gwyneth paltrow’s moroccan chicken salad

gwyneth paltrow's moroccan chicken salad

This week I was reminded of a woman, a close friend, who broke my heart.

Ten years ago, I worked in book publishing and I met a woman who was, up until then, the smartest person I’d ever met. To this day, much of how I think and work is a result of our friendship. I worked hard because I thought I was never as smart or as capable as she was, and it was only until a few years ago she told me she’d felt the same about me, which, frankly, was astonishing. Professionally, she was always this bright light that shone perhaps too brightly and I felt as if I was forever regulated to the role of her shadow.  She’s probably one of the most achieved and brilliant brand marketers I’ve ever met, and we spent 2013 giving each other the equivalent of an MBA (she already has one, but whatever). This friend taught me everything I know about brand marketing and I taught her everything about digital. I shadowed her on a brand project and the reason I’m able to now build brands from the ground up was because of her and that year we spent working closely together.

We even talked about forming a partnership because together there wasn’t nothing we couldn’t do. I loved her, I really did. Even if she didn’t know it, even if I didn’t always show it. She was the friend who picked me off up from the couch when Sophie died and drove me, hung over, thick in relapse, to Bark where I found Felix. A mother of two with a c-suite job she drove me around all day while I spoke in non-sequiturs and told her that I view love and loss as two sides of the same coin.

She was the friend who told me that my friendship with S was unhealthy; she worried about the codependency nature of our friendship. My friend was rational, pragmatic, and we never fought because when either of us had an issue with the other, we talked it out, calmly.

This person was also one of my closest friends, and when I told her I was moving to Los Angeles, she stopped speaking to me. I was devastated. I called her, wrote her–nothing. Never would I have expected this to happen, and when I told people who knew her about what had happened, they were incredulous. They said, [INSERT NAME]? That’s not like her. And I’d nod, tearfully, feeling bitterness and hurt creep into my voice when I talked about the irony of when [INSERT NAME] said S was a coward for not giving me the dignity of a proper friend breakup. Friends shared their opinions on why she did it, none of which I won’t say here because I’ve no right to share the intimate details of her life.

It’s a funny thing, though, I remember she said once: I would never do what S did to anyone. Until she did.

It’s been a year since she excised me from her life after ten years of close friendship and symbiotic mentorship, and the hurt still feels new and raw. I’ve come to realize that this loss was far more painful that the others because I didn’t expect it. Because this friend was one of the few people with whom I could truly let down my guard.

I was reminded of her this week when I met a founder of a well-funded start-up. The product is extraordinary, and the whole time I was brainstorming with the founder and the woman who introduced us, I was thinking, this is an [INSERT NAME] kind of project. This is the sort of thing my friend would have knocked out of the park–the very thing she taught me how to do. For a moment I felt curtained, I felt her presence like a specter at that breakfast. This is the kind of project where I would’ve called her, shared my proposed approach, and asked, what do you think, muffin? And I would’ve considered her voice as a blanket, her agreement a validation of my intelligence and competency. I know all of these things aren’t healthy or right, but I feel them anyway.

I think about this friend often, and I’m still not over the hurt, but I guess I’m grateful for the time I did have with her and the fact that I’m able to build brands as a result of that friendship.

So here I am, with a tiny space in the day to think and cook. I made myself a quick lunch from Gwyneth Paltrow’s new cookbook. I’m not a fan of the actress or her energy, but I do admire her cookbooks, even if this one doesn’t feel like it’s right for the busy mom–maybe the busy affluent mom? Anyway, the book is filled with what appears to be quick and tasty meals, and if the recipes are as tasty as this salad (which is shown as a wrap in the book), I’m going to ignore the obvious slight blanket of pretension.

