Someone in this house has a hard life.
1/31/12
1/29/12
Because I Am My Parents' Daughter
My parents rarely leave the house without a massive amount of food in tow. I think this is a combination of 1) my father having a ton of food allergies and thus preferring his own browning banana and chunks of cheese to being stuck buying stuff that might make him sick; 2) my mother growing up poor and subsequently taking great solace and immense pride in keeping a well-stocked pantry, desk drawer, purse, glove compartment and trunk; and 3) the East Coast's cultural penchant for overfeeding.
Whatever the reason, I have inherited the 'food bag' gene, and so no trip for anyone in this household slips by without accoutrements from my kitchen. So, when Adam left for his two-week adventure in Oz, he was suitably laden down with enough food to get him through twenty-four hours of travel. Pictured below from top to bottom: (Left hand row) Vietnamese noodle bowl with omelet, fresh herbs and raw veggies, curried quinoa and wild rice salad with cranberries and slivered almonds, chicken dumplings with black sesame seeds, three sauces (small enough to go through security); (Middle row) two slices of mushroom pizza from Whole Foods; (Right hand row) gherkins and two kinds of olives, organic grapes, cucumber rounds and carrot sticks, my famous (ha ;-) homemade protein-packed granola bars (one has a love note attached to the front) and dark chocolate laced with almonds.
Take that, bland airport food!
Whatever the reason, I have inherited the 'food bag' gene, and so no trip for anyone in this household slips by without accoutrements from my kitchen. So, when Adam left for his two-week adventure in Oz, he was suitably laden down with enough food to get him through twenty-four hours of travel. Pictured below from top to bottom: (Left hand row) Vietnamese noodle bowl with omelet, fresh herbs and raw veggies, curried quinoa and wild rice salad with cranberries and slivered almonds, chicken dumplings with black sesame seeds, three sauces (small enough to go through security); (Middle row) two slices of mushroom pizza from Whole Foods; (Right hand row) gherkins and two kinds of olives, organic grapes, cucumber rounds and carrot sticks, my famous (ha ;-) homemade protein-packed granola bars (one has a love note attached to the front) and dark chocolate laced with almonds.
Take that, bland airport food!
1/23/12
War of Attrition
I came across the phrase 'war of attrition' the other day. I'd heard it before, but didn't know exactly what it meant. I assumed that it meant a war in which each party tried to outlast the other.
Basically ... like doing a PhD.
On one side is my committee with endless requests for revisions, the university and its seemingly nonsensical deadlines, the lack of funding (a fancy word for 'pay cheque'), the long hours working in isolation ...I'm pretty sure these conditions qualify as torture (although not under Cheney's reign ;-). On the other side is me, chipping away at my thesis line by line, reading, wheedling and wearing down my committee's reserves.
Of course, like every perfect metaphor, somebody else thought of it first.
Touché and may the best side win!
Attrition warfare is a military strategy in which a belligerent side attempts to win a war by wearing down its enemy to the point of collapse through continuous losses in personnel and materiel.
Basically ... like doing a PhD.
On one side is my committee with endless requests for revisions, the university and its seemingly nonsensical deadlines, the lack of funding (a fancy word for 'pay cheque'), the long hours working in isolation ...I'm pretty sure these conditions qualify as torture (although not under Cheney's reign ;-). On the other side is me, chipping away at my thesis line by line, reading, wheedling and wearing down my committee's reserves.
Of course, like every perfect metaphor, somebody else thought of it first.
"Doing a PhD may be more like a war of attrition than a single heroic assault; knowledge of the territory and tenacity may be just as important qualities as strategy or intellectual firepower."
- Marshall and Green, Your PhD Companion, p. 151.
Touché and may the best side win!
1/6/12
1/2/12
Eve of a New Year!
At the beginning of 2011, I told Adam it would be the Year of the Sbinks (that's our unofficial hybrid name). There's no question that the whole year rocked our worlds. We were happier and healthier than we've been in a long time, awed and overcome by newness and novelty and gratified by the good fortune and great planning that planted us in such incredible lives.Yet ...
