Fruit and Veg, Woeful Sprawl, White Teeth

It was a hot weekend of playing in the garden. We now have edible green beans, strawberries, arugula, mountains of chamomile for tea and skincare formulation, lemons and limes, spearmint for tea, Morrocan mint for mojitos and juleps, three kinds of lettuces, and some decorative plants. We planted zucchini and hope that will be ready to harvest in a short while. In the meantime, have a look at our chard and apples!



We returned from our little vacation on Friday. It was an unexpected delight. We had planned a week of camping in the redwoods but we got rained out after the first night. So we packed up our camping stuff and checked into a chain "inn" in Santa Cruz to ride out the rainy days. It was a lot of fun. There were hikes in the redwoods, lots of train and trolly rides in various places (because vehicles, particularly the antiquated kind, are my toddler's current obsession), and day trips to Big Sur and Monterey. Except for beautiful Big Sur, I noticed a depressing abundance of chain restos and awful tourist traps everywhere we went. It got me thinking: has the landscape of this state changed so much that there is no longer any place to go except nature, tourist places and chains? Are we lazier now that we travel with a child or is there really, as Gertrude Stein once said about my neighboring town of Oakland, California, "no there there?"

This feeling of opressive sameness was mitigated somewhat by the glorious, gritty descriptions of North London and its varied population in Zadie Smith's fantastic 2000 novel, White Teeth. I loved this book, with strong, funny characters and an epic narrative that spans WWII to 1996 or so. Smith has wit and spark as she touches on such issues as colonialism, race, class, sex, beauty, religion, ethics and coming of age. White Teeth spans generations and locales--India, Jamaica, Bangladesh and London-- to weave together seemingly disparate people into a surprising story line that I whipped through because I couldn't put it down. I believe I am the last semi-literate person on Earth to pick this book up (there was a time that everyone I ever encountered anywhere was reading it). But if there are any other latecomers out there, expecially those who love Salman Rushdie (who I would have guessed was the writer here in a blind taste-test), I recommend it most highly.

Now I'm onto a reread of Living the Savvy Life and a book of short stories by the very promising Katherine Mansfield.

What are you reading?

Take That, McDo!

I stumbled on this brilliant piece (with admittedly annoying narration) that looks at French public school cuisine. Oh la la, regret la difference. I love the high school lunch room chef who says, "Just because they don't have the right to vote. . . we can't just throw anything in their face."

Mocha Cioccolata Yaya

Oh, Augustus Gloop, ruiner of childhood's peaceful sleep. Your movie demise has kept so many of the world's therapists gainfully employed since 1971.

 But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I too crave the dark stuff.

This week especially. I'm detoxing from last week's See's and Cadbury binge, and last month's run-in with the Girl Scouts and their tasty baked goods. Newly back to my paleo ways, I find myself missing sugar a lot today. I'm all out of coconut milk so there will be no nice cup of chocolat chaud. Instead I'm mixing up a little body scrub that I use with skincare clients and rarely think to make for myself. It's a perfect treat for my intention to care for myself as thoughtfully as I try to care for others; to take the long view and do what is best for my body, not just what seems tastiest at the moment. As nice as a piece of something sweet would be, there is something more satisfying about trimming down and having beautiful skin. So tonight it's a mini spa night for me.

This scrub is so delicious and it does such gorgeous things for the skin. It should only be used for the body, not the face. I shared it on my business blog last winter and I'll share it here now with my wishes for a very delightful evening.

Rich organic oils soften while the chocolate's high antioxidant content nourishes tired, rough skin. Espresso temporarily lessens the look and feel of cellulite. And the scent? Pure heaven.

Ingredients:

1/2 cup coconut oil
1/8 cup half and half
1/8 cup coarsely-ground espresso
2 tablespoons macadamia nut oil
1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa powder (tonight I am substituting ground raw cacao nibs for higher antioxidant content, because I happen to have them on hand.)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract (alcohol-free)
10 drops sweet orange oil

Feel free to play around with ratios. If you like a scubbier scrub, decrease your liquids and add more espresso. If you prefer something less invigorating, add less espresso and more oil. Additional macadamia nut oil is excellent for aging skin in need of rejuvenating. Less scrub and additional half and half is great for sensitive skin, or substitute with heavy cream.

Obtain all organic ingredients whenever possible. Coconut butter will be solid at room temperature, so begin by melting this, still in the bottle or jar, in a container of hot water. When softened, mix all ingredients and use right away. Cap leftovers tightly and refrigerate, using the remainder within four days.





Balance in Everything

The husband is out of town for a bachelor party weekend that would depress me and annoy me if I thought too much about it. Yesterday I spent a lovely afternoon with two gorgeous girlfriends; one is a teacher on spring break and the other is a lucky lady of leisure. We had lunch and spent hours laughing and talking. There were cocktails and tarot cards, and if either of those things are to be believed the future looks excellent for all of us.

