of melted butter wafting from the kitchen.

I am hungry, REALLY hungry. And I have a well-known propensity for over-ordering. Yes, I admit, my eyes are bigger then my stomach. The problem is, I don't stop eating when I'm full (I get that from Dad) so I guess to be totally accurate I should say my eyes and my stomach are the same size. Whatever.

I open the menu and start salivating. Mountains and mountains of carbs: pieces of homemade skorpa (Swedish coffeecake that has been slowly toasted until crisp), their famous Swedish pancakes, homemade cinnamon rolls with buttery warm frosting, hash get the idea.

My family begins to place their order. As we continue to speak, the waitress's blue eyes grow bigger and bigger and bigger. For the sake of possible embarrassment, the quotes shall remain nameless:

"Yes, I'd like a cinnamon roll and 3 large buttermilk pancakes."

"Hi. May I have the stack of three Swedish pancakes (Each one is the size of a plate, then rolled up), an order of hash browns, and two fried eggs?"

"I'd like the large cheddar omelet, and stack of three Swedish pancakes."

At this point, the waitress leans in and asks, "Uh, would you like the toast that comes with the omelet? You ARE getting three pancakes and hash brown's with the eggs."

And then SOMEONE pipes in, "Of course we'll eat the toast! Can you bring out wheat?"

The waitress disappears and we sigh and lean back, anticipating the waves of food we're about to encounter. The cinnamon roll makes an appearance shortly, and I must say, based on my impressions from one bite, it was phenomenal. Everyone is jealous of the individual who thought to order it.

Twenty minutes later, the food comes. This is point when I wished for my camera. It was obscene and all we could do was laugh at the MOUNDS of butter we were each given (it seemed like I had two dollaps that were each 1/4 cup), the immense size of the Swedish pancakes (I thought they'd be like Mom's, small, round, and thin. NOPE.), and how many carbs we were all consuming.

Ask me if my father finished EVERY BITE OF HIS MEAL. Ask me. I couldn't believe it. Thankfully he runs four times a week and eats salad for lunch most of the time.

If you've never tasted a Swedish pancake, you haven't lived yet. I have a great recipe that Mom dug up from an old Swedish cookbook. Ask me for it and I can post it. They melt in your mouth, and are best topped with a little melted butter and warm maple syrup. My sister and I have been known to smear strawberry jam, butter, AND syrup on them, with a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar for good measure...but that's just crazy.

It was a great meal, full of laughs and a good start to an emotional, wonderful, day. I love my family and I love the memories we make together.

Time Off

I spent last week at home and it was lovely.

Lovely to spend time doing the things I never get to do: lunch with a dear friend in downtown Glen Ellyn (gotta love the $9 buffet at Mykha's, whoo hoo!) ; making six batches of pesto sauce from the basil "tree" in my backyard; coffee and journaling at Starbucks in the middle of the day; a two hour nap, twice; wandering through The Little Traveler in Geneva on Friday and stopping for lunch at the amazing Moveable Feast (Oprah's favorite brownies!); and having plenty of time to make dinner for Scott on a weeknight, but choosing not to because I was lazy.

It was lovely to be home, and I must admit, it is a struggle to get into gear back in the office.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

To Market, To Market

It was an overcast, rainy day in the south of France.

I had been looking forward to the infamous Provence Farmers market that just happened to land on our last day in Arles, France for weeks. It rotates between a series of towns each month, and we were lucky enough to time our trip to enjoy it. Or so we thought.

My shopping list was ready to go: honey, table linens, soap, olive oil---mostly a long list of gifts to bring back with us at rock bottom prices. How exciting, to buy directly from the the farmers and bee keepers themselves! To see butchers roasting their chickens by the dozens, as the juices dripped down onto golden potatoes below! A real French market is truly a wonderful thing.

We trudged through town from our hotel into the little train station, walked inside through dirty glass doors, and stumbling, asked the nice looking lady behind the Tourist Bureau counter in broken French, "Excuse I, where The Market?" or something to that effect.

She shook her head slowly, looking at us through narrowed eyes, and responded in perfect English, "It's not here today, you've missed it."

Utter devastation. That's what I felt. Disbelief and sadness at having missed out on one of the pinnacle shopping experiences of my life. And my list! What to do with my long list of gifts and food items that I just couldn't live with out?

We left the train station and S tried to console me. "It's ok honey, you didn't really need a fifth bottle of olive oil anyways," but to no avail.

Back through town we walked, ambling on the bumpy cobblestone streets, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted some colorful tents over a series of booths.

"LOOK! It must be the market! That lady was wrong!" I began panting heavily, and pulled S by the hand over to the first line of vendors. I realized that we were late, and had only 30 minutes to weave our way through a mile and half of unsurpassed fruits, vegetables, spices, flowers, honey, antiques, meat, breads, linens, furniture, sterling silver pieces, vintage pictures, books and more before it closed at 2:00pm. I was foaming at the mouth. Literally.