... now I feel that 2012, too, will be a Year of the Sbinks. Here's to going two for two!
Bring on the big! 2012, we're coming for you.
El Pollo Rico
El Pollo Rico. A Zagat rated Peruvian chicken chain with dozens of locations in and around the District.
We've been wanting to try it ever since we saw Anthony Bourdain hype it on No Reservations. With Jeremiah in town last week, it seemed the perfect time to scare up something cooked on a spit.
Nobody was disappointed, least of all, Elspeth. One of my favourite things about that kid is her insatiable appetite. Love it!
We've been wanting to try it ever since we saw Anthony Bourdain hype it on No Reservations. With Jeremiah in town last week, it seemed the perfect time to scare up something cooked on a spit.
Nobody was disappointed, least of all, Elspeth. One of my favourite things about that kid is her insatiable appetite. Love it!
12/30/11
X Mouse
For Adam and I, Christmas isn't necessarily family time. My father hates the holidays and Adam's mother works them (she's an Anglican minister). Not to mention our penchant for bucking gift exchange customs; this can make things hairy with well-meaning mothers wanting to bestow goodies on their grown children.
Still, we always celebrate in style, usually with a big friends and neighbours brunch on Christmas morning at our house or a small gift exchange with the pastiche of family members and food friends who visit around the holidays.
This year, Jeremiah, Sarah and Elspeth joined us for a very yuppie Christmas. There was shaved truffle and strip loin, Adam's rum trifle, a fridge full of microbrew, a visit to the National Archives, expensive cocktails at Blue Duck Tavern (disappointed not to see the Obamas or Bidens), a Warhol exhibit, the jungle room at the botanical gardens near the Capitol Building, sweet potato pie from Ris, cured duck salami and Cork's home made ricotta, late nights and lazy mornings, some knitting, some reading, bacon shortbread, a lunch of Bobby Flay burgers, a rainy day trip to an obscure Peruvian chicken place in VA, and crates of organic raspberries for the baby.
Pour nous, il était simplement parfait.
Still, we always celebrate in style, usually with a big friends and neighbours brunch on Christmas morning at our house or a small gift exchange with the pastiche of family members and food friends who visit around the holidays.
This year, Jeremiah, Sarah and Elspeth joined us for a very yuppie Christmas. There was shaved truffle and strip loin, Adam's rum trifle, a fridge full of microbrew, a visit to the National Archives, expensive cocktails at Blue Duck Tavern (disappointed not to see the Obamas or Bidens), a Warhol exhibit, the jungle room at the botanical gardens near the Capitol Building, sweet potato pie from Ris, cured duck salami and Cork's home made ricotta, late nights and lazy mornings, some knitting, some reading, bacon shortbread, a lunch of Bobby Flay burgers, a rainy day trip to an obscure Peruvian chicken place in VA, and crates of organic raspberries for the baby.
Pour nous, il était simplement parfait.
12/12/11
Canadian Bacon
Adam signed up for a holiday cookie bake-off at work (events designed by women to make their lives, and the lives of the women married to the men they work with, more complicated). As a way of endearing himself to his American colleagues and possibly setting himself apart from his competitors, he asked me to help think of a cookie that would use Canadian bacon.
I tried to think of a palatable way of putting pork in a cookie and came up with the idea of bacon shortbread. Here are three that didn't get sent to work with Adam. Can you imagine anything more delicious?
I tried to think of a palatable way of putting pork in a cookie and came up with the idea of bacon shortbread. Here are three that didn't get sent to work with Adam. Can you imagine anything more delicious?
12/8/11
We're still here.
Since Christmas is no longer 'just around the corner,' but literally dripping from every hotel, office building and store in Foggy Bottom, I should probably catch everyone up on our fall season.
