elephantine

a place i would like to eat at.

Tenpenny, photographed beautifully by the talented Nicole Franzen.

pretty photos...

(...by vickie, sylvain-emmanuel, ana, and anabela.)

a day at the zoo

For my birthday, my parents gave me tickets to the zoo, and so Stefan and I spent an afternoon there this weekend. These are some of the cuties we took photos of: a sleepy tree kangaroo, a huge hippo, a hungry giraffe (it was feeding time, and people were lined up to feed him!), and a curious green aracari.

fiction friday: jellyfish

This post is part of Fiction Friday, a series born out of my ongoing desire to be a novelist. These stories are meant to be read independently. They are fictional vignettes inspired by glimmers from my life.

        Before summer was over, our parents took us on one last vacation. We drove somewhere I didn't recognize and still can't find my way back to, no matter how many maps I pore over. On our way there, I fell asleep in the back seat of the van, one earphone falling out of my ears. I woke when my brother jabbed me with his elbow. Inside the Walkman on my lap, the disc was still spinning. "We're here," Joshua said, elbowing me again. Our father had parked the van under an elm tree, the only shady spot in the yard.
    The vacation rental was smaller than our house in the city, smelling of soap and wood. The kitchen was equipped with white melamine dishes, wine glasses, a few dull knives, a drawer full of silverware. A laminated card was propped up on the countertop to welcome us and remind us of the house rules: no pets, no cigarettes, and to please refrain from leaving food outside because of the wild animals. My mother read the card aloud while my father unloaded the rest of the van, carrying the cooler in last, which was packed with sliced meat, fruit, and milk. Before transferring the food into the small refrigerator underneath the countertop, he removed an apricot from a paper bag and pushed it into his mouth, extracting the pit after several seconds.
    "I'm going down to the beach," my mother said, fanning herself. "It's certainly hot enough, isn't it?"
    We changed into our swimsuits. My brother and I ran out the door and spotted the shore. We fumbled down a steep hill, tripping over the exposed roots that stretched out of the ground, shaking out clumps of dirt that lodged in our sandals. Joshua flung his shoes off when he reached the sand and ran straight out into the water. He disappeared, then his head broke out of the water's glimmering surface twenty feet up the beach, hair slicked down around his face.
    "Come on!" he called out, but my legs were suddenly paralyzed. I'd just remembered what my friend Rumi had told me weeks before, that she'd once stepped on a jellyfish at her aunt's beach house, and when she ran out of the water, screaming, the jellyfish's tentacles were still wrapped around her leg. They were these long, slimy things that left red lash-like marks around her calves. Her aunt quickly peeled the tentacles off with tweezers and doused her throbbing skin in vinegar, but Rumi's leg stayed swollen for days, the itchiness unbearable as she lay in bed at night.
    It was the most terrifying thing Rumi had told me about, next to showing me the diagonal scar from her surgery that ran down the side of her abdomen. She told the story of her scar almost proudly, but recalling the jellyfish only made her panicky. "I'm never going out in the ocean again," she said. "Swimming pools are just fine with me."

    By the time our parents caught up with us, Joshua had grown tired of swimming, and was back on the beach. He accepted a towel from our mother and stretched out on it, one wet arm flung over his face to shield against the sun. Our mother tried to rub sunblock on his shoulders, but he waved her away, promising in an uninterested voice that he would do it in a minute.
    "Aren't you going in the water?" my mother asked me. She was wearing her sunhat and a purple one-piece that she'd bought from Sears at the start of the summer.
    "No," I said.
    "She's scared of it," my brother said.
    "I'm not scared," I snapped. "I just don't feel like it."
    "Right," he said.
    "Joshua, put on that sunscreen," our father said. "Don't make your mother ask again."
    "What about her?" asked my brother, jabbing a thumb in my direction. "Doesn't she have to?"
    "I'm going swimming," I said in a huff, leaving before he could say anything else. This time I made it shin-deep in the ocean before my legs froze up again. Any further and the water would distort the ocean floor beyond recognition. The rocks were starting to all look like jellyfish. There were hundreds of them, just waiting to be stepped on, waiting for a leg to curl around.
   Tentacles! Rumi's voice shouted in my head. Tweezers! I shuddered and glanced over my shoulder; for a second, I thought of going back. That plan didn't sound so bad. I would smear on the sunscreen, lay as far away from my brother as possible, and nibble on the chilled apricots that my father had brought down from the house.
    Back on the shore, Joshua was propped up on his elbows, hands cupped around his mouth while he called out to me. I couldn't make out the words, but I saw the smirk on his face.
    I went in. I rushed into the ocean until it came mid-way up to my thighs, then thrust my arms out, and dove under the slippery surface. There was little resistence. For a split second, I imagined the jellyfish would find me, surround me, but when I finally opened my eyes, I saw nothing but smooth rocks and little crabs rushing across the ocean floor, everything in shades of blue and green and orange, everything quiet, everything clear.