The first vendor was an old woman selling beautiful fruit, her face tanned and creased from long hours spent in the sun. My heart beat quickly as I stepped forward and pointed to a wooden crate full of gloriously red strawberries, glistening with ripeness.

"Cela, s'il vous plaît," I said to her, meaning that I wanted ONE of the little pints within the wood crate. She smiled up at me and said "Oui," and proceeded to pour the entire 6 KILOS of strawberries from the wooden crate into a huge plastic bag.

"15 euros s'il vous plaît, madame," she said.

Oops. That's the equivalent to $20 worth of strawberries. My husband, the banker, was quietly and steadily fuming behind me. I could feel the burning heat of his anger on my back, knowing that I had rushed into this purchase and unfortunately proven myself an unsavy buyer.

I paid the woman, and sheepishly handed the large bag of strawberries to him.

"What did you do?" "What did you do?!" he asked, looking down at the large bag of already masticating strawberries hanging from his hand.

"I don't know, I just panicked! There's just too much here, it's too overwhelming!"

"Well, I'm holding the money from now on."

Every purchase from then on out (lovely, affordable tablecloths, soap etc) had to be "Pre-Approved" from my own personal loan officer. I was embarrassed and was trying to figure out what we were going to do with 13.2 lbs of strawberries.

At the end of the afternoon we headed back to our little hotel, heavily laden with successful purchases. We walked through the front door and I wandered into the kitchen (it's a small beautiful bed and breakfast, our favorite spot of the trip ), asking in broken french if I could somehow wash the berries off so we could eat them. By this time, they were oozing juice all over, furry with dust, and bruised pretty badly.

The woman who runs the hotel flung herself back into the kitchen, and feverishly started grabbing crystal bowls, a silver bucket with ice water for dunking the berries off, sugar, china plates and a tablecloth. She proceeded to walk out into the garden with her arms full of all the paraphernaliaia and set a table for us out under the trees.

We had the loveliest little picnic lunch, sitting in the shade, and I will tell you that I have never had strawberries so sweet.

It was worth every dime.

The End

It was one of those moments I'll remember for the rest of my life: the sun warm on my face, the sound of the wind moving through leaves in the lemon trees around us, and the sweet taste of perfect strawberries exploding in my mouth.

By the way, what you see here represents about 1/3 of the total purchased amount of strawberries. We ate the remaining edible ones that night, in a delicious strawberry soup with vanilla ice cream for dessert.

All's well that ends well, right?

Monday, September 11, 2006

Cozy Days

The best sort of day to me is a rainy day. A pleasant warmth suffuses me as I look out the window to see gray clouds and hear the sound of steady raindrops. Does this mean I'm missing a gene or something?

You hear often about weather-related depression...I'm the exact opposite. I get depressed when it's gorgeous outside, usually because it means I miss out on the beauty of the day, stuck behind a desk for 12 hours.

Things that make me happy: putting on my jammies at 6:00pm and cuddling up on the couch with warm blanket and a good book, the warmth and light and good smells of the kitchen against the gloom outside, eating pancakes for supper on dark, stormy nights, and hearing the sound of the rain hitting our bedroom windows as I drift off to sleep.

Cozy days are soothing. They force a person to relax, there's no yardwork to be done, running errands ends up being a pain-in-the-rear, so it's easier to just lay on the couch, hour after hour.

After an entire weekend of that, I'm a very happy girl.

Friday, September 08, 2006

It's GOT to be a pumpkin...



Well, it looks like the dogwoods are coming back, inch by inch. Unfortunately, not enough to block the neighbor's air conditioner from the dining room window.

Sigh. Maybe next year.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

A Few Favorite Things Regarding September

  • Crisp evenings where you leave the windows open at night and snuggle under your down comforter
  • Making apple pie and enjoying the fragrance as it bakes, wafting through the house and smelling of buttery cinnamon and apples
  • Wearing jeans and fleece again
  • Breaking out the fall decorations for the house: S counted over 65 gourd related items on display last year. Evidently we're at over 80 right now, and pumpkins haven't even arrived at Home Depot yet. I smell a "soap" problem...
  • The scent of (illegally) burning leaves
  • Welcoming back my Ugg boots. Yes, I know they're totally "out," but how can you go wrong wearing something that feels like a house slipper to work?
  • Chicago weather in the fall--it is awesome, and is definitely the best time of year to visit.
  • My birthday, because I am secretly still an eight-year-old and love an excuse to celebrate and get presents
  • The clear, sapphire blue color of the sky in September
  • Coming home from work and preparing comfort food for dinner-- beef bourguignonne, white chicken chili with corn bread muffins, whole roasted chicken with lemon and thyme and mashed potatoes and on and on. Winter foods are my favorites!
  • Making a fire in our soon-to-exist fireplace
  • The colors of fall: burnt sienna, warm reds and sunny reminds me of Tuscany

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Back in the Saddle Again

I woke up this morning with that song rolling through my mind.
It stayed there as I showered, dressed and got on the train for my workday. You see, I've been on "vacation" this past week, up in lovely South Haven, MI. "Vacation," because there were 10 adults and 7 children, under the age of 4, mind you, in a seven bedroom rental house, built back circa 1971.
Just a few snippets:

-It rained steadily Sunday-Tuesday.