Adam was invited to work in the UK for the month of October, and I was the lucky duck to got to tag along. My parents volunteered stay in our condo while we were gone, selflessly looking after the cats once again. We set off with high expectations - fusty old art museums and black current jam and all that. Upon landing, I promptly got sick, however, and so I had to go see kindly old Doctor Campbell with his pheasant-print necktie and quaint, British euphemisms. Once I was mostly well, we got down to business, touring through London, Bath, Bristol and Cheltenham. Met some great new friends through Adam's work and even ran into old friends from Ottawa. We could have stayed in Bristol forever. The port part of town is filed with modern art, pretty water taxis, wholesome vegetarian food and flat, dry English cider. We stayed in a slick, self-contained apartment (recommended by our friend, Megan) and gorged on bowls of warm curry. What's not to like?
Our return to the US felt like coming home. This reminded us, once again, how difficult it will be to leave DC in a year or so. Only having just arrived in February, our short tenure here has forced us to appreciate each day like we never have before. Not an easy task when you're writing a PhD thesis (or, in Adam's case, finishing a Master's degree and working full-time). On the other hand, this is Christmas in Washington. A perfect time and place to be wealthy, healthy and madly in love.
Adam was invited to work in the UK for the month of October, and I was the lucky duck to got to tag along. My parents volunteered stay in our condo while we were gone, selflessly looking after the cats once again. We set off with high expectations - fusty old art museums and black current jam and all that. Upon landing, I promptly got sick, however, and so I had to go see kindly old Doctor Campbell with his pheasant-print necktie and quaint, British euphemisms. Once I was mostly well, we got down to business, touring through London, Bath, Bristol and Cheltenham. Met some great new friends through Adam's work and even ran into old friends from Ottawa. We could have stayed in Bristol forever. The port part of town is filed with modern art, pretty water taxis, wholesome vegetarian food and flat, dry English cider. We stayed in a slick, self-contained apartment (recommended by our friend, Megan) and gorged on bowls of warm curry. What's not to like?
Our return to the US felt like coming home. This reminded us, once again, how difficult it will be to leave DC in a year or so. Only having just arrived in February, our short tenure here has forced us to appreciate each day like we never have before. Not an easy task when you're writing a PhD thesis (or, in Adam's case, finishing a Master's degree and working full-time). On the other hand, this is Christmas in Washington. A perfect time and place to be wealthy, healthy and madly in love.
9/22/11
Caught in the Webb
We got caught in the Travis Webb over the weekend. I think the visit was officially called 'Adam and Travis' All-Sports Weekend'. They saw Redskins game with Kevin and also a baseball game; went for a long bike ride around the monuments; bashed open a bag of cooked crabs and ate them under a highway; and got their BBQ fix at The Hill. I joined them for a night of drinking in Dupont with Steve and Julia; a visit to Bobby's Burger Palace; a tour around Georgetown University; shopping and lunch at Dean & Deluca; a sugar high at Georgetown Cupcakes; and an epic, small plates meal of contemporary Mexican and Latin American food. I say epic because it involved margaritas topped with sea salt foam, Mexican 'poutine' (hot, hand cut fries topped with dark chocolate mole, sweet crema and toasted sesame seeds), cactus petal salad and Travis eating a grasshopper taco (with a bit of help from Adam). The guys definitely get their foodie chops for that!
We were sorry to see him leave and excited for him to come back with Steph (we've yet to meet her, but she loves food and wine, loves Travis' dog, has great taste in apartments and is clearly gorgeous, so I've already added them to our favourite couple friends list in my head).
Weekends are the best.
Just Getting Started
Our summer travels, now a few weeks past, were great adventures. And, I think, richly deserved.
All throughout our twenties, Adam and I worked like dogs ... to pay off student debt, to pay off our mortgage, to get into university and through four degrees between us, to take care of our families and each other, to get published, healthy, noticed, happy.