photo love...

...from this wonderful set shot by yukissa.

from the ruins

Old and new. What a dreamy house.

26

We celebrated my 26th birthday today with tacos, cake, and champagne.

When I think back on childhood birthdays, there is one in particular that I always think of. I was ten or eleven, and I put on a magic show for my friends in my parents' garage. I had a cape and a magician's hat and a box full of tricks. Just imagine if I had stuck with it! Maybe I'd have my own headlining act in Vegas by now...

monday

Today I like this print. These shoes. This photo. And this antique toy.

vintage love...

(...from little byrd vintage.)

the weekend...

...enjoying these dreamy photos, working on my French (je peux comprendre un peu le français maintenant!), watching The Darjeeling Limited again, reading Zen in the Art of Writing.

fiction friday: buzz

This post is part of Fiction Friday, a series born out of my ongoing desire to be a novelist. These stories are meant to be read independently. They are fictional vignettes inspired by glimmers from my life.

   The three of them are at La Casita, in one of the cushy booths in the back, and all Leon can feel is embarrassed about the neatly wrapped birthday gifts on the table. He's almost thirty, for chrissakes. It seems like something he should've grown out of by now, along with scraped knees and spitballs.
    The waitress – her torso tulip-shaped, hair dyed the color of saffron – bends over the table to wipe the glass with a damp cloth. Both gifts are wrapped in confetti-patterned paper, finished with metallic ribbons and oversized bows. The boxy one is from his girlfriend, Noreen, and the flatter one is from his father. Leon’s cheeks burn a pink imperceptible under the low rose light. He regrets eating so quickly. At least then he had something to do with his hands. Behind their booth, a family of starry-eyed folk dolls and shriveled hot peppers hang over the emergency exit.
    Noreen orders them coffee, mindlessly scratching at her jeans as she speaks. Their original waitress seems to have disappeared. The new waiter has a mole above his upper lip that moves when he speaks. It reminds Leon of those old singalong cartoons, the ones with the black bouncing ball.
    Noreen's saying, “We’ll have sopapillas, too. Those are made to order, right? It’s his birthd–"
    "Don’t." Leon says.
    "Sí, sopapillas," answers the waiter. "And three coffees. Cream 'n sugar?"
    "Both, I guess." Noreen turns to Leon's father: "Anything else?"

something about...

(...these old Dutch advertising pins from attic antics intrigues me.)

on my wishlist...

(...this print, these mini cheesecakes, this mixing bowl, and these towels.)

villarreal ceramics

(Love these little feather cups from villarreal ceramics.)

notebooks...

(...something I can never get enough of. These are from arminho.)

fiction friday: hands

This post is part of Fiction Friday, a series born out of my ongoing desire to be a novelist. These stories are meant to be read independently. They are fictional vignettes inspired by glimmers from my life.