After school was out, my son and I came home to some relaxing and household tasks before heading out for a special evening together. I wrote last week about saying no to ice cream. Tonight was a break from my usual paleoh-la-la. I had a sweet dinner with my kid, followed by yes to ice cream, followed by a trip to the book store.

When we arrived there was a reading in progress by a journalist who has documented the history of Burning Man and its current transitioning from for-profit company to non-profit entity. The reading itself was fascinating enough but what struck me about the evening was the odd convergence of parts of my life: me in the children's section, reading Curious George on the one hand and, on the other, half listening to this journalist relay the story of the politics affecting this sometimes cooler-than-thou scene I've not been a part of in a long time. We ran into our neighbors there. They are also parents (as is everyone on this island, it seems) and also former burners. And while I won't likely go back to the Gerlach desert for large-scale art and dancing all night (at least not for a very long time), it was nice to be there and to feel a small part of the intersection between family and culture, just by virtue of participating in discussion at the reading.

As I was falling asleep I was thinking that I don't feel a conflict between being a woman and a mother. But I do believe that negotiating that balance takes work. Salad and ice cream, Curious George and Burning Man. Balance, balance in everything.

Quiet Tea

For me morning is most definitely made for coffee. I like mine large and strong, with raw heavy cream or (lately, since my transition to Paleoh-la-la) with coconut milk. just a splash: lightish but not sweet.

I'm nursing; my kid needs no coffee and neither do I, past noon. So in the afternoons I drink tea. I picked this one up today at the little family market in town.

I will admit it was the tin and not the flavor that caught my eye. In general, I try to drink tisanes or more nutritive herbal infusions. (I'm trained as an herbalist; I well know the value of a sludgy, thick herbal brew.)

But I bought this, because: wouldn't you? I was delighted to open the tin and find sweet little organza sachets of sweetly-scented goodness.

Lovely vanilla, bergamot, and. . .something else. I can't pinpoint it, but the result is delightful. 

Last spring I took a trip to Yosemite with my little family and my belle-famille. We stayed in cabins on the Ahwahnee Hotel grounds and had access to all those lovely trails and libraries and afternoon gimlets by the pool. One of the things I brought home with me was an afternoon tea habit that lasted well into that summer. I would make a nice snack (often crackers and sardines) and use an antique cup and saucer from my collection. I'd generally serve this tea as my husband was arriving home from work at 6 and this small meal would tide us over until the baby was sleeping and we ate our late dinner at 9:30 or 10.

Now we are in the suburbs and husband arrives later than 6. The baby is a toddler who requires a daily rhythm, so we aim for a respectable 7pm dinner time together. I still have a tea habit, but it's a slapdash mug at whenever happens to be convenient.

A more conscious moment of quiet (served in a lovely little china cup) will be a nice addition to this sweet life I am creating. It seems to me that rituals are key to an elegant life. What are some of yours?

Jardiniere

I am spending a quiet day with my son. Out in the garden, soaking up sun (through the filter of mineral sunblock and a straw hat). We have chard and spinach, broccoli and strawberries and arugula, all in varying states of readiness.

Our garden is so "California hippie," as I guess I am. Right down to the kitchy Mexican ceramic sun and moon, the stone Quan Yin, the duck decoy (not unlike the one my duck-hunting dad gave me for bathtime when I was a child).

It is lovely spending time with him, out there, out here in our suburban place. Transplants, we are. Like the calla lilies I shook from their pots and planted in their new place, in dirt that is likely a bit too silty. Just trying to bloom where we are planted, as fridge magnet wisdom says.

If we stay here we'll grow more. If not our little garden is a good size to take with us wherever we go.

And then there was Day Three

Today, a more normal day of hustling the kiddo to and fro. Trips to the park, the school, the health food store. I put a great deal of thought and labor into business promotion today. It was a bland day, but sweet, and the balance felt right. I continue on my eating plan, one that I'm beginning to call Paleoh-la-la, steeped as it is in evolutionary principles as translated by a fledgling bonne vivante.

Par example, a celebratory dinner for two, with just my kid and me: pork roast (sustainable from our meat CSA) with raw sauerkraut and braised spinach and chard from our little container garden. This was after we went out for his special post-play rehearsal treat of ice cream at our little town's main see-and-eat-cream place. Despite his bossy three-year-old mandate that "I eat MANGO and YOU eat CHOCOLATE, mommy!" I had no such thing.

Not today. Not forever, just not today.