We're hoping to spend most of our thirties traveling and pursuing creative projects (and might eventually spend our forties raising a kid, but hopefully, still traveling and being creative). Most people do it differently, traveling in their twenties, raising kids in their thirties and then bringing careers up to speed in mid-life.
We're thirty-one this summer, it's true. But we feel like we're just getting started.
9/12/11
Emery Leger Beach, New Brunswick
Adam and Chris finally got their annual beach day when we were in New Brunswick in August. It's so gratifying to see Adam with Chris. His face literally lights up when he even hears Chris' voice or sees him on Skype. In person, they can be even geekier together. Johnny and Sarah (with baby, Noah, who has yet to make his appearance) came along too. Babu dug himself a big bed in the wet sand. I 'read' (actually, I think it was more sleeping than reading) on Chris' batik blanket.
Incredible day.
9/9/11
Other People's Weddings
Other people's weddings are so much more fun than your own. ;-) Congratulations, Lukey. Adam was so, so happy to see you with your beautiful bride. Mary is perfect for you. Abram is perfect for a zoo.
Two Kinds of Cake
Cake I - As per my request, Adam ordered my birthday cake from the baker who made our wedding cake. Same flavour, too (vanilla cake with lemon butter cream icing). Knowing me well, he asked for the cake to be decorated in a 'funky and modern' way. Check out those stripes!
Cake II - Adam's little/middle brother, Luke, got married in August. His bride, below, the groom and their baby boy, Abram. Cake was vanilla with white chocolate between the layers. Tasted gorgeous. Wedding was in their own backyard.
Cake II - Adam's little/middle brother, Luke, got married in August. His bride, below, the groom and their baby boy, Abram. Cake was vanilla with white chocolate between the layers. Tasted gorgeous. Wedding was in their own backyard.
Gillian Allison
Once, I was best friends with the coolest girl at Carleton North High School. Gillian had thick gorgeous hair, infectious enthusiasm and loads of compliments for everyone. Consequently, she owned the heart of literally every man within a ten mile radius and only dated varsity athletes. And, to my occasional envy, she lived in a pretty person's bubble and got away with all kinds of murder.
Now Gillian lives with her studly geek (similar to mine) on the North side of Fredericton. At least four rescued cats live with them and their two dogs. Their spare rooms are often occupied by a changeable roster of siblings and freeloading friends. She's still overly generous and still completely hilarious. And she designs sweet upcycled leather bags from her kitchen table for her business, My Old Bags.
I still want her to be my BFA.
Lucky, I got to stay with her a couple weeks ago in New Brunswick. She blew up balloons for my birthday and dug up a fan for our bedroom and let me feed leftovers to her dogs and served me tea in fancy, hand-thrown pottery.
I guess if there's one person whose more of a diva than Gillian, it's me.
Now Gillian lives with her studly geek (similar to mine) on the North side of Fredericton. At least four rescued cats live with them and their two dogs. Their spare rooms are often occupied by a changeable roster of siblings and freeloading friends. She's still overly generous and still completely hilarious. And she designs sweet upcycled leather bags from her kitchen table for her business, My Old Bags.
Photo courtesy of D-Rex. P.S. Gillian, I like this shot because 'we really look like friends.' ;-)
I still want her to be my BFA.
Lucky, I got to stay with her a couple weeks ago in New Brunswick. She blew up balloons for my birthday and dug up a fan for our bedroom and let me feed leftovers to her dogs and served me tea in fancy, hand-thrown pottery.
I guess if there's one person whose more of a diva than Gillian, it's me.
9/2/11
Marion & Chilihowie, Virginia
During our long planning sessions, Adam and I decided we wanted to finish this journey with real fanfare!