   Everyone in town knew about Iggy Stone before he came. Word had spread fast: he couldn't hear too well in his left ear; he had recently broken off an engagement; his father owned a great deal of land and forest. And there was another thing about him, too, and people liked to talk about that part the most. They whispered about it in the frozen foods aisle at the Co-op, over cocktails at the Clarks' anniversary party, and under the privacy of their moss-blanketed roofs. They talked about Iggy until the moving truck rumbled into town, and then nobody dared talk about it at all, or even bothered to talk to him.
    Dottie was the first person to introduce herself to Iggy. During her weekly shopping trip, navigating her cart through the displays of vegetables, she noticed him in the aisle ahead of her. He was sorting through the hot house tomatoes. Yanking on her cart – it had a bad wheel, and kept pulling to the left – Dottie maneuvered toward him and cleared her throat as she approached.
    "Mr. Stone?" Dottie asked. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you."
    She was surprised at how young he was. And how his hands, cupping a vine of tomatoes, were so clean. Nails trimmed short. For all that had been said about him, she had expected someone a little more rundown.
    "I'm Dottie," she said.
    "Well," Iggy said. "Dottie, it's nice to meet you."
    His voice, too: so crisp, like the words had been scrubbed clean. Dottie pointed at the tomatoes. "Been a bad year," she said. "Even in my own garden, the poor things look like berries."
    When he didn't respond, and looked away over Dottie's head to the other side of the grocery store, she wondered if it had been a mistake to approach him. She should have just kept her mouth shut, she thought, and kept going past. But then Iggy rubbed the back of his head and said cautiously, "I've got a few plants in my own yard. And weeds, lots of weeds. I can't tell them apart sometimes."
    "A weed is just an unwanted plant," Dottie said. Before she could stop herself, she added, "I can take a look, if you want."
    "You wouldn't mind?" asked Iggy. His eyes had brightened. "You'd take a look at the backyard?"
    The murmurs that had gone through town for weeks came back to her again. They had said so many things. But his bad ear – that hadn't been true, had it? She was standing on his left side, not speaking very loudly, and he hadn't even leaned in closer toward her.
    She glanced at his hands again, at those clean, careful hands, and reassured herself that he deserved a chance. They were wrong, Dottie decided. Whatever they said about him was wrong, because someone like that would never have hands this clean.

a wedding teaser

Our amazing photographers just posted a couple teaser photos on their blog. Hooray!

recent faves...

(...from here, here, here, and here.)

white...

(...found at allen company inc.)

the bed dilemma (in conclusion)

As I mentioned, we recently bought a king bed. It was delivered yesterday, and last night I slept wonderfully. I've also been trying to make the bedroom more "bedroom" like: decluttering, adding fresh flowers, and hanging up a DIY painting of a starry night.

a new friend

Meet Sharkey, our neighbors' dog. He had fun chasing Rufus around the house today.

fiction friday: ferries

This post is part of Fiction Friday, a series born out of my ongoing desire to be a novelist. These stories are meant to be read independently. They are fictional vignettes inspired by glimmers from my life.

    My grandfather owned the only gift shop on the island. On Mondays, Ma had been dropping me off there to stay out of trouble while she stretched and sighed her way through her physical therapy appointments at Dr. Pitt's clinic. I didn't like being dumped at the gift shop, but Ma promised it would only last a few more weeks.
    "My shoulder's been feeling a lot better," she said, and then added quickly, "and, besides, the insurance will only cover another two sessions. You have your books with you, right?"
    I nodded. The faded gift shop sign was coming into view. Further down the street, cars were being directed into lanes for the next ferry. Ma put the blinker on and glanced over at me with tired eyes. "I know grandpa can be kind of…funny," she said, in the way someone says that expired milk smells funny. "But try to humor him. And, Lee, for God's sake, brush the hair out of your face."

   Inside, my grandfather was bent over the counter, testing pens one by one on the obituary page of a newspaper. They were the kinds of pens that had tiny, flat boats in them that shuttled through the water when you angled the pen back and forth.
    "Huh!" he cried. "All in working order."
    He looked up. It seemed to take him a minute to recognize me as kin instead of a customer. He pushed himself off his stool with his big, pale palms and grabbed the pens.
    "So it must be Monday," he said. "Your Ma's still taking that art class?"
    "For a couple more weeks," I said quickly. He didn't know about the car accident, or Ma's torn tendons, or the physical therapy. It would just make him angry, Ma had said. My grandfather had an unexplained hostility toward driving, and hearing about something like that would send him through the roof. Instead, she'd told him that she'd enrolled in an Adult Ed class. "Just to do something different," Ma had told him over the phone, cradling the receiver between her cheek and her good shoulder.
    She was good at lying. I was not. Before my grandfather could dig for more details, I mumbled, "I've got homework," and ducked into the cramped office in the back of the gift shop.