INGREDIENTS: Recipe from Gwyneth Paltrow’s It’s All Easy
2 cups shredded cooked chicken (about 1 1/2 chicken breasts)
1 celery stalk, finely diced
2 scallions, chopped
2 tbsp chopped fresh cilantro
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground coriander
6 tbsp Vegenaise, or more to taste (more seems like a crazy idea, to be honest)
1 tbsp of freshly squeezed lemon juice (about 1/2 a lemon)
1 tsp agave nectar or honey
Salt/ground pepper

DIRECTIONS
Combine all the ingredients in a large bowl and stir wall. Season with salt and pepper to taste. I like this a bit cold so I put this in the fridge for a half and hour before chowing down.

gwyneth paltrow's moroccan chicken salad

 

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it’s amazing what changes in a single week

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Wouldn’t it be adorable if this photo accurately reflected my life? All the LOLs.

Last week I traded emails with a stranger, a man, whose life mirrors mine. We’ve arrived in the middle of our lives, and although we know, logically, what we’ve achieved, we still feel like failures. This feeling of helplessness is further amplified by our mutual chemical imbalances. I’ll be honest–I’ve become good at building and maintaining a fortress around me. Rarely, if ever, do I share the details of my personal life (and trust me, I only share the broad strokes here) with strangers not for any reason other than my own inability to be vulnerable around people. Also, I’ve spent half my life parenting others that I’m always fearful of being put in that role again. Perhaps this is why I never yearned to have children of my own. But this man’s story put me on pause and he confessed his fear of taking meds, that they would transform him into some kind of somnambulant, and this was my worry too (would I lose my ability to write–crazy shit like that). I told him what my psychiatrist told me–the journey back is about the right meds (and dosage), talk therapy, a decent diet/exercise routine and social stimuli. Meaning, I had to see him consistently, take my meds, and leave my house. At first, the idea of all of this seemed unimaginable since four-block walks to the grocery store literally left me exhausted and pained, but honestly, the alternative wasn’t better.

I also wrote that what works for one person (in terms of medication) might not work for others. My body doesn’t respond well to SSRIs after a rather frightening reaction I had to a Celexa/Trazadone cocktail in my early 20s, so my doc put me on Wellbutrin, and although I had some minor side effects (tremors, dizziness, dry mouth), they went away after a few days. Within a week, I experienced an 180 in terms of mood and energy level, which is kind of unheard of (most drugs take at least 4 weeks to experience full impact). When I asked my doc about this, he mentioned that my body chemistry reacted favorably to the drug + dosage, and it might be the addition of a placebo effect (my desire to get better coupled with drugs that help me get there) that caused the precipitous change.

He reminded me not to get high off the honeymoon, that there’s still work to be done.

I work best with a routine, so I schedule and map out each day so to ensure that I leave the house (because drugs aren’t a cure-all). I’ve been spending time with people who are “on my bus” and avoiding scenarios that pile additional anxiety on top of that which already exists. Food’s tricky because the healthy stuff is expensive so I balance what I can and make all my meals at home. I take long walks every day, and some of my friends have been kind enough to send me gift cards for spin classes and yoga.

Let me be clear–my situation hasn’t changed. I’m drowning in a mountain of debt and maxed out cards and only have enough money for one additional month of rent and things get…precarious, however, what’s changed is how I’m managing the situation. I still have anxiety, but it’s manageable, and I don’t feel as helpless and hopeless as I did only a few weeks ago. My world feels less cloudy, and I wake with clarity and calm. Friends whom I least suspected have swathed me with their kindness and virtual fist-pumps. And if I lose my home and have to deal with the financial burden of what follows–I’ll deal with it.

Yesterday I joked with my therapist in the middle of a particularly tough session, asking if it was okay to get a little high off the honeymoon, because, my god, this is the best I’ve felt in the past six months.

We laugh and nods. A little.

Onward.


Photo Credit: Death to the Stock Photo

the masks we wear, the lies we tell, and the secrets we keep

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Photo Credit: Unsplash

I spent the past year a walking wound, but you’d never know it. Maybe you read a handful of sad stories I’d written or scrolled through a few Facebook status updates, but if you saw me in person you’d see someone who was assembled, stitched neatly together. Nevermind the gashes beneath the surface, the cuts that failed to heal. I was fine, just fine, but let’s not talk about me. Tell me about you. I’d arrange my face in different shapes; I’d smile and nod and stare intently, and everyone would leave with the comfort that I was going to be okay. In forty years I’d survived so much, surely I would endure this. Surely the girl was going to be just fine.