That in mind, we booked a table at Townhouse, a small restaurant in Chilihowie, Virginia, a tiny town north of the Tennessee state line. Finding no place to stay overnight, we reserved a room in nearby Marion, a small town notable mostly for its former glory days. We stayed at the General Francis Marion Inn, critically-acclaimed for sleeping, dining and original art-deco staircases, but found the main street obviously lacking in stores, restaurants and actual human beings. Sagging from the heat and feeling the fine dust of desperation settling on our skin, we decided to hole up in our hotel room until dinner. I eased into a steaming bath in the gleaming white tub while Adam napped into late afternoon, tossing and turning in the room's creaky four-poster bed.
What kind of a bang is this?
Well, it might not sound like much, but to be honest, we were there for that little restaurant I mentioned above.
Town House has a short, but storied history, involving small-town restaurateurs who wanted to do more with their kitchen. They found a young couple (John Shields and Karen Urie looking to run their own show and hired them on, telling them to take whatever risks they wanted, push things toward their own vision.
So smart. Just trusting them to do their thing(s). They drew on their training for the fundamentals (Shields did time at Alinea in NYC and they met working at Charlie Trotter's in Chicago), but their inspiration is drawn from the Appalachians in which Chilihowie is nestled.
In not too much time, the pair were making a name for tiny Chilihowie where Town House is located. A writer from the NYT gave them gold stars and suddenly, people were driving from all over the country to try delicate tubes of shaved vegetable 'minestrone' or chewy, broken 'chocolate' made from cocoa-infused meringue.
No detailed review from this writer. I'm still off-duty. But it was lovely, quirky, surprising and fun. Parts were incredibly delicious. For me, the highlight was a 'deconstructed gazpacho' that clearly channels Michel Bras' iconic natural wonder of a 'salad.'
And it was our anniversary dinner.
That in mind, we booked a table at Townhouse, a small restaurant in Chilihowie, Virginia, a tiny town north of the Tennessee state line. Finding no place to stay overnight, we reserved a room in nearby Marion, a small town notable mostly for its former glory days. We stayed at the General Francis Marion Inn, critically-acclaimed for sleeping, dining and original art-deco staircases, but found the main street obviously lacking in stores, restaurants and actual human beings. Sagging from the heat and feeling the fine dust of desperation settling on our skin, we decided to hole up in our hotel room until dinner. I eased into a steaming bath in the gleaming white tub while Adam napped into late afternoon, tossing and turning in the room's creaky four-poster bed.
What kind of a bang is this?
Well, it might not sound like much, but to be honest, we were there for that little restaurant I mentioned above.
Town House has a short, but storied history, involving small-town restaurateurs who wanted to do more with their kitchen. They found a young couple (John Shields and Karen Urie looking to run their own show and hired them on, telling them to take whatever risks they wanted, push things toward their own vision.
So smart. Just trusting them to do their thing(s). They drew on their training for the fundamentals (Shields did time at Alinea in NYC and they met working at Charlie Trotter's in Chicago), but their inspiration is drawn from the Appalachians in which Chilihowie is nestled.
In not too much time, the pair were making a name for tiny Chilihowie where Town House is located. A writer from the NYT gave them gold stars and suddenly, people were driving from all over the country to try delicate tubes of shaved vegetable 'minestrone' or chewy, broken 'chocolate' made from cocoa-infused meringue.
No detailed review from this writer. I'm still off-duty. But it was lovely, quirky, surprising and fun. Parts were incredibly delicious. For me, the highlight was a 'deconstructed gazpacho' that clearly channels Michel Bras' iconic natural wonder of a 'salad.'
And it was our anniversary dinner.
8/21/11
Asheville, North Carolina
You want to go to Asheville, even if you don't know it yet.
In Asheville, girls who look like young Brooke Shields rock tattooed sleeves in the River Arts District. Left-leaning pharmacists drink at microbreweries and invite you to their house for dinner. Your hotel clerk shaves his head and is called simply 'Zeb.' Musicians working in art galleries tell tales about the locals. You come to know, in this way, about the the seventy-year Moroccan-Brazilian painter who starting selling his work on Asheville's sidewalks to support his mother. (One of his pieces, a gift to Gerald Ford, now hangs in the Smithsonian).