     It wasn't long before I was interrupted by voices arguing. One was my grandfather's; the other belonged to a woman. I cracked the door open and pressed my ear against the sliver of cool air. "Is accident!" the woman was saying. "Mister, is accident."
    "Look," my grandfather said. "That doesn't matter to me. Someone's gotta pay for it, 'cause it's broken."
    "But is accident!" she tried again. "I just looking around."
    "Lady, this ain't a museum!"
    I closed the door. I had just remembered about the earphones buried somewhere in my backpack when the door flew back open, and my grandfather forced his way into the tiny office. With the two of us in there, the room felt warm.
    "Tourists," he grumbled. He grabbed the broom that had been leaning against the wall and slammed the door shut. I stared down at my notebook paper, at the messy handwriting, the letters slanted as if cowering away. I couldn't even make out the words.
    When I emerged out of the office, he wasn't sweeping. He was standing at the front window, his back toward me, steadying himself against the broom as if it was a cane. I stepped over the pieces of fractured ceramic from the mug that had been knocked off the shelf. One piece had half a whale painted on it, its eye black and beady.
    "Can I – do you need help?" I asked. I heard Ma's voice in my head. "Or," I said, "I can test some pens, or something."
    He didn't reply. I walked up to the window to see what he was looking at. The ferry had just pulled away from the dock. And on my grandfather's face, the look of sorrow was unmistakable: regret that he wasn't on that boat himself, that he was stuck here, so close yet so far away. I didn't know how, but I understood that much.
    "I want to go over to the city someday," I said. "I mean, it's what, a twenty minute ferry ride? But Ma doesn't want to take me."
    "You do?" he asked. His face softened. He seemed about to say something else, but instead he broke his gaze from the dock and turned away from the window. With the broom still in hand, he started to make his way over to the fragmented mug. I followed him.
    "Hold the dustpan, will you?" he asked.
    "Okay," I said, and we huddled around the broken pieces.

8-bit fashion

(Cool. Found here.)

dreamy photos...

(...from Jessica Torres.)

chezerbey

(I'm amazed by lauren and kyle's bathroom renovation – here's before and after.)

the new month

The first day of August was a good one. I baked profiteroles, watched a Ray Bradbury lecture, went for a walk in the sun, and added a new necklace set to the shop. While I was photographing the necklaces, I noticed that the leaves through my window looked awfully pretty when out of focus. So I pressed record.

new in the shop...

(...nova, tiny gold earrings available with either white topaz, black spinel, or blush cz.)

the bed dilemma (continued)

You guys gave a lot of great input about the bed dilemma – thank you! I'm excited to report that we opted for a king (in person, a queen just wasn't a big enough difference). It's scheduled to arrive next weekend. In the meantime, we're hunting for bed linens. I love these mixes of white and gray...

(Inspiration from here, here, here, and here.)

fiction friday: thump

This post is part of Fiction Friday, a series born out of my ongoing desire to be a novelist. These stories are meant to be read independently. They are fictional vignettes inspired by glimmers from my life.

   After the concert, we drive the long way home. We're both too awake, too giddy, too high-spirited to go back to the house just yet, which is stale and stuffy from the trapped summer heat. So we drive. Instead of turning left at Holly Street, you take the hard right that bends down the hill toward the lake. Night joggers are out. Every few seconds, their reflectors catch the headlights of passing cars and light up like a photography flash.
    You roll down both our windows. "Beautiful out," you say, but I'm lost staring into the glossy night.

    I'm in that same daze when the car hits something. It's a thump that feels like we're going fifty over a speed bump – hard and quick. You say something sharp that I can't make out.
    "What happened?" I ask. "What was that?"
    "I don't know," you say, but I think what you actually mean is, I don't want to know.
    You keep checking the rearview mirror, shaking your head, shifting in your seat. There's no shoulder here to pull off onto, and there are cars behind us. The windows are still down; I feel, for the first time in weeks, cold. If you are, too, you aren't showing any signs of it.
    The road curves. We don't say anything else. Out of the corner of my eye, I see your hands tighten on the steering wheel. The road, too, becomes tighter, narrowing so much that I wonder if it might collapse into a single lane, forcing us to swerve onto the sidewalk to avoid oncoming traffic; but just as I have this thought, it widens again, brightens up. A sodium street light flickers on as we pass underneath. Out of the darkness, a jogger appears. Somehow the road has brought us back to the lake, coming from the opposite direction.
    When we reach the spot, you pull off the road as much as you can – which is hardly at all – and let the other cars pass us. You punch the hazard light button with your thumb and tell me to hang tight. I watch as you crouch in the middle of the street, craning your neck, frowning. There's only pavement and yellow paint.
    "I don't know," you say when you slide back into the driver's seat. "Maybe it was nothing."
     How could it be nothing? I want to ask, but it doesn't seem like the right thing to ask.
    "Let's go home," I say instead.