The girl slouches home. The girl unravels. The girl is far from fine.

When I was small I was taught the worst thing one could be was weak. Never cry, never be vulnerable, never let anyone all the way in. So my heart was a bolted door and I lived on the side with all the mothballs desperate to flutter out. Throughout college and during the first fifteen years of my career, I was repeatedly told that it was verboten to bring your full self to work. The office wasn’t the place for your sob stories or crumbled tissues in clammy hands. Leave that six-piece luggage set at home. No one wants or needs to know. Deal with your life privately, behind closed doors. Even as a child growing up in Brooklyn, everyone lived by the axiom: mind your own.

So we become editors of ourselves, preservationists of our suffering. We become architects of our masks; we reframe our true stories in work and in life. We become vague on the level of a CIA operative. We’re just going through a tough time. We use phrases like a rough patch, a temporary setback, and a minor blip. But we’re fine, really.

We consistently pass on that glass of wine because we’re not in the mood or we don’t particularly like drinking instead of saying I’m an alcoholic. We talk up our partner’s attributes or the memories you once shared that were photographs worth taking instead of saying I’m going through a divorce. We post terrific photographs of our best selves while we binge-watch “House of Cards”, refreshing our phones, waiting for the Likes. We live for that validation in the moments when we feel sonnet-small when the space between you and the photograph you’ve taken becomes a chasm that widens with the passing of each day. We wonder: how do I get that to person? When can I feel that expression? That face?

This week, I was formally diagnosed with severe depression, and my financial situation is dire to the point where I’ve had to borrow money from close friends to pay for my twice-weekly therapy visits. I tell my therapist how much this bothers me, how it annoys me that I’ve become a burden. I look weak. I’m a failure. And he interrupts and reminds me of something I’d said when we first met — it was an off-hand comment, something to the effect that if he saw me on the street I would be unrecognizable. What did I mean by that, he wanted to know. Had I been wearing a mask all this time? I said, yes, of course, because when you spend your whole life on guard, you can’t just fling open all the doors, throw open all the windows. It didn’t occur to me that I was laughing during the first half hour of my visit. I couldn’t stop laughing. I hate that I had to publicly ask people for money — ha! ha! ha! I hated how it felt when my friends read an essay I published and subsequently deleted because it caused them insurmountable fear and anguish to the point where I received frantic voicemails in the middle of the night— ha! ha! ha! I hate this feeling now, of being here, of telling you these things; I’ve always come back, I’ve always survived, and now I’m certain if I can get past this. He tells me that vulnerability isn’t a mark of failure; it’s the trait of someone who’s human.

Why are you laughing, he asks, to which I respond, it’s easier than crying.

I spent so much of my career not bringing any of my whole self to work that it must have appeared like I wasn’t human. I wasn’t capable of feeling, and this alienated me. This red pen that I took to myself, this scalpel I used to excise parts of my life that I could have shared with others, made it hard for me to form attachments, made me seem less real to the people who worked for me. I regret the mask I wore and wish I would have been a little more vulnerable, or at least, honest.

When I tell my friends that things are bad, really bad, that I’m seeing a psychiatrist twice a week and taking Wellbutrin, I receive dozens of emails from people whom I least suspect, people whom I’ve known for years who suffer from depression or another form of mental illness. They tell me they’ve been there and they know exactly what I’m going through and that it gets better. They assure me it does even on the days when I can’t see my hand in front of my face it’s that dark. And then I ask why they never told me this, what they’ve gone through, some replied that I seemed so put together, so stoic, warm but at a remove, that they didn’t want to ripple the surface. Others said that their depression (or mental illness) is not something they offer up for a variety of reasons, one of which is stigma and fear of how others would perceive them. They trust me with their secrets and I want to write back and say I wish we wouldn’t have to lie, or tell secrets, or spend our lives presenting our edited selves to the world.

I wish I would have made my wounds visible sooner because I know some would be there at the ready with bandages. Perhaps I would’ve healed sooner.