-Scott and I were lucky enough to have the bedroom without a door, down in the basement. We did, however, get to "upgrade" midweek.  That was nice.

-The sun came out Wednesday and Thursday and playing in the warm sand down at the beach felt glorious after being cooped up.

-We only had to call 911 once.  Not even lying.
-Watching from far above, up on the bluff, as my husband and his two brothers ran buck naked, down 156 steps, onto the beach and into 57 degree water as the sun set behind the lake. The three brothers were preceded by three naked toddlers, who wanted to emulate their dads. The boys lost a bet to their dad on the golf course and we were all secretly grateful-- no one wanted to see Grandpa naked.
-Seeing respectfully firsthand just how hard it is to be a fulltime Mom (or Dad), and feeling something like the joyful exuberance a parent must feel as I played with, read to, and told stories to my nieces and nephews. The the look of wide-eyed wonder in their faces was priceless.

-Hearing an endless stream of hilariously stupid stories each night after the kids went to bed. It's good to get to know your spouse and his family better through things like that.

It was nice to get away. But it's even nicer to be home, and with a three day weekend ahead of us.

Thursday, August 24, 2006


I discovered last night that I have a problem.

Leaving the office yesterday, I noticed that Bath and Body Works continued their "Hand Soap Special!" sale into this week. There's one in the building I work in, I pass it twice a day at least. "OOooo," I thought to myself. "I think I could use some more hand soap, and 3 for $10 is a pretty good deal." But, I paused, and decided to restrain myself, being already late to my train.

Good thing, because when I got home, I found this---(see above)

Doh. I think I have a problem.

What would posses someone to load up on soap like this? A continual fear of being grimy? A secret desperation that a burglar will rob the soap from our showers?

I don't know. I just...don't know.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

The Cake

Sigh. Here's the 3' tall cake. The nice man walked away at one point and I was SO tempted to hold the frosting-filled cake decorating bag right up to my mouth and squeeeeze it.

Oh how I love buttercream.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

A Great Evening

Happy Fifth Birthday to my favorite place on earth!

Last night, my buddy R and I went to enjoy the extensive festivities and to attempt to win a multitude of free desserts, coupons, and a jar of 2,000 jelly bellies. We also partook in amazing slow roasted "Nellie-the-Pig" pork sandwiches, slathered in apple coleslaw and bbq sauce on freshly baked brioche rolls. Delicious.

Favorite Moments of the Evening:

  • Meeting the CFO and hearing that they're hoping to open new locations in the 'burbs!
  • Using ALL of my willpower to refrain from diving headfirst into the 4' tall, 3' wide, five layer, chocolate buttercream cake standing in the bakery section
  • Conniving a free cookie out of the bakery lady, after I did NOT win the "tic tac dough" game where we threw hard rolls into a box
  • Smelling Nellie-the-Pig roasting outside on the sidewalk. Mmmmm, slow roasted pig. Poor Nellie was turned into hundreds of delectable porchetta paninis.
  • Heading to the cafe to eat, and discovering, to our delight, that they were giving away a free dessert to whoever wanted to unscramble their menu items in a Word Scramble game...the answers were down at the bottom. Did I get a red velvet cupcake to follow the piece of formerly mentioned chocolate buttercream cake? Yes, yes I did.
  • Grabbing glasses of delicious free Laurent-Perrier champagne and asking the cute french guy in the tux to pronounce the name of it, over and over again.

A great time was had by all.

Monday, August 21, 2006


At last, sweet last, I inhaled the deliciousness that is Carrabbas's Pollo Rosa Maria. Well, half of it at least. I ate the rest for lunch today and am lamenting the fact that I forgot to take a picture of it in all it's lemon basil butter drizzled goodness.

The bread was hot, crusty and fresh. The garlic and fresh herbs laid out for olive oil and bread dipping was fantastic, as was my glass of icy white sangria.

It was the perfect end to a great day. You've got to go.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

H a p p y B i r t h d a y

To the love of my life.

You are 31 years old today and I am SO glad you were born more then three decades ago. Waking up next to you and falling asleep nestled in your arms are the best parts of my day.

You have three grey hairs on your right sideburn, and four on the back of your neck. I love each one of them and look forward to how you'll look as a "distinguished" older man twenty years from now.

Thank you for being a living example of earnest commitment, steady discipline, honesty, and most importantly, what it means to live out love on a daily basis.