    The house, miraculously, is not stuffy. It's warm, but not stuffy. We shed out of our clothes and into pajamas, open the windows, and set the alarm clock. That night, I dream that we're in the car again, and that we hit something again. It's all the same until we go back and check. This time there's a tiny little man in the middle of the road, hiding under a cello case. The case has our tire tracks burned into its pebbled texture, like a tattoo.
   "Are you okay?" we ask. "Are you hurt?"
   He peeks out. I recognize him; he had played in the concert that night. He'd had a solo. There had been a standing ovation. Here, curled up under his cello case, he's still wearing his suit, and the collar is damp. He's been crying, but when he sees us, he smiles.
   "Oh, yes," he says. "I'm fine."
   "Are you sure?" we ask, relieved that we didn't run over anyone's cat, or a family of raccoons.
   "Of course," he says. He gets up and wipes his eyes. He starts to drag his cello case the rest of the way across the road. "You don't need to worry, kiddos," he says. "These things happen all the time."

depeapa

(I love these totes from depeapa.)

lost in...

(...Irene Suchocki's pretty photographs.)

analogue life

(Yes, please.)

the bed dilemma

Bodhi has a dog bed, but he refuses to sleep on it. Instead, he sleeps on our bed. Even if we kick him off, he climbs back up in the middle of the night. It's half heartwarming, and half a pain in the butt. I'm constantly cramped (I can't even sleep with my legs straight out) or woken up (Bodhi kicks in his sleep).

We're seriously looking into upgrading from our full size bed. What do you have? A queen? A king? Do you have a favorite headboard and/or bed frame?

mojitos, chips, and salsa

I love a mojito any time of year, but summertime is especially perfect for this refreshing, sweet-n-tart, minty cocktail. You don't even need to buy a muddler to make a good mojito. And, because I figured I couldn't just show you a drink and call it a day, I also have recipes for fresh serrano salsa and tortilla chips.

Fair warning: the tortilla chips are a bit chewy, not nearly as crisp as store-bought ones, but that's what I like about them. And, um, a word of advice: don't indulge in a mojito until after you've made the salsa, because there's a lot of dicing involved. Let's keep those fingertips intact.

Watch the three-act video below or here on vimeo. (Music: Molino Molero by Susana Baca.)

Mojitos (serves 2)
adapted from Brandy

20 fresh mint leaves
1 lime, cut into 8 wedges
2 tablespoons sugar
2 cups ice cubes
6 tbsp white rum
1 cup club soda

Place 10 mint leaves and 1 lime wedge into each glass. Use a muddler (or the handle of a wooden spoon) to crush the mint and lime. Divide the remaining lime wedges and sugar between the two glasses, and muddle again. Fill each glass with 1 cup ice. Divide the rum between the two glasses. Add 1/2 cup club soda to each glass. Stir well and enjoy.

Tortilla Chips (serves 2)

6 small corn tortillas (I used 5 1/2" ones)
1 tbsp olive oil

Stack tortillas and slice into quarters. Place in a bowl, add olive oil, and toss to coat. Cook over medium heat in a non-stick frying pan until they begin to brown, about three minutes per side. Remove from heat and, if necessary, blot with a paper towel to remove any excess oil.

Serrano Salsa (serves 2)
adapted from Rick Bayless

6 ounces cherry tomatoes (approx 17 tomatoes)
1 serrano chile
a small handful of cilantro
1 garlic clove
1/3 cup white onion
fresh lime juice to taste (I used 1/2 lime)
salt to taste (I used 1/4 tsp)

Finely dice the tomatoes. Scoop into a bowl. Cut the chile in half lengthwise and scrape out the seeds if you want (I did). Chop the chile as finely as you can, then add it to the bowl. Carefully bunch up the cilantro sprigs, and chop into small pieces, stems and all. Add to the bowl. Mince the garlic and add to the bowl. Next, finely dice the onion and add to the bowl. Mix well. Taste and season with lime juice and salt, mix again, and let stand if you have a little time, for the flavors to meld before eating.

enjoying...