I originally published this post on Medium

gluten-free blueberry waffles + morning memories

gluten-free blueberry waffles

You should know that today was the first time I smiled in months. Like full, open-mouthed smile. This is also my first time making waffles, and although I’ve made fancy French pastry and croissants, I never went the waffle route simply because I never owned a machine. I thought waffle machines (in the grander scheme of acquiring the bones of one’s kitchen) to be frivolous. It’s not an essential for the home cook like a food processor, good pots and measuring cups. However, it wasn’t until this morning that I realized that while a waffle maker isn’t essential, it brings me immeasurable joy. Making these waffles reminds me of weekends spent in Connecticut with Liz, and how every Sunday morning I’d wake to her brewing coffee and making waffle batter. I’d sit between her two children, entertaining them while she cooked breakfast and macerated fruit. Always I asked for a second waffle, and Liz would smile and pull a hot one off the griddle. After, we’d drive to church, and although I believed in God less and less with the passage of each year, I admired her pastor and the way he used scripture to talk about the minor hurts and major cruelties we suffer. I admire Liz and the way her faith comforts her, and often I’d look over at her during service and feel a similar kind of comfort watching her steeped in her devotion.

I never told her how much I treasured this weekend ritual or the fact that her home felt like home even though we’re not related. I never told her how much she means to me, having known her for half of my life, but we don’t get sentimental that often. We’re sometimes impenetrable in our own ways. Perhaps this is one of the reasons we’ve remained close for this long–we love and respect one another despite our faults and differences.

I hadn’t thought of Liz until this morning. Until I plated these waffles and I was reminded of the sweep of her hair, the way she hugs, the way her friendship is a constant regardless of geography and age.

INGREDIENTS: Recipe via The Food Network, modified slightly.
1 cup rice flour
1/2 cup chickpea flour
1/2 cup tapioca flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon fine salt
1 cup almond milk
1/2 cup safflower oil, plus more for brushing waffle iron
2 large eggs, separated
1 cup fresh blueberries, use 1/2 cup for the batter and the remainder for the topping
Pure maple syrup, for topping

DIRECTIONS
Special equipment: waffle iron

Preheat a waffle iron to medium-high. Preheat the oven to 200 degrees F (to keep cooked waffles warm). Whisk together the rice flour, chickpea flour, tapioca flour, sugar, baking powder, vanilla and salt in a large bowl. Whisk together the milk, oil and egg yolks in another bowl. Beat the egg whites in a third bowl until soft peaks form, about 3 minutes.

Pour the milk mixture into the rice flour mixture and gently stir until just incorporated (it’s ok if there are some lumps). Fold in the egg whites. Gently fold in the blueberries

Lightly brush the top and bottom of the waffle iron with oil. Fill the waffle iron about three-quarters of the way full (some waffle iron should still be showing). Close the lid gently and cook until the waffles are golden brown and crisp, 6 to 7 minutes (or per the directions of your specific machine). Keep the cooked waffles warm in the oven or covered with foil on a plate while you make the remaining waffles.

Serve with fresh blueberries and maple syrup.

gluten-free blueberry waffles
gluten free blueberry waffle

pasta with pumpkin + tomato sauce // the weight of what you carry

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I’m in this odd place. After a bewildering few weeks, I finally felt some semblance of normal. I cut my hair, ripped hair out of my face (as I’d start to resemble Chewbacca), drafted new project proposals, revised short stories I’d written, and resumed trading cat photos with my closest friends. And then yesterday happened. I couldn’t get out of bed and I felt such a wave or sorrow I crawled under the covers all day and wrote. This felt so unsettling that I made myself walk nearly five miles to Marina Del Ray to watch Room. I had the theater to myself and it was strangely wonderful to enjoy (if one could say that about Room) an exquisite, heartbreaking film. After, I felt normal. On the way home I realized I agreed with this review, that I’d just seen a misogynist movie about misogyny, and thought about all the ways we’ve internalized hating women for the choices they make. Even the most resolute feminists. I came home and it was cold and I stayed up late, seemingly happy, and made plans for today.

