Black Bean Brownies

And then life sucker-punches and you're really glad you made brownies a couple nights before.

These are good. Really, really good.

I adapted the recipe from here.

Turkey Meatloaf with Pinenuts and Feta

Ok I'm diving back in to the world of blogging. After a few requests to share recipes (hi Mom), here I am. I like blogging about as much as cleaning bits of dried kale out of the refrigerator. But I thought I'd try again. I am an avid blog reader but being on the other side is strange and unnerving and really, who cares what I have to say? Isn't it a little self-involved? Maybe narcissistic?

So I write for my mom. Who does actually care. Or pretends to.

I'm trying to be much more mindful about the money I spend on food. I mean, I'm trying to be more mindful about the money I spend, period (so no more mid-day champagne lunches at Le Cirque--------I kid.....more like no more name-brand laundry detergent), but a solid place to start is my food. So I want something I can make on a Sunday, and it will be dinner throughout the week. It's also nice to make something that can be frozen if I don't finish it all. I'm not sure where I got this idea for turkey meatloaf, but it's now a total go-to. Apologies for the terrible lighting in these photos. NYC kitchen light is unforgiving.


I love, love, love spaghetti squash. So easy, so good. Major bang for your buck. Get your oven heated to 400 degrees. Take your squash and slice it in half.

Scoop out the seeds, spray with canola oil/olive oil/coconut oil spray and liberally salt and pepper.

Place face down on the baking sheet and stick it in the oven. Bake until it's done. Perhaps a half an hour? Maybe 45 minutes? Check it after half an hour and if you can pierce it with a knife and it's super soft and kind of wrinkled, it's done.

Totally unrelated, but these are really, really good.



You'll need ground turkey for the meatloaf. Don't get ground turkey breast--the meatloaf will turn out dry and not good. You want the ground turkey thighs. Try and get humanely raised, local meat if that's important to you. The more I learn about how animals are raised, the more important it has become to me. This is from the Farmer's Market. $6 for the container, so relatively affordable. I buy a few at a time and then freeze them and take them out to make turkey burgers, meatballs, meatloaf, andddd that's it.

You'll then start building your meatloaf. I measure in handfuls. Actually, I don't really measure at all, except when I bake. Which is never because I hate measuring. But to keep everyone happy, I'll measure in handfuls. I use almond meal because it's protein packed. Add four handfuls.

If you want to do half breadcrumbs, half almond meal, you can. If you want to do all breadcrumbs, you can. I keep almond meal and breadcrumbs in the freezer--super convenient. 

Add three handfuls of pinenuts and two eggs. Pinenuts are expensive. Trader Joe's are the cheapest.

Add two handfuls of currants. Currants are like mini raisins. I hate raisins in anything, but the currants in this add an awesome sweetness and aren't gross.

Chop a small yellow onion, or half a large one. If you like your onion cooked, saute it for 5 minutes in some olive oil and then add. I like the subtle crunch and flavor of adding the raw onion. Add two to three handfuls of  crumbled feta cheese. Chop up some herbs--parsley, thyme, oregano, chives, basil (stay away from rosemary for this recipe--too woodsy and powerful) and add them. Add a dollop of dijon and then about two teaspoons of salt and some pepper.

Mix it with your hands and then shape it into a loaf in your pan. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 40-50 minutes. Check on it after 40 minutes. Poke it with your finger--does it "bounce back" or does it make an indentation? You want it to bounce back. Worse comes to worse, stick a knife in there and check to see what the middle looks like.

Scoop out your spaghetti squash. Add some butter or olive oil and salt and pepper.

I like to make a little yogurt-herb mixture to dollop on top of the meatloaf. Take some more feta, some greek yogurt, and then some soft herb (basil or parsley would be my choice) and blend them with either a hand blender or in a food processor. This mixture is also great with pita chips, veggies, on top of soups, etc.

Make it look like this. I was lazy and didn't make the herb-yogurt. I just added some yogurt and chopped basil. Enjoy--it's really good.

The un-recipe:
Ground turkey (a package)
Pinenuts (2-3 handfuls)
Almond meal (4 handfuls)
Bread crumbs
Feta cheese (2 handfuls)
Onion (small chopped)
Two eggs
Chopped herbs (small handful)
Spaghetti squash
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Yogurt

My sweet boy, part 2

They took us right into the triage room and within two minutes a nurse had arrived. After a few questions and one quick look at his abdomen he was whisked back through the double doors.