(...Jo's magical photos.)

fiction friday: bamboo

This is the first post of Fiction Friday, a series born out of my ongoing desire to be a novelist. These stories are meant to be read independently. They are fictional vignettes inspired by glimmers from my life.

Except for the bamboo, Maya loved everything about the house. It had skylights in the living room, a tiled kitchen, an extra bedroom that could, maybe, be painted baby blue when the time was right. But the backyard was half eaten up by the bamboo, so thick she could hardly thrust her arm through it, and when she finally managed to, the joints along the stems scratched her skin, as if warning her to back off. This is our spot, it seemed to say. Our roots run deep.
    What she wanted was a little garden. She wanted arugula, beets, and snap peas. And a sunflower. Her sister's garden had one, a bright burst of yellow amongst the leafy folds of green. "It's nice, isn't it?" her sister asked, when the two of them had stood in the narrow path that ran down the middle of her garden. "Well, besides the slugs. You have to keep those little suckers in check. You put out cups of old beer, and presto, they're good and drowned. It's gross, but it works."
    But maybe Maya's garden wouldn't attract any pests. Bigger miracles had happened before, right? Maybe she wouldn't have to put out traps for them, or empty the traps when they became bubbly and discolored. The thought made her mouth taste sour. Think of something else, she told herself. Like mint. Mint and cherry tomatoes. Or butter lettuce. Or sage.
    Back inside, the house was rich with the sweet smell of fried onions. Johnny was hunched over the stove, spatula in hand, little specks of oil splattered on his shirt. He'd always been messy when he cooked, but somehow the food turned out tidy and precise. He turned when he heard Maya come in, lifting a sliver of onion to his parted smile. "Five minutes," he said.
    She put silverware on the table. She shuffled the scattered mail into a pile and tucked it under a book on Johnny's desk. Bank statements, bills, pre-approved credit card offers: it was always the same, always more of the same.
    "I met the neighbors this morning," Johnny said when they sat. "They're retired. A little crotchety, maybe, but nice enough."
    "Did they say anything about the bamboo?" Maya asked.
    "The bamboo?"
    "Yes. The bamboo. Does it go into their yard, too?"
    "I don't know, Maya. I barely talked to them."
    "I just wish it wasn't there. Our yard is already small enough. You think we could dig it up?"
    "Really? I don't think it's so bad. Actually, I think it looks alright."
    "There's no space."
    "Space for what?" he asked. He broke his gaze from her to take a drink. Maya watched the muscles on his throat tighten as he swallowed.
   Johnny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and picked his fork back up. He began again, "So, the neighbors, like I said, they seem a little grumpy, but they–" and Maya shifted her focus to the window behind Johnny's head, a perfectly square window, curtainless, that looked out to the backyard.
    She could see the leafy tips of the bamboo, just barely, and she felt a kind of heat start to build up in her hands. Tomorrow, when Johnny was at work, she would find their moving box that was still packed with the yard tools, find the shovel and the pruning shears and her barely used gloves, and she would kneel on the soft grass in the backyard and she would get rid of the bamboo herself, no matter how much it scratched up her arms, no matter how much her body ached from it. She would clear the yard, and dig her hands into the soil, and start anew.

hip & clavicle

(I'm blown away by these paper butterflies by Hip & Clavicle.)

p.s. tomorrow I'm starting a new series here on the blog! It's much different than my usual content, so I'm a bit nervous about it, but I hope it's a risk worth taking.

new in the shop...

(...kerry, a necklace strung with a gorgeous clear-and-green glass bead.)

easy rhubarb spread

Forgive me for not making a video for this recipe. I wasn't even sure if it would turn out well, so I didn't document the process. But it did turn out, wonderfully so.

A few days ago, my friend Kym gave me some rhubarb from her garden. I'm no rhubarb expert, but I do know that sugar is its best friend, and that it tastes good on bruschetta. I found a rhubarb jam recipe and adjusted it a little. It came out thick, tart, and sweet. And delicious.