Over the past few months, I’ve been thinking about the concept of how we choose to share parts of ourselves online. I’ve shared much of my life (with some very definitive limits I’ve set for myself–things you will never know) on this space but lately I’m feeling the need to withdraw, because sharing drives strangers to tell me what they feel is best for me and even though the words come from a place of good, they’re words from someone who knows only one part of me–the one I’ve chosen to share online. Very people know the whole of other people–doing that not only requires a tremendous amount of vulnerability but it empowers people to know you in context, know you beyond the words you share or how you shape a story. They see beyond your shape.

My friend Amber (who’s the kind of beautiful friend who checks in on me daily and I love her for it) shared this post today and much of it resonated, specifically this:

Another thing I’ve learned about friendship is that you will often be surprised by who shows up for you and who doesn’t. Sometimes, the people you show up and show up and show up for let you down. And sometimes they show up and show up and show up for you and you let them down. And sometimes the people you’ve blown off or that you would blow off if given the opportunity are the first to show up for you.

Geography has a way of letting you know which of your friends are willing to put in the work, or which friendships devolve into the passive catch-up game on Facebook. I read your status update and blog post, hence I know what’s going on in your life. The kind of friendships you scroll through but never exist in a more profound way. Since moving to Los Angeles, I’ve found comfort from people whom I least expected. New friends and old who’ve been through what I’m going through or they’re good at navigating sorrow. They don’t try to “fix me”, rather they just listen. The say, what can I do? They ask, how can I help? Sometimes they don’t say anything at all but they pick me up at my apartment and walk around Santa Monica and let me talk about everything but my sadness because my sadness has been the only thing I’ve been thinking about. Or they invite me to their home, cook me dinner and give me a list of things I need in the event of a zombie invasion. I laugh on the car ride home and think the world is filled with good, beautiful people and happiness is something worth fighting for. I wake to hope because reading this makes me feel like I’m not crazy.

So I’m doing this most annoying thing ever–I’m writing a winded blog post about what I’m not going to talk about. I’m in an odd place and every time I’ve attempted to blog I struggle with not wanting to talk about what I’m going through and finding something else to say. I’m finding a way to talk around this that’s honest because I only want to publish something on this space because it means something to me. I’m not here for the filler. I’m not beholden to anyone but myself. I don’t care what people think of me. While this vague and very nebulous sadness weighs heavy (and will be resolved, offline), I’m also surprised at the rate in which I’ve been able to produce new work. Amidst all this stuff, I’ve been writing non-stop. I’m working on a mixed-media story collection tentatively titled, Women in Salt, and these are stories about women in and out of peril, in various states of disquiet and unrest. I’ve living off savings at the moment and I’ve been spending money in commissioning custom illustrations and photography for the pieces I’ve written–all in an effort to add a visual layer. I also want to include short commissioned films throughout (10-15 seconds) so you feel these characters as if they’re matryoshka dolls–the varying media forms reveal layers within the story.

I published this short piece on Medium today, and who knows if anyone’s reading these stories or if anyone cares. Yet there’s one truth that is a certainty to which I need to hold on–this work is giving me joy amidst a disquiet I can’t logically explain. While my consulting proposals sit in inboxes this work gets me up in the morning. This work makes me want to care for the person in disquiet.

So there you have it. What I’ll talk about (everything but the elephant in the room), what I won’t talk about (this sadness and my journey through it), this new project, and lunch thrown in for good measure. I never said this was going to be neat and tidy. But it’ll be honest.

INGREDIENTS
1 1/2 cup sundried tomatoes packed in olive oil
2 tbsp of the reserved olive oil
1 tbsp minced garlic
1 tsp onion powder
4 sage leaves
1 tsp salt/1 tsp pepper
1 15oz can pumpkin puree
1 1/2 cups crushed red tomatoes
4 cups of chicken stock
Salt/pepper to taste
1 lb gluten free pasta
1 lb ground sirloin
1 cup pecorino romano cheese

DIRECTIONS
I was inspired to make this dish based on a soup I made last year, which was surprisingly delicious. It may sound bizarre to mix pumpkin and tomato, but I assure you that the combo yields such a superb depth of flavor. Just make sure you use pure pumpkin puree, not pumpkin pie mix–they’re often shelved alongside one another during the holiday season so be careful as you don’t want your pasta to taste like pie…well, unless you’re into that sort of thing.