Enjoy your day honey, may you have many, many more.


I just figured out how to enable people to leave comments after each post...Feel free to comment away folks! I'd love to hear from you!

Happy Thursday.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Yard Tension

It was a hot Sunday afternoon in late May this year.

I had just laid down for a long nap in our bedroom, which is off the back of the house. Earlier in the day, with a lump in my throat, I had asked S if he would cut down a year-old silver maple tree that was growing just behind the garage. The poor tree struggled for life all through the drought last summer and I had watered it by hand daily; but this year we discovered it was the type that dropped bucketful's of those "helicopters" all over the yard. The maple had to go.

As I drifted slowly off to sleep, I heard the soothing sounds of S puttering in the yard.

Two hours later, I woke with a start, listening carefully to a quiet rustling right under our bedroom window.

"What in the world could THAT be?" I thought to myself. The maple was on the other side of the house from our bedroom and I couldn't imagine what S was working on beneath our window.

I swung my legs out of bed and poked my head out the window; S was standing shirtless in the backyard, perspiring and yard-gloved with dirty sneakers. He beamed up at me.

"Hi honey! I cut down the maple tree!" He shouted up at me. "And I cut down the yucky bushes."

"The yucky bushes? What do you mean, 'the yucky bushes'?" My heart started to beat rapidly as I looked down at him in all his sweaty glory.

I ran out of the room, down the stairs, and out the back door of our house to where S was standing, smiling broadly.

"Wait, what bushes did you cut down, dear?" I asked, looking around frantically.

He took me by the hand and led me over to the wooden fence that stretches along the west side of our house. "Those bushes, they were yucky bushes!"

As I looked in utter horror at the desecration of five, FIVE, beautiful, mature, viburnums that used to grow happily all along our ugly, brown fence, my fingernails cut into my palms as I curled my hands into tight fists and began to shake. They would turn a breathtaking fiery orange in the fall, and bore bright red berries I'd include in flower arrangements the past summer.

"Oh honey, NO. No no no no no no NO NO NO NO. NO!" I gasped. "What in the world made you think they were yucky?"

He shrugged. "I dunno, they just were. I cut down the ones outside the dining room too."

In a panic I turned around and ran to the remains of the two, 15 foot high, gorgeous dogwoods that were planted outside our dining room windows. They were gone. Cut back to the ground.

I sank to my knees and wept. Now, just so you understand, we do not have children. We do not have a dog. We do not have pets of any kind, not even a fish. And I? I am a very tenderhearted person, eager to pour loving care into any of the formerly mentioned creatures. But, because we both work full time right now, no pets. Hence:

My YARD is my pet.

Last summer through the drought, I had watered these bushes hours and hours, moving the trickling hose day after day, carefully keeping the dogwoods alive and well. We would sit in the dining room eating dinner and I would think to myself, "Thank goodness for those bushes, they were planted perfectly to block the view of our neighbor's house and air conditioner."

Unfortunately, for me and for the bushes, I never said any of this ALOUD to my dear husband.

And now, they were gone. All gone.

I'll spare you the details of all that was said and done, but suffice to say, after a trip to Home Depot that evening where S saw how much two foot tall dogwoods and viburnums cost, there are now 25 charming little ivy plants growing happily along the fence. Planted and watered by S.

And the dogwoods? Two and a half months later, they're growing back slowly. Maybe five years from now they'll cover that ugly air conditioner again.

I've hidden the hedge trimmers. And the shears. For good.

Happiness is...

...taking a DEEP whiff of this perfect Don Juan rose, at the end of a long day.

Currently residing at: the back of my house.

Can anyone help?

What IS this?!? A fat, deformed zucchini? A pumpkin, I hope...

Last spring I planted squash, zucchini and pumpkin seeds in our backyard. 24 foot-long vines with leaves the size of the human head have sprouted, and now I found something growing....but I can't tell what it is.

PLEASE let it be a pumpkin, I love filling the house with gourds come September. It would be nice not to have to buy them.

It's the small things in life, right?

Friday, August 11, 2006

One more picture

Black Angus Steak topped
with maitre d'butter &
Pommes Frites

Fox and Obel

The next time you're in Chicago, you MUST make time to visit this Very Special Place. Words simply cannot describe the goodness that is Fox and Obel, but I shall make a valiant attempt:

A cafe and restaurant.

A gourmet grocery store with cooking classes.

A fabulous place to host a party with mouth-watering catered foods in a beautiful loft-like room overlooking the River.

Award-winning breads and pastries.

An entire wall of olive oils, (which you can taste with a piece of freshly baked bread) and another wall of colorful aged vinegars.

Stinky, beautiful cheese.

House-made charcuterie and dry aged steaks.

And best of parking.