Easy Rhubarb Spread (yields about 1 cup)
adapted from Chollow

10 oz chopped rhubarb
1/2 cup sugar
3 tbsp orange juice

Combine all ingredients in a saucepan. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low and cook for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the spread thickens. Spread on crackers, bruschetta, or enjoy by itself.

Boreas

(Intrigued by Lisa Congdon's new exhibition at Gallery Hijinks.)

pre-fall...

(...from Ann Taylor.)

anek + have a great weekend

(I discovered anek from Oh Joy, and I just love these prints!)

What an exhausting (but great) week! After the wedding, and after a day of catching up on work, I went out of town to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. Our family surprised her with a spa package, which she loved. I'm back home now, and am so glad for the weekend – Stefan and I are kicking ours off with Japanese food and Harry Potter. Hope your weekend is a terrific one.

Luminology

(Candles with wooden wicks? Cool. See more at Luminology.)

sealed with a kiss

Hi guys. Thanks so much for all your sweet comments. Our wedding was everything I could have asked for. I'll wait to recap everything until our photographers send over photos. I'm also thinking about writing a "things I learned" type of post sometime soon. Reading other people's advice while I planned our wedding was tremendously helpful, and I want to share some thoughts of my own.

In the meantime, let's get back to regular posts, food posts, and mixtapes. Woo!

(Above is a photo of our centerpieces I quickly snapped after we arranged the flowers on Sunday – a mix of white and pink roses, sweet peas, mint, and a few other greens.)

tomorrow...

...we're getting married. Married!

Today I'm arranging flowers (with help, of course!), wrapping up a few last minute things, and then we're heading off to a BBQ that my future brother-and-sister-in-law graciously offered to host. I have the hardest time sleeping the night before big events, so wish me luck getting some zzz's tonight.

Have a super wonderful Monday.

our DIY favors

I have one more DIY wedding project to share with you guys: favors. Originally, I wanted to give out egglings, but it would've cost too much, and as Stefan pointed out, the guys probably wouldn't care for it. So we opted for food favors. More specifically, mini jars of wildflower honey and mini jars of greek olive oil.

Supplies:
- 2 oz hex glass jars and matching lids
- sticker paper (for the labels)
- cardstock (for the name tags)
- hole punch (I used a heart-shaped one from Martha Stewart)
- 1/8" black ribbon
- honey and olive oil

How to:
1. design your labels and name tags, and do a test print before printing all of them
2. clean the jars and let air dry
3. fill the jars (not TOO high!) and twist lids on tightly
4. apply the sticker labels, peeling the backing off gradually so it's easy to readjust the sticker if needed
5. tie black ribbon around the top and thread through the hole in the name tags. knot twice and snip ends.

(Looking for more wedding posts? Here's our ring pillow, honeymoon plans, cake toppers, and invitations.)

tia kramer

(My friend, chris, sent me a link to tia kramer's work today. It's paper jewelry! Isn't that cool?)

Alexandra Grecco...

(...always makes the prettiest clothes.)

Roxana Illuminated Perfume...

(...can't you practically smell it? Love the product photography & packaging. More here.)

Hope you all had a nice long weekend. I spent several dinners with friends, including one at Tavolàta with the lovely ladies brandi, linda, and angie. If you ever eat there, I recommend the potato gnocchi. (Although, as you may have noticed, I am just a tad obsessed with gnocchi to begin with.)

10 days...

...until the wedding day.

Planning a wedding, big or small, doesn't come stress-free. I am a worrywort, and I can't stop myself from having thoughts like: what if people forget to come? What if they're bored? What if it's raining and we can't take photos in the park? But I know that even if everything goes wrong, it doesn't matter in the end, because it's all about the getting married part. And there will be no Runaway Bride moment.

After the wedding, I'll start working on food videos again. Yesterday I made a yummy margherita pizza from scratch. I also recently made fresh ravioli with spinach and ricotta. If there's something you really, really want to see in a video, leave a comment. I would love to hear your suggestions.

(The photo above is sort of what the table centerpieces will look like, except there will actually be a number in that table number stand, and the flowers will look totally different.)

Have a happy 4th of July weekend!