I had a seat in the waiting room, taking mental notes of the CNN ticker and the coffee vending machine that spit out $1 mochas. A few seats away a large woman was fast asleep, slouched over herself snoring as her little long-haired four-footed companion tried to nuzzle her out of her slumber. If it weren't for that little scene, I wouldn't have thought it was an ER for animals. This place had all the characteristics of any hospital ER I had seen on TV. We were at Animal Medical Center, which I quickly learned is a six story state-of-the-art animal care center, arguably THE place to bring your sick pet if you lived in the U.S. and were experiencing some serious problems with your furry companion. Anything from acupuncture to blood transfusions to dialysis---this was the place for any sick animal.

It was the Tuesday morning after the horrendous shootings in Aurora and I kept trying to pry my eyes away from CNN in an effort to block out at least one raw reality for the moment. My eyes and ears were most focused on any door that opened or blue-scrubbed doctor that walked by. One vet came out and roused the large woman sitting down a few seats from me. She explained that this woman's other dog was alright but they were going to keep an eye on him for a few more hours before sending him home. The drowsy woman complained about how long everything had taken and demanded to know why they hadn't come out to talk to her sooner.

"We had a very serious emergency come in, ma'am. I apologize for the wait."

I looked around the room. Besides one other woman with a cat in a carrier, I was the only person waiting.

Could she be talking about my dog, about Rincon?

I didn't think so. A lot of me still thought this was all in my head and my dog just had a little bug.  None of me was prepared, in the least, for what lie ahead.

Another doctor came out to talk to the woman with the cat. He sat down next to her and relayed any news or information right there in the waiting room.

A few minutes later a woman vet came out asking for "Rincon's owner?" I jumped out of my seat and instead of her coming to meet me and relay my news in the waiting room, she led me to a back room and shut the door.

The doctors were doing everything they could, she said, to figure out what was wrong with him. They were going to admit him to the ICU (I had no idea there was such a place for dogs...) and estimated our preliminary bill might be right around $4k to run all the necessary tests.

"Yes, yes, just do what you need to do," I said as I shook my head up and down, trying to overcompensate for the shock. I had already spent over $1k. I did some quick math in my head and said a prayer to whoever was listening that my parents would be understanding and supportive and willing to transfer some money, and quick.

The vet told me to go back and have a seat in the waiting room and she would be back out within twenty minutes for me to sign the admitting papers. I went back and had a seat, scrounging for change in my purse to buy a vanilla latte as I walked. I didn't have any and I was bummed. I needed something smooth and sugary to help ease my spinning head.

Twenty minutes went by. Thirty. Forty. An hour. An hour and fifteen minutes. Uhhh where was this vet? By this time, many of the seats had filled up as owners ushered their dogs in for routine check-ups and procedures like teeth cleanings. The hospital was coming back to life after a night of sleep. I was glad to not be one of the only ones there. I heard side conversations about the Aurora shootings, a general sense of shock sitting amongst all of us strangers.

Finally the vet came back out and led me back to another room and closed the door. "After I talked to you I went back and our ER team had done a chest x-ray and discovered Rincon has a pneumothorax, which is an accumulation of air in his chest cavity, outside of his lung. We just tapped his chest and drained over 2 liters of air, which is an astounding amount. There were literally five doctors standing around in awe that your dog was still alive. You see, when the chest cavity is full of that much air it causes the lung to collapse, resulting in sudden death. In almost all cases, the cause of a pneumothorax is trauma; for instance a dog that has been in a car accident or fallen a few stories, etc. He hasn't been hit by a car or anything?"

Um, nope, he hadn't been hit by a car and didn't fall out of any buildings that I knew of.... I asked what else could cause it.

She said they weren't sure and that a CT scan was the next step.

At this point the head ER doc walked in, who was the supervisor of the vet I saw. She reiterated what the other vet had said, and said that even in the past ten minutes (after they had tapped the chest removing the 2 liters of air) his chest cavity was filling back up with air. She said it was very serious and then, "I need you to make a decision, and pretty quickly. If Rincon dies, do you want us to try and resuscitate him?"