In a large pot, add the sundried tomatoes, reserve oil, garlic, onion powder, salt, pepper, and sage leaves and cook until fragrant, 2-3 minutes. Add the pumpkin, tomatoes, chicken stock and stir until completely combined. Let it simmer on medium heat for 15-20 minutes. Blend the mixture with an immersion blender or in a standard blender. Allow the sauce to simmer on low, and if you need to thin out the mixture, add chicken stock.

In a large pot with salted water cook your pasta to al dente based on the package directions. I chose a gluten-free rigatoni, however, you can use any kind of pasta (linguine, fettucini, penne, etc). While the pasta is cooking, fry up the sirloin in a large skillet on medium/high heat. Over the years, I’ve learned a sage lesson about browning meat–don’t mess with it. Add the meat to the hot pan, break up a little with a wooden spoon and let cook for 4-5 minutes before you break down the meat so it cooks completely. If you keep futzing with your beef, you’ll overwork it and it’ll get mealy.

When the meat is done, ladle in the sauce, drain and add the pasta. Add salt, pepper, and pecorino cheese and serve immediately!

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why I closed shop on comments on this space

Photo Credit: Death to the Stock Photo

Photo Credit: Death to the Stock Photo

What happened to listening and engaging with people? What happened to “how are you?” I remember when people used to complain about people tweeting what they had for breakfast. Perhaps they still do complain. That never bothered me though. At least their breakfast didn’t want something from me.Annie of Ethical Thinker

I don’t want new friends. That may strike you as a bit cold, but it’s honest. I’ve spent the great deal of my life focused on personal velocity, acceleration, volume and quantity, and I’m at a place where I have what I need. I want for nothing more. Years ago I took a workshop taught by Nathan Englander, and during office hours he would sit with two copies of my short story. One version was clean and the other was a massacre of red ink. Over time he taught me to be economic with my writing–how to find one word that could do the work of three. Make the line work harder, he taught, and I’ve since applied this axiom to all aspects of my life. I’m surgical about the people who inhabit my life and I’ve no desire to pander or please the smart set, or be “famous” or “popular.” And while I realize that one can’t live in complete solitude (especially as I plan to move to the unfamiliar), I plan to befriend a few rather than entertain the masses. I don’t mind traveling or being alone; I prefer my own company. I’ve had all the fanfare and confetti in my 20s. Now, I crave the minimal and the quiet.

Some might find this intimidating while I view it as a means of keeping myself honest.

Over the past year I’ve started to feel the tension that comes with more people discovering your work. I wrote some pieces that garnered a modicum of attention and I started to feel noise occupying previously empty spaces. I received demands of friendship and attention from strangers. I received a deluge of requests: Can you read/edit/help me publish this? Can you help me with this? Can you link to this? Can you promote this? Can you do this? Can you meet me for this? Can you connect me to this? Socially, we’ve been conditioned to help, to give away pieces of ourselves in service to others at the expense of ourselves. If I say refuse, I’m the “bad guy”, but no one ever considers that the invasion of one’s life and time as inappropriate social behavior. I don’t exist to service strangers.

Putting myself out into the world has allowed me to meet some truly wonderful and courageous people. I’ve made great acquaintances around the globe, have found online spaces where I want to spend time, and I’ve exposed myself to cultures and ways of thinking I never would have otherwise encountered. I’m grateful for this. Yet I sometimes feel that the noise–the persistent clamour, the questions, the look at me!–subsumes the beauty I’ve accumulated. A handful of people have come here for insightful, passionate discussion while others leave links in hopes that people here will go elsewhere. People don’t read, they skim. People don’t connect at a visceral level, they self-promote. People tell me this writing intimidates them without having to do any of the work to move past their discomfort. People feel as if they are entitled to access to my life, time, and contacts, simply because I publish words on this space. People (even friends) feel as if they can give me unsolicited advice even when I haven’t asked for it or needed it. People often listen as a means for waiting for their turn to speak (or type, as it were). People add my email address to mailing and press lists even when I emphatically state that I do not want to be pitched or contacted for promotional/commercial purposes (I thought you might be interested in…you thought wrong). I want to forge real, meaningful friendships. Have honest conversations. Love, and be loved, deeply.