That's right folks, just two blocks from Navy Pier on Illinois Street, you drop your car off at the valet in front of the store, get your ticket validated with the purchase of a coffee or anything else, and enjoy a few hours of relaxed, free parking- an unheard of phenomenon in the downtown area.

In order to help you with your first Fox and Obel experience, I've developed a First-Timer's Guide. Follow the steps to have a sublime two hours at one of my favorite places in the world.

A First-Timer's Guide to Great Things in Fox & Obel
1. Arrive at 9:00 am on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Leave your car with the smiling valet and prance inside, up the ramp, into the produce section.

2. Enjoy the sights, smells, and TASTES of things like pepino melons, baby pineapples, squash blossoms (stupid rabbits), and donut peaches.

3. Sneak over to the prepared foods section, where the head chef (who was formerly the sous chef at Charlie Trotter's) offers selections like Maryland blue crab cakes, sweet corn and pepper salad, macadamia nut encrusted halibut, chipotle bbq shrimp on skewers, and so much more. Bat your eyes and ask nicely for a taste. Repeat, four or five times.

4. Now for my favorite part: The Bakery. Step up to the large section surrounded by tempting displays of freshly made double baked almond crossiants, 20 types of daily made breads (everything from true French baguettes to Olive Ciabatta, Challah, and Walnut Sourdough), apple turnovers...wait, I'll just drop the list in:

Croissant- Almond, Chocolate, Westphalian & Comte, Maple Pecan Danish, Orange Cream Danish, Key Lime & Baker's Cheese Danish, Brioche Tart, Cinnamon SwirlSticky Bun, Apple Turnover, Scone-Ginger, Currant, Muffin-Blueberry, Angel Food, Cranberry Walnut, Pumpkin-Creamed Cheese, Crème Fraiche Coffee Cake, Campground Crumb Cake, Biscotti-Pratesi, Chocolate-Fennel, Cookies-Chocolate Chip & Pecan Cookies, Oatmeal Raisin Cookies, Breton Sugar Cookies, Peanut Butter Shortbread Cookies, Apricot Rugelach, Vanilla Poundcake, Almond Poppyseed Poundcake, Gingerbread, Bittersweet Brownies, Creamed Cheese Brownies, Pie-Browned Butter Pecan, Apple, Buttermilk Chess, Flourless Chocolate Cake with Bittersweet Ganache, Layer cake-Devil's Food, Butter, Coconut Cream, Carrot, Red Velvets, Sachertorte, Opera, Buche de Noel, Dark Chocolate Pecan Tart, Key Lime Tart with Italian Meringue, Sour Cream Apple Tart, Milk Chocolate Caramel Tart, Fresh Berry Tart, Baked Fruit Tart with Frangipane, Bread Pudding Chocolate, BrutCrème, and Creme Brûlée.

Yep. That's about all of them I think.
Go ahead, buy yourself one. My personal favorites are the white chocolate chunk cherry cookies and the almond croissants. Save it for later, you'll need it.

5. Next, head over to the meat and fish counters, where four butchers and fishmongers prepare dry-aged prime cuts of beef, make brats and sausages from scratch, marinate Bell and Evans chickens, and prepare wasabi lobster salad and tuna burgers. They are always happy and sometimes, if you're really quiet, you can catch one singing to himself in the back as he de-bones a fish.

Craving a hearty rabbit dish in red wine sauce? You'll find the bunnies here. Quail, buffalo and venison loin too.

6. If meat doesn't do it for you, walk down to the cheese counter, stopping to taste an olive oil (or nine) at the gigantic gleaming wall of oil from all over the world. You'll be able to smell the cheese from six feet away.

I'm not a cheese girl, so you won't find me waxing poetic about it, but rest assured that it's awesome. Chue Flada, Portuguese cheese with thistle rennet, raisin and brandy coated Regal de Bourgogne, real Parmigiano Reggiano and Capriole Goat Cheese are just a few.

Taste as much as you want, the little wedges just keep coming from the friendly Frenchman with the bad teeth behind the counter.

7. By now, you've worked up a thirst, and most probably, a healthy appetite. Head past the cheeses, hang a left and walk into the lively cafe. Gaze up at the tempting menu and decide what you want. Perhaps a foamy caramel latte in their perfect sized mugs, or hearty Black Angus Steak Frites for those looking for a little more. Although, it is only 9:30 on a Saturday morning, so maybe you just want a stack of Stonewall Kitchen buttermilk pancakes with real Vermont syrup, or huevos rancheros with their addictive red chipotle sauce. Not an easy choice.
Oh good, you decided on a medium skim mocha, topped with homemade Valrhona chocolate sauce and whipped cream, and your earlier purchased double baked almond croissant from the bakery counter. Good decision. (Don't forget to have your valet ticket validated!)

The cafe is lively, filled almost to capacity with locals who live in the nearby "Platinum Coast" neighborhood , yuppies with their matching ibooks, silver-headed single gentlemen sipping hot coffee and flipping through the Chicago Trib, and even a news anchorman or woman from the nearby NBC building, grabbing a quick bite between shows.