Asheville also has cheeky graffiti, free community yoga, cheerful cargo trains, yarn stores, craft fairs, bluegrass, BBQ, an edible public garden, classical music concerts, chocolate lounges, handpicked berries, handmade ukuleles, nine microbreweries (plus one more for kombucha instead of beer), scooters, saxophones, murals, dogs, banjos, unicycles and an amateur hula hooping organization. Walking downtown, you come across a painting of a beautiful jellyfish, done on glass and art deco buildings with painted alleyways, scrap metal sculptures nailed to the brick walls.
For lunch, locals go to Early Girl Eatery, a bright dining room whose clinking flatware and friendly din will take you back to church suppers, the kind in the country with shivering jello and long tables, with grace before eating. The food is even better than you remember. Massive plates of sweet potatoes and sausage, scrambled with farm eggs, hot biscuits with summer berry jam, a wedge of light cornbread, smeared with soft sweet butter. Boiled baby beets and finely shredded coleslaw in ginger dressing, cream three-bean salad sprinkled with chopped parsley, plus a bowl of tart and sweet homemade applesauce and plastic tumblers of cold tea.
Drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway (from either side of the city) and read roadsigns with names like Chestnut Grove and Hominy Valley, Elk Pasture Gap, Buck Spring Tunnel and Fryingpan Mountain. These names alone should convince you that you want to go. That is, if ordering up a flight of suds at four pm doesn't tip you off. Or drinking coffee in a converted double decker bus. Or eating black-eye pea tempeh at Homegrown. Or hiking in the Smokies with thousands of happy honeybees.
Asheville is sometimes (insultingly) called the 'Portland of the South.' Much better than Portland. Much. Trust me. You want to go.
In Asheville, girls who look like young Brooke Shields rock tattooed sleeves in the River Arts District. Left-leaning pharmacists drink at microbreweries and invite you to their house for dinner. Your hotel clerk shaves his head and is called simply 'Zeb.' Musicians working in art galleries tell tales about the locals. You come to know, in this way, about the the seventy-year Moroccan-Brazilian painter who starting selling his work on Asheville's sidewalks to support his mother. (One of his pieces, a gift to Gerald Ford, now hangs in the Smithsonian).
Asheville also has cheeky graffiti, free community yoga, cheerful cargo trains, yarn stores, craft fairs, bluegrass, BBQ, an edible public garden, classical music concerts, chocolate lounges, handpicked berries, handmade ukuleles, nine microbreweries (plus one more for kombucha instead of beer), scooters, saxophones, murals, dogs, banjos, unicycles and an amateur hula hooping organization. Walking downtown, you come across a painting of a beautiful jellyfish, done on glass and art deco buildings with painted alleyways, scrap metal sculptures nailed to the brick walls.
For lunch, locals go to Early Girl Eatery, a bright dining room whose clinking flatware and friendly din will take you back to church suppers, the kind in the country with shivering jello and long tables, with grace before eating. The food is even better than you remember. Massive plates of sweet potatoes and sausage, scrambled with farm eggs, hot biscuits with summer berry jam, a wedge of light cornbread, smeared with soft sweet butter. Boiled baby beets and finely shredded coleslaw in ginger dressing, cream three-bean salad sprinkled with chopped parsley, plus a bowl of tart and sweet homemade applesauce and plastic tumblers of cold tea.
Drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway (from either side of the city) and read roadsigns with names like Chestnut Grove and Hominy Valley, Elk Pasture Gap, Buck Spring Tunnel and Fryingpan Mountain. These names alone should convince you that you want to go. That is, if ordering up a flight of suds at four pm doesn't tip you off. Or drinking coffee in a converted double decker bus. Or eating black-eye pea tempeh at Homegrown. Or hiking in the Smokies with thousands of happy honeybees.
Asheville is sometimes (insultingly) called the 'Portland of the South.' Much better than Portland. Much. Trust me. You want to go.