Within the next few months I have to make decisions. I’m uprooting my life (and cat) and moving west. I’m starting another book and editing a second one without any guarantee that anyone will read my work. I have to figure out a work structure that will help me pay the bills. I have to learn how to drive a car. I have to say goodbye to people whom I love. I’ve a lot to navigate and I need my world quiet.

I may not be making the right decision in shuttering comments here (temporarily) but I’m doing my best to quell the noise.

almond meal cookies with coconut + cacao nibs (gluten-free!) + the power of friendship

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The gift of girlfriends. I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, how I’m privileged to have a group of women in my life who encourage me to be my truest, sometimes most awkward, self. All of my close friends have a singular trait in common: they’re strong. When you think of strong you might think of Popeye, fuerte, or image a pile of weights of incalculable size being flung into the air. The women I know are greater than the sum of their parts. Their strength isn’t about the thing they can lift, rather it’s about the way they can hold and what they can bear. They’re builders. Two of my closest friends are building a company from scratch, while another is reinventing one. Another creates single-page stories using an illustration and the words find themselves in the spaces between the lines–she writes about the tough stuff, and in a single page she can rip your beating heart out of your chest and scotch-tape it back together again. Some of my friends don’t even know their own strength. How the pace and depth of their breath doesn’t change even as the octaves of their children’s voices climb. Some are patient, some are funny, others are a little crazy (I like it that way), but when I’m with them, I’m my best self. They demand it and nourish it.

Friendships, for me, have always been tricky. For over three decades of my life, I craved the companionship of a single person. The face of this person might shift over the years: he wears a flight jacket and sings Taylor Dane (we are 12); she is Filipina and we write letters from across the country when she moves away (we are 10); she has curls that flounce and she thinks the world is about ski trips, Nautica jackets and what money can buy. We watch Heathers in an apartment that will undergo inspections and violate state health laws for all the filth. But she, she, is impeccable. She is the definition of beautiful with those pink cheeks and eyes the color of certain seas (we are teenagers); She is a lover of Pink Floyd and nudity and we run on a beach naked before I realize my body is covered in burns from the sun. She is the antithesis of me and everyone tells us this. She’s an English major who writes long letters and lies to her family and I’m a finance major who writes short stories in the dark because story-writing doesn’t make you money. She will become someone who lies, so much so she gets lost in the stories she tells and she will never forgive me for having another friend (we are in college). This friend is blonde, hails from Connecticut and has a family I’ve only read about in books. We are funny, heavy drinkers, and serious about the business of being serious. From her and her family, I learn how to become a woman (in the absence of not having a present and sane mother). From them I’m Republican for a few years. From them, I’m Christian for many. We are friends to this day and while we are no longer a pair, while politics is a subject we don’t discuss, and while she is a devoted mother and wife and I sometimes don’t know what I am, we are still close. Ours is perhaps, as I think about this now, the only friendship that has endured half my life (we are 20, we are 30, we are 38/39). Within that time though, I form an unhealthy attachment to a woman who is also a writer, also a fellow addict, also a connoisseur of the dark, also a reader of books and “the right movies,” and our friendship spans many years and ends quietly, abruptly, and the only way I can think of her now is in positive terms because although she excised me from her life (had I been a barnacle? Had we both been?) I’m grateful for much of our friendship (we are late 20s, early 30s). That friendship taught me that I don’t need one physical, breathing person constantly by my side, I need many. I need legions, teams, beautiful, strong people who may take a week to respond to my email but will run, take cabs, fly to my doorstep if I really needed them.