Just as luck would have it, you grab a table right alongside the windows, where you can watch the tourists walking to Navy Pier as you scoff from above. If you're smart, you've brought a good book and perhaps your journal (unlined, spiral bound only, thank you very much) to write deep thoughts in as you wait.

The nice waitress brings your mocha and you tear into the most deliciously gooey, crisp, sugary crossiant you've ever had. Perfection.

8. After reading, journaling, and people-watching for over an hour, you're out of time. Unfortunately you've missed the Wine shop, the Flower Shop, the special kitchen for their cooking classes, and the cute men in the Charcuterie Department. That's ok, there's always next time.

9. On the way out, you may want to buy a baguette (it's impossible to find genuine French bread out in the 'burbs unless you make it yourself) and perhaps a cream cheese brownie for your patient husband who is waiting at home.

Don't forget to grab this month's list of cooking classes, or you'll run the risk of missing out on the annual Soups and Stews class that INCLUDES your very own Le Creuset iron pot for the extremely reasonable price of $65.

10. It's been the perfect morning. The valet brings your car to the door, helps load your purchases into the trunk, and smiling as always, closes your door for you. Au revoir!

My Least Favorite Things Regarding August

Being Hot.

Being Hot and Sweaty.

My sticky thighs.

Hair sticking to the back of my neck.

Mosquito's biting the back of my arms as I weed the garden.

Air so pregnant with moisture it's difficult to breathe.

Damp towels because I'm taking two showers a day.

Rabbits de-flowering the squash and pumpkin vines. I have nothing to show for three months of monstrous vines taking over the yard.

Having to wear pants and two layers of tops to survive the 61 degree Office, then sweating through them ALL as I walk home from the train.

No legal holidays all month.

Summer colds that stuff you up and leave you with an annoying, hacking, horsey cough.

How the grass looks after a long summer of blazing sun and a few trickles of rain.

Looking around at all my co-worker's empty desks: they are on vacation somewhere lovely and cool, like northern Michigan. I, am not.

How long Friday feels on a deadly quiet August afternoon in the bond business.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006


Right about now, amidst the dog days of August, I find myself wishing for just one lick of true, Italian gelato.

It was a hot, lazy afternoon in Florence. S and I had just stumbled into town after a long train ride through the south of France. We walked by a lively cafe, drawn closer by the sight of dozens of varieties of delectable gelato at the ice cream counter, topped with things like sun ripened strawberries, juicy pineapple, shredded coconut, rum soaked pound cake, and more.

S's eyes widened in anticipation. He pointed to a waffle cone and said "Cio, per favore" and watched, as the girl loaded his cone with FOUR KINDS of gelato. The 14 inch creation was topped off with a SECOND cone stuck through the middle, functioning as a toothpick would in a club sandwich. Mine was a lowly almond-encrusted sugar cone, filled with two delicious selections of dark chocolate and tiramisu.

We wandered through the city, feverishly licking to keep up with the melting ice cream dripping down our hands. It took S almost 45 minutes to finish his. A good day.

Oh the memories.

Monday, August 07, 2006


Don't tell anyone, but sometimes I wish I had been born as a boy.

Scandalous, I know, but just listen: I am so envious of my husband's ability to cut his own hair with the $23 clippers bought at Target or somewhere equally as frugal, versus my trips to the salon for attempting the perfect blonde highlights and a sassy bob. Now, I realize there are places to get a cheapie haircut and highlight job, but one chunky-zebra-stripe experience and jagged "feathered edge" later, and I was done with that. For life. Month after month, he taunts me with the "Haircare" expense comparisons, and if it were some sort of sporting competition I would be the constant loser. 0-44. To infinity.

It's such a simple process for him:
Step One: Doff shirt
Step Two: Stand in shower
Step Three: Load whatever-appropriate-number guard onto clippers
Step Four: Buzz head
Step Five: Rinse off
Step Six: Look fabulous

It just is NOT. FAIR. Why was I born with dirty-dishwater colored hair the consistency of duck down? Deep, in my heart of hearts, I know I was meant to be blonde. Glowing, sun-kissed, flowing in the wind, blonde.

I remember the day when I had the courage to show him the receipt for the first time after coming back from a haircut/highlight. We had just gotten engaged and I was feeling the need to share with full disclosure concerning this area before "'til death do us part." The poor boy had no idea what was coming, being born into a family of four brothers.

"So what do you think of my hair?" as I shake my newly highlighted head back and forth, wafting the fragrance of apple-scented shampoo charmingly to his nose.

"Umm, it looks great. Is there something different?" He looks at me nervously, like he's sitting for an exam but can't remember what class it's for.