Tears hadn't really hit my eyes until that moment. I just heard "he dies" and "you need to sign" and they came up hot and sudden. I must've looked like a crying deer in headlights. I kept stumbling over my questions, saying "Well, wait, what do you mean? What do you mean he could die? Do you mean you won't try to save him if he is dying?" She was very patient and answered my same question over and over again clarifying that no, they were referring to if he died, would I want them to try and resuscitate. I said that no, if he died, I wouldn't want them to try and bring him back. It was hard. It was really hard to have about one minute to make that decision.

And then she started to talk money. "My best estimate is that we're looking at about $8k worth of treatment at this point, complications aside. We will need half of that before you leave today."

I silently prayed and pleaded to whoever was listening, again.

"Wow. Yes, yes, just do what you need to do. I'll figure it out. Please take good care of him."

(to be cont.)

My sweet boy, part 1

Rincon the day before the madness ensued.

I have been dragggggging my feet on writing this post. I'm not really sure why. I have the time, so it's not that. I guess I might be putting too much pressure on myself to string a bunch of words together that will do justice to the love I have for my dog, the craziness and out-of-controlness of life I have discovered over the past couple of weeks, and the immense gratitude I have for all of the amazing support we have received. I need to loosen up, lighten up, let the words flow and stop aiming for perfection. In any case, here is the beginning of the story of our last couple of weeks...


It all started close to two weeks ago (actually, two weeks tomorrow). It was a Saturday morning and not unlike every other Saturday morning, Rincon and I were headed out to Riverside Park around 7:30 to chuck and chase the ball. Rincon is a big dog--90 lbs give or take, and the boy needs his exercise. He is energetic, enthusiastic, often overeager, with problems that involve jumping on people, saying hello to everyone on the street, eating entire lasagnas off the counter, and nearly pulling my arm out of its socket on a regular basis. We are working on all of these issues, and the only reason I bring them up is to say that this dog is 90 lbs. of solid, young (nearly 3), golden retriever--rambunctiousness is in his blood. Of course he is also the most loyal, smiley, loving and cuddly dog, following me around the apartment all day long and always making sure he knows exactly where I am and what I'm doing. I love this big goofball, but he is a big goofball.


All this to say, we were headed out on Saturday morning and this dog, who usually bounds out the apartment door to go outside wasn't budging from my apartment. I had to pull him out the door. I tried to justify it, thinking, "wow, perhaps he has finally settled down!"Well, we got back into the apartment after I had to dragggg him around the block, and he wouldn't eat. He just drank enormous amounts of water and laid around. I decided to call the vet, knowing that he really needed to be seen because he was sooo not right. We usually go to a vet that is a good 20 minute walk uptown, but I knew he wouldn't be able to make it so I called the closest vet and got an appointment that morning. We made it to the vet, with me dragging him down the street, and came to find out he had a fever and an enlarged spleen. They did blood work--the wouldn't be in until later in the day--and just sent him home, saying I should monitor him closely. At this point, he was diagnosed with a "fever of unknown origin" which, I was told, could be caused by a million different things that cost thousands of dollars to work up, and oftentimes the search comes up with no answers. So, we went home.

My sweet boy doesn't feel good.

We got home and I could barely get him up the stairs. I sent this email to the vet around 9pm that night...  
        "Rincon is still not doing very well. He'll eat like a tablespoon of food at a time and has a hard time getting up and down the two flights of stairs in my building. I'm worried when I take him out that he is just going to like collapse on the sidewalk! He is still dry heaving, panting abnormally and his breathing, at times, can be really shallow, like he is struggling to catch his breath."


She was so sweet and got back to me really quickly, saying I should probably bring him back the next morning (Sunday). Well, the next morning he was still feeling horrible, and I managed to get him downstairs in the morning (moving like 3 stairs at a time) and then back upstairs. I called the vet at 9:00am on the dot and they had an appointment for me at 2:30.  I went out to run a few errands around 12:30 and came back at 2pm and he had really, really declined. At this point I got super scared and manhandled him down the stairs and rushed him to the vet, all while sobbing. It was so scary. I was on 72nd street, crying, trying to coax him to move just three steps at a time. I finally got him into the vet where I couldn't even get a sentence out to tell them who I was and what the problem was. They called for triage and then rushed him back. A different vet then the one I had seen the day before came out about 20 minutes later saying that his fever had skyrocketed and that they were going to do chest x-rays and he might need an ultrasound but that would have to wait until Monday. After doing the chest x-ray the new vet showed it to me and said "these look like 8 year old lungs, not 3 year old lungs." Uhh, ok? They had put him on IV fluids and antibiotics and were just continuing to run tests to see if it was a problem with his liver or perhaps a tick borne disease. At this point I was sent home and told he would need to spend the night. They were still treating for a "fever of unknown origin." 