So thank you, S, for the gift of your leaving. I mean that kindly and sincerely because I would’ve remained with a slight variation of me. I wouldn’t have friends who challenge me, uplift me, correct me, teach me, and love me in the small, wonderful ways that they do.

I think about this today, as I bake these cookies for a dear friend, because I have 11 women in my life who are so different from one another (some of whom don’t even know any of the other 10) and from me but they all are strong. I say this because I’m nearly 39 and I don’t know if I’ve things figured out just yet. Or do things need to be figured out at all?

I ate one of my friend’s cookies and I text her this, to which she responds, I hope so. Knowing you, you probably made dozens. I retort, 20.

I know that right now that this year has been greater than the previous five. That I’m healthy, strong, writing good stuff, making mistakes and quietly learning from them, and living on less so I can see more of the world. And I have friends who calm me down when I demand a single personal statement. I need the facts and the maths and the certainty, to which many of my friends remind me that there are few certainties, and if this time, this time right now, is good, roll with that.

Roll with that…

INGREDIENTS: Slightly adapted from The Sprouted Kitchen Cookbook
1 cup almond meal
1/4 cup coconut flour
1/4 cup tapioca flour
1/4 cup vegan chocolate chips (Sara used cacao nibs)
1/2 cup shredded toasted unsweetened coconut
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1/3 cup coconut palm sugar
1 egg
3 tbsp coconut oil, melted
1/2 tsp vanilla extract

DIRECTIONS
In a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, stir together almond meal, coconut and tapioca flours, dark chocolate chips, coconut, baking powder, salt and sugar. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg until it’s a pale yellow color, and it’s doubled in volume.

Whisk in the slightly cooled coconut oil and vanilla. Add the wet mixture to the dry mixture and mix on low until the ingredients have just combined.

Chill in the fridge for at least 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Shape the dough into 1-inch balls, place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper (the original recipe said to nix this and ALL of my cookies clung to the pan, so forget that noise) with 1-1/2 inch space in between each. Press down slightly to flatten a bit. Bake until edges begin to brown, 7-10 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool before serving.

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brunch at lafayette + meeting “new” people {it’s a journey, folks}

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Contrary to popular belief, I am not an extrovert. Casual acquaintances and work colleagues will probably beg to differ, for I can be pretty gregarious around people I’ve come (or have been paid, as in the case of work) to know. When I say that crowds give me anxiety, that the idea of working a room gives me vertigo and I’d rather cower in the corner than be the center of attention, I’m typically greeted with guffaws. You, SHY? I can’t believe it, is a common refrain, to which I respond with a thin smile and a quiet affirmation that I prefer my circle intimate and my evenings quiet. When given the choice, I want my world small. People who know me best know that I bloom in pairs, that I tend to retreat into solitude in order to refuel, and it takes me an awful long time to let someone “new” in.

Lately, however, I’ve been trying to open the door, albeit just an inch. Just enough to let some of the mothballs flutter out and for a few new voices to slip in. Granted, I’ll never be the kind of person who needs constant stimulation, who always craves the company of others, but I’ve learned that while I love my tiny circle of friends it’s often refreshing to meet someone new.

This past weekend I spent a few hours feting my friend Meg for her birthday at Lafayette {best. brunch. ever.}. You can’t even know how much I deliberated not going, not because I don’t adore my friend or want to toast her on her special day, but because the idea of being confronted with four new faces gave me anxiety. What if they thought I was strange? What if, what if, what if???? However, in the end, I put my sweet friend (and her special day) over my fears and I went. AND THANK GOD I DID because I met a host of audacious, smart, well-traveled women who love fitness just as much as I do. I left brunch giddy that I’d made new friends and that my small circle was budging an inch or two…

I’m also noticing that I no longer cover my face with a book while waiting for workout classes to begin. Instead, I’m striking up conversations with strangers. Whether it’s affirming that indeed these seat lifts are killing us or to trade Classtivity stories, a few moments with strangers has oddly {and wonderfully} changed the shape of my workout, tacitly reminding me of the importance of a cultivated community. That I don’t need to live in friends extremes. That I do have the capacity to let a few people in.

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