"I just got it cut. Don't you like how it looks?" Batting my eyes and sidling up close to him, I reach into my purse and pull out the receipt and hold it, crumpled, in my hand. "Having a good haircut really makes me feel nice, it does wonders for a girl's self esteem."

He freezes, realizing I am going somewhere with this.

"So, let's play a little guessing game. How much do you think it cost?" My heart beats quickly, knowing that my poor future husband is in for a blow. Imagine a young George Bailey, from It's a Wonderful Life, and you won't be far from the mark.

"Ok, how about $25?" he says. Poor, poor boy.

I slowly raise my hand and show him the receipt. "No. That's how much we tip them."

A look of speechless horror passes across his face, as he gazes down at the wrinkled piece of paper. My face is hot and flushed, I am blushing with shame and awaiting his final judgment.

"Huh. So how often do you have to do this, once a year?"

"Nooo, more like once every six to eight weeks." I blink quickly, my mind feverishly scrambling to think of a compromise that will help make this newfound knowledge more palatable. "But, I think I can stretch it to once every three months. Would that be ok?"

He sighs heavily and looks down at my red face and newly blonde hair. "Is it really important to you?"

"Oh yes, oh yes! I can't even explain what it feels like when I walk out of there, like I'm a new person!"

The look he gives me is tinged with despair, as understanding sinks in that this is a battle he lost before even beginning to fight.

I'm waiting for the day when someone comes up with a pill to change your hair color. Sign me up for a lifetime's prescription.


Friday, August 04, 2006

The Highlight of my Morning

Was discovering that one of my F A V O R I T E restaurants in the world just opened 7.82 miles from our house. If you've never been to a Carrabba's Italian Grill and there's one near you, drop what you're doing, get in the car, go there and order the Rosa Maria Chicken. (Grilled chicken stuffed with oozing fontina cheese and salty prosciutto ham, topped with a lemon butter, basil and mushroom sauce.) Seriously, trust me on this, folks.

I am counting the hours until our first visit.


Friday is my absolute, without a doubt, favorite day of the week, with Thursday evenings running a close second.

Good things lay ahead for the weekend; most importantly, "sleeping in" past 8:00 am. It doesn't get much sweeter in life then to roll over at 5:14 am, glance at the glowing alarm clock, and realize that I have at LEAST another three hours to sleep.

The other regular highlight of most weekends would include the planning and cooking of a large meal, to be consumed Saturday night. Putting together a menu, shopping for the food, and getting it all to the table, hot and hopefully delicious, rank as some of my favorite things to do in life. For example, S's 31st birthday is coming up this month and I invited our parents over for a celebratory dinner. Is it strange that I already know what we'll be eating and where I'm buying the ingredients? I don't know, sometimes I feel alone in my obsessiveness. Tell me what you think of the menu:
~Houston's Hot Spinach Artichoke dip, served with El Milagro tortilla chips and pineapple salsa
~Marcella Hazan's Pasta e Fagioli (a delicious hearty italian pasta & bean dish, with tomatoes, ground beef and other veggies, eaten with a spoon)
~Caesar Salad
~Slow roasted garden tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and red wine vinegar, garlic and thyme topped with Parmesan cheese and broiled
~Homemade crunchy garlic bread
~Birthday Cake (a buttermilk vanilla yellow cake with dark Valrhona chocolate frosting) and Hagaan Daz vanilla ice cream

I realize the spinach dip doesn't fit with the rest of menu, neither does the birthday cake for that matter....but frankly I don't care. Reading Frank Bruni's (New York Times Food Critic) of Houston's spinach dip made my mouth water, therefore we're having it. That's the beauty of being the cook, right?

Anyways, back to my love of Fridays. The sweetest time of the day is collapsing into bed with S, turning the light out, giggling and snuggling and realizing we have two whole days to be together before work approaches on Monday. Life is good.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

One More Favorite Thing

The. Most. Delectable. Buttery. Melt-in-your-mouth. Apple Tart. In. The. World.
Found at: Poilane Bakery, Paris
April 2006


I love lists.

As most of my friends will attest, making lists is a full-out hobby of mine. It could easily become an obession if I allowed it to spiral out of control. For example, what kind of person actually ENJOYS keeping an ongoing grocery list....of four stores at once? Or, knowing she's throwing a baby shower for a friend, begins planning the menu, shopping lists, and chores to accomplish...three months in advance? I think I have a problem. They say admitting it is the first step, right? Anyone know if there's a place one can go for help with obsessive list making?