The next day (Monday) I got a call from vet B in the afternoon who said the IV antibiotics seemed to be working. His fever had broken and he was eating. I have to be honest, this woman had zero bedside manner. She just spat medical jargon at me, none of which I understood, and was not at all open to questions from me. Not wanting to be an inconvenience and trusting she was a good vet, I just kept my mouth shut and looked SO forward to picking up my dog at 6pm that evening. I was so, so thrilled to see him. 


I took him home and immediately noticed something was not right. The right side of his abdomen was bulging out and he was breathing weird. His breaths were loud and labored--it sounded like he was wheezing. In the apartment he refused to lie down. If I could coax him, he would lie down for maybe 5 minutes and then get back up. All night long he stayed right next to my bed, standing up, panting and breathing heavily. He was so, so sick. At midnight I started counting down the hours until the vet opened again. 


OH! I forgot an important part. About an hour after we got home, I called the vet saying I noticed his side was bulging and his breathing was labored and heavy (I could hear him breathing even if I was in the other room). The receptionist answered, and I frantically told her what was going on, and she said, "let me see if I can talk to the vet." Well, she got back  on the phone and said, "You're lucky, I caught her on her way out. She said she listened to his lungs before she discharged him and his heavy breathing is because he needs to pee." Uhhh, ok. Thanks for getting on the phone vet B after I just spent close to $1500 in less than 24 hours at your practice. This was not the same level of care I had from vet A, who emailed me back within 10 minutes of receiving my email the night before. I have since thought about it (after going back in my mind to my CPR certifications) and realized breathing is like the most important component of life, before heart, before brain, etc. The body needs to get oxygen, and my dog was struggling mightily to get it. SO, how did she discharge a dog who clearly was in respiratory distress and had an enormously bulging side?!

Lying down for 5 minutes that night. 

Around 2am I hoisted him onto my bed, thinking a soft surface would help him sleep. He laid down on his side for 5 minutes and his breathing was so heavy it shook the bed. 


5am came and I knew it was 3.5 hours to go before I could take him to the vet. I thought I wouldn't even call, I would just be waiting there with him when everyone got there at 8:30. I wondered if it would be alright if I showed up around 7. Maybe they would take us in early.


This was a much, much sicker dog than I had dropped off to the vet two days before. 


At 7:49am after texting with my cousin Holly who said she thought it could be serious and I needed to take him in ASAP, we were on our way to the Animal Medical Center ER at 62nd and York. (God Bless the cab driver that picked us up.)


This couldn't wait a minute longer.


I later learned that my decision to take him when I did saved his life. Even a half hour later, he most likely wouldn't have made it.


To be continued....

On wrestling with seat belts and sheets, and the presence of wonder

I can vaguely remember a few fevers I’ve had during my life. The first was when I was maybe 6 or 8, and my family was down visiting my Grandma in Florida. We were on a family trip to Disney World and I totally ruined it. I can remember the 2 day drive down to FL and being absolutely miserable in our maroon red Chevrolet minivan. I was in the far back right side seat and my worst enemy was my red seatbelt. As I tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable in my fits of discomfort, that thing was just completely in the way. I also remember, once we got to FL, the wallpaper in my grandma’s bathroom, as I spent most of the trip heaving into that toilet (huge 60’s style flowers that I’m sure didn’t help with the nausea). I also remember being carried into a doctor’s office, so sick and dehydrated that I had to get a shot in my butt and I can remember the nurse telling me to “move my leg up and down like I was kicking in the water” to help it not hurt. Thankfully, my parents forced me to be an eager-beaver swimmer so I had that move down pat. Perhaps that’s why I absolutely tolerated loathed swim team for the next 10 years.

The second time was more of a recent memory—I was coming back from California for Christmas vacation during college and I was struck, and I mean STRUCK with the flu on the flight over. I was in the first row of seats, right side in the middle, and about 1 hour into the 5 hour flight I all of the sudden got chills and lightheaded and started sneezing and coughing and was super hot and started that same war with the seatbelt I had when I was six. I couldn’t get comfortable to save my life and I can remember I actually kindof lost it got disoriented and called a flight attendant over to tell her “I didn’t feel right” and “how long until we landed”. I could barely even get the words out and my mom came to pick me up and I remember being hunched over the concrete barrier in the pick-up zone (like lying all over it). That night my fight was with my sheets, not the seatbelt. I tossed and turned, feeling absolutely like death was right around the corner. I moaned in complete discomfort, unsure of how much more I could take. Within a day or so the fever broke and I was finally back among the living.