On the other hand, maybe I can purge some of the lists that have been trapped deep inside me here! Let's start with:

My Favorite Things at the Moment
-the white 500 thread count sheets on our bed
-The Time Traveler's Wife
-facials at the Aveda training school for a deep discount
-knowing Fall is just around the corner
-playing piano at Moody Church on the 9 foot Steinway, alone
-stocking up on expensive Italian pasta, double baked almond croissants, "fat boys" and other fabulous gourmet food items from Fox and Obel grocery store
-Fox and Obel (actually, this place deserves its very OWN list
 Another time perhaps)
-Red Robin cheeseburgers
-decaf grande caramel macciahto from Starbucks
-Ina Garten and her show on the Food Network
-my pictures from our Europe trip this year (ask for them and I'll share them if you'd like)
-"comfy-cute" shoes (Thanks Amy for the incredibly applicable term)
-eight hours of sleep
-cheap pedicures
-black, fine tipped, "juicy" uni ball pens
-all four of the Barefoot Contessa cookbooks, but especially #1 and #3
-my I-pod
-a clean house
-watching Iron Chef just before bed with Scott, especially when Mario or Rick Bayless are cooking
-my Don Juan red rose bush that is currently climbing up the back of the house
-quiet time with God on the train
-reading in Starbucks
-holding hands with Scott, and the way we interlock our pinkies
-being in bed by 9pm on weeknights

It's mostly superficial, but what can I say? I'm a simple girl.

It'll be a long road to recovery, but I think with your help, we'll get there.

Life as a Bond Trader

The irritating sound of my alarm going off happens at 5:00 am each morning. The sky is still dark and the faint sound of distant thunder makes staying in bed incredibly tempting. But, I persevere through the sleepy haze and swing my legs over and head for the bathroom. A hot shower is my only consolation as I prepare for the day ahead.

I read on the train into the City. Up to 3 books a week depending on how challenging they are. Anything works: classics, chick-lit, even the occasional venture into non-fiction to make me feel intellectual. Me and my library card are best friends, and for purchasing cheap books was an exciting discovery. It's a 45 minute ride in, too short for my taste most of the time, especially if the novel is engaging.

The office is usually quiet at 6:45 am, when all the traders and underwriters are arriving for the day. We have a decent view from our trading floor of the downtown landscape, enough to see if it's gorgeous outside while we're trapped, thousands of feet in the air, playing with numbers and attempting to make a dent in the financial markets to justify our existence.

The highlight of my morning is the thrice-weekly trip to Starbucks, for my current drink choice of a decaf grande non-fat caramel macchiato. Say THAT five times fast. And yes, I am high maintenance about my coffee drinks. Say what you will, it's a relatively cheap thing that makes me VERY happy. All is right with the world when I know my Starbucks card has a hefty balance lurking on it.

Our desks are crowded together, one huge, open room with long tables seating 10 people, crammed together about 2 & 1/2 feet a part. Everyone has a minimum of three flat-screen computer panels, most people have four to six screens towering over their small desks. Our phones are these gargantuan black boxes with glowing blue screens, forty lines (no joke!), and a seemingly infinite number of pages to program with speed dials. All forty phone lines CAN ring at once, and combined with the shouting and screaming in the room when things get busy, it's easy to get sweaty with stress. If you've seen Boiler Room then you have a sense of what I'm talking about.

The busiest time in the bond business is almost always Tuesday-Thursday from 8:00 am-12:30 pm EST, when most new bond issues are pricing in the market. It all seems to happen in waves, oddly enough, and once the storm passes you're left feeling like you've been hit by a grimy semi truck. Monday is quiet, as you prepare to bid on bond issues and market your offerings to the Street, and Friday is clean-up day where you take care of all the crap that has built up during the week.

Sounds fascinating, doesn't it? Yeah, I thought so. When people ask me what I do and I answer, "I'm a municipal bond underwriter at a Top 10 Broker Dealer", their eyes glaze over and promptly roll to the back of their head out of sheer boredom.

Lunch is always eaten in hurried gulps at your desk. If you're lucky, you had 10 minutes to run downstairs and grab a salad, otherwise you're stuck foraging in the vending machines for a quick sugar fix.

Things begin to wind down at 4pm EST and you finally have a moment to take a deep breath and look around you, perhaps take a much needed bathroom break. The good thing about starting so early is that it is quite acceptable to be on the 4:14 pm train home. Wild horses couldn't prevent me from it on most days. You leave for the day hoping that you don't own too much and that market opens in your favor the next day. It's a strange sort of sensation, knowing that millions of dollars are at risk each night because of decisions you've made that day. Most people in this business become accustomed to that ongoing pressure, or else they don't last long.

A small taste of my day, in case you cared.

Simple Things

The Good Life. What does this entail? For me: a great book, a warm bath with bubbles in a huge tub, a home cooked dinner in front of a crackling fire, clean sheets, down pillows and ending the evening early with my husband at home are some that come to mind quickly. A HomeBody. I suppose that would be a characteristic of who I am. A HomeBody willing to travel.

Blogging is something totally new for me. I've been journaling as long as I can remember, buying a new one from Border's was always a highlight experience as it meant I'd filled out yet another book with a year's worth of memories, lists and recipes. We'll have to see how it goes.

Welcome and thanks for reading.