This time around wasn’t quite as dramatic as my first two memories but still incredibly uncomfortable to say the very least. I tend to think being “sick” is more in my head then anything. I deny, deny, deny, because I don’t know, I feel like it’s a sign of weakness or something. I don’t have time to get sick. But it’s the sitting around and not being able to do anything that really gets me. I am trying to get better at just “being”; with a book, watching TV, having a conversation on the phone (having a phone conversation while walking—perfect! Having a conversation while sitting on the couch—not so much). I go-go-go all the time, and the older I get the more I realize that in this "going" there is something I am trying to avoid. And it might just be the silence or the calm or the being with myself or it might just be all three. In any case, these past few days have been a lesson in just being, and it hasn’t been fun.

Since Thursday I’ve been warring with the sheets, tossing and turning, feeling my skin get warmer and warmer and my head get fuzzier and more frustrated as each morning turns to afternoon turns to evening. It seems there is nothing I can do to rid myself of the discomfort—advil isn't freaking working, and while my fever isn’t sky high, it is low grade and has stuck around for four days now. I don’t know what’s worse—super high fever for 24 hours or a seamlessly endless low grade. I can’t go anywhere, I can’t do anything except lay around. It. is. so. uncomfortable. It’s been a lesson in humility and “just being” and like I said, no fun. 

But this morning when I went to go make some tea, a quote on my refrigerator from E.B. White caught my attention. It never really does, because I’m usually rushing to grab the frozen mango out of the freezer or shove the guacamole back on top of the too-soft grapes or reach for my favorite bar of TJ’s dark chocolate late at night. It says “Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder”. Saw it, didn’t think too much of it, but I noticed it.

Over the past few days the morning is when I have felt the best, so I went to go water the plants on my balcony. I stumbled out through the window and just narrowly missed squashing the most beautiful half of a freshly hatched robin’s egg. I could tell it has just hatched because a bit of the membrane was still
attached.

Now, all you have to do is look back at the video I posted last week to see that I have been dealing with this whining type of sound around my apartment for a few weeks now. Everyone warned me it was a rodent but I had this feeling it was something else. And this morning my hunch was confirmed. Somewhere close to where I rest my head each night, where I have now laid endlessly wrestling with my sheets for 4 days, new life has hatched, and that, I find most wonderful.  The whining sounds were little baby robins, perhaps chirping in their eggs nestled in their nest or screeching and cawing as they made their way into this big crazy world that is West End Avenue.

So I’d like to think that little half an egg was a little sign that slowing down is o.k., keeping an eye out for wonder is important, and that this too shall pass.

I have been whining for the past few days—just ask my mom and the friends I have continuously updated on my status and have tried to live vicariously through.

:::::::Shout out to the things that have sustained me over the past few days::::::

Storage Wars: I didn’t understand the hype, but I do now.

Grilled Cheese Sandwiches from Andy’s Deli on 74^th and Amsterdam: This is why I can’t imagine living anywhere else than NYC right now. I can order a grilled cheese, along with Nyquil, paper towels, a 6-pack and a lottery ticket at 1am and it is delivered to my door with a smile. My orders weren’t quite that interesting over the past few days, but in any case this place is a god send.

Ikea’s Sultan Finnvik Mattress and Gosa Vide pillows: Seriously, so, so comfortable. What do people all over the world do without a comfortable bed? 

The Poisonwood Bible: When I get tired of Storage Wars or Bravo, I switch to Kingsolver’s classic.

Modern medicine: Inhalers make breathing better.

And that, is my very long, and very "all-about-me" post from my bed. You’re welcome. 

Gillespie Street

I had a great little life in Santa Barbara. I have a great little life now too, but they're different. I have changed and grown in so many ways, but it always makes me happy to go back and look through some of my CA memories.

Back a longggg time ago I was accepted to Westmont College, and while I was very (can I bold and underline this word too?) weary of attending a Christian college, I went anyway as soon as I saw the campus. And guys in wetsuits. It was the California lifestyle that beckoned, and I hoped to meet a few cool people along the way. Thank God for Jodie. And Steph. And Jaime. And Julie. And Colleen. And Linnea. And a host of others that helped me ride out my SB existence. The years were crazy and turbulent and fun. I left and came back. But I eventually found my groove (which, thankfully, ended up not involving going out 4+ nights a week to Wildcat until 5am) and my place in the little town and it was good.

I lived on a little house on Gillespie Street, with a few great roommates over about 2 1/2 years. Then I met a boy and he had an aunt who had a house up in Montecito, so I decided to pack up my downtown life and head for the hills where I could rent a nice little studio for $400 while running my budding catering company, Beauty and the Feast.

I moved in on a Sunday, and the house burned down that Thursday. I lost everything, except my car because I was heading to Trader Joe's as the fire started to burn. My computer, my pictures, my music, all my catering stuff, all my clothes (which was so unfortunate thanks to my stint working for Free People and getting a banging 40% discount at Anthro and Urban to boot), my bed frame from 1912, my favorite Frye wedges, vintage Pyrex, and the little stuff like my passport, SS card, etc.

So, when my friend Julie sent a bunch of pictures my way I couldn't help but lose myself in them for awhile. I thought I'd post them on here just for the sake of remembering my fun little existence on Gillespie Street pre-fire.

Our "Get Lucky" party. We played the Dating Game. 

"Stuffing Party". So fun. 

Gillespie House at Thanksgiving. 

This is just funny. For  a lot of reasons. Mostly because I only recognize one male in the picture. And I thinkkkk his name is Justin?

I miss that yellow lamp. And the suitcase/coffee table. And my orange chair. Kate and Chris are looking good though ;). 

Solstice.

Halloween. I was a housewife. 

More Thanksgiving.

Life goes on. Things change. I have a lot of amazing memories from Santa Barbara but have made lots more out here in New York. Sometimes I wish I could travel back in time though. That would be rad.

Easter is my favorite.

I love it. I love the colors, I love the smell, I love the hope that seems to permeate from every living thing. I love the promise of new life. I will never, ever tire of this holiday or this season and it will always, always be my favorite.

This Easter I packed up the dog and headed down to be with my family in Virginia. I honestly don't remember the last time I spent Easter with them. I usually host a brunch gathering with friends and some of my best memories to this day are of endlessly flowing mimosas, brightly colored eggs, hidden Easter baskets in dryers for kiddos, daffodils and jelly beans, all spent with friends that are like family on each Easter holiday. I have been lucky that most every Easter in my memory has showcased a bright blue sky, and that some of the more recent ones have always ended with a walk along the beach.

Last year I went kinda/sorta crazy (hello grad school...who would've though I would've had more time then than I do now?). These things were freaking adorable though.

This year was different. Things have changed in my family and while we once sat together as a family of six, there were only three to share lunch together recently. My mom, my unbelievably gracious and hospitable mom, invited over some friends who didn't have family close, resulting in a mix of unfamiliar souls gathered around the table sharing food together.

I, of course, like any excuse to cook for a crowd so I threw together a menu of filet, arugula salad with goat cheese and pomegranate seeds, orange glazed carrots with candied pecans and parsley, corn pudding, and my favorite---fresh english peas with sugar snaps and pea shoots in a light cream sauce topped with bacon. So good. So, so good.

Carrots and peas were my favorite, hands down. I got the idea from these recipes. Carrots Peas

These carrots were from the frozen section at Trader Joe's. So awesome, since it can sometime be hard to find yellow carrots. 

For dessert I made this lemon curd trifle which was also good.

It was a special, slow day which I finished off by reading Catching Fire. But I missed my friends. You all know who you are, as we have spent many Easter's together, and my oh my how we have changed and grown and our lives have gotten busy and we've moved to different coasts and some of us have actual careers and we almost all have debt. And now some of us are getting married and others are finding gray hairs (cough, cough, me), and others are picking up and just grabbing life and trying to move it and shake it and get as much out of it as possible while some are struggling to just get through the days.  But friends, my gosh they run deep in my blood, and although I lack so much in the communication department and I let my busyness take over and put friendships on the back burner for so many reasons, I was reminded how much they count this Easter. 

So to all of those who I have raised a glass with over the past years on each Easter day, whether in Santa Barbara or New York--hopefully we can gather around a table and hide easter baskets in dryers and sip mimosas one day soon. And to my mom and sister--you guys made the day great. I am so lucky.

xo