A Little Bit of Life Cultivation

Yesterday, Day 2 of my experiment in self-cultivation, was a success. I dressed in grey lace camisol with an interesting cut, a cute black cardigan and a nice pair of dark wash jeans that are rapidly becoming too roomy for me. I put on sunblock, spent time on my makeup, styled my hair (the bangs I just cut myself based on Frederic Fekkai's advice in his lovely Year of Style), and I wore more "statement" jewelry than is usual for me. I spent the morning having (above-average) brow waxing and (more-painful-than-average) body waxing.

Brunch in my favorite, very old-style Euro cafe with my book of essays on Paris and another book, the light but sweet Bonjour Happiness, by Jamie Cat Callan. (That book, like so many blogs I enjoy, is the same idea as this blog project I am doing here. Again, cultivate the imaginary best inner self and then begin acting like her. Boom! C'est facile, non?)

So after prettifying, after lunch, the museum. I saw the Eadweard Muybridge exhibition at the MOMA. It was a quiet and strangely lonely way to spend an afternoon. Here are two of my favorite images from the exhibition. I am struck by how timeless is the one of the mother and child in particular. It's amazing to me how indistinguishable from our recent ancestors we human beings are when you take away our clothes.

After the museum I walked down Market Street to my dance class. On the way I stopped at a coffee stand I hadn't noticed before. I had a short, nice conversation with a Tunisian cafe owner who has set up shop near a place I go every week. I told him I was glad he was saving me from patronizing Starbucks and we talked about Turkish baths, massage, and why my coffee choice (black, no sugar) made me "healthy, like a French person." Why, merci beaucoup, monsieur. You do go on.

Next was my dance class, followed by dinner at a knock-out alleyway restaurant, Gitane on Claude Lane. Basically a perfect, slow, elegant day into night. I catch myself thinking, If only I were in love. I balance that with, Gratitude, always gratitude. So much to think about, always.

Becoming is a long process.

I wrote the following for the Yahoo French Chic/Je Ne Sais Quoi group in 2004. Seven years later, I am interested in exploring what has come to happen and what can still use work. Here is the essay, an exercise in manifesting my ideal inner self:

Who I am (becoming)

She has finally stopped calling herself a “girl.”  She hasn’t felt like a girl since she was in her teens, anyway; always assumed older because of her height, her throaty voice, her voluptuousness, and the fashion sense leaning toward the styles of her mother’s and grandmother’s generations. Now, entering her 30’s, she is finally coming into her own.

She organizes her life in the old fashion: She takes time with her possessions, gently tending to each lovingly chosen pair of shoes, each carefully ironed garment. After all, she buys new clothing exceedingly rarely, and only after careful consideration of what each piece will bring to her life.  Will it make her feel beautiful, confident, comfortable in her skin? or will it just end up taking up space in her tiny-small closet?  As a result of this careful consideration, her wardrobe is pared down to the basics: Two pairs of tailored, flat-front black trousers; a pair of good-fitting, dark denim jeans; two black skirts (one long and clingy, one sexy and retro-chic, reaching just below the knee, and black, like Marilyn Monroe’s on the poster from “Bus Stop”); a couple of light sweaters, in deep sapphire, black, and crystal blue; one soft, black angora turtleneck, perfect for foggy San Francisco summers; a long fitted coat in supple black leather; a fun black coat in kicky corduroy; a vintage black cocktail dress; a very small handful of scarves and silver jewelry; and a selection of fitted tees in black, grey and white. The tees take her from work to yoga to the gym, which may not be chic but is a necessary bi-weekly ritual to keep her from going from curvy to doughy—a real possibility, given her passion for good food.

Her cooking regimen is as simple as her wardrobe: Fast food, boxed food, and fake food never make it into her kitchen. She prepares her meals only from scratch, using the bounty of fresh ingredients from the little markets in her colorful city neighborhood: Deep, golden olive oil, creamy, whole-fat yogurt and fresh free-range eggs from the Greek market on the corner; fresh gorgonzola, stilton, and pungent black olives from the cheese-maker’s; a deep cabernet or a sweet Riesling from one of the million little vineyards represented in her cozy local wine seller’s shop; sweet plump berries, deep green spinach and fat red tomatoes on the vine from the Korean produce market.  Far superior to the other produce shops in the neighborhood, it is bit up a little hill and farther than other some of the others, but well worth the walk for benefit provided to her calf muscles, her wallet, and her palate. 

Once home with the ingredients of the night’s meal, she leaves her shoes on a rack by the front door and the woven straw bag on the entryway table as she changes into her house shoes (a chic, clean pair of black tapestry slippers brought back from a friend’s trip to Bali years ago.  They’ve never been worn outside; they are simply too delicious to set foot on a city sidewalk. And bien sur, the city streets are filthy in America; why let the outside in to her cozy and clean private abode?).  She admires the painting that hangs above the table: it is large, done in muted grey tones in a formidable wood frame.  She has been paying it off, in small monthly increments, for over a year.  The money helps her friend, the painter, and the piece brings a shock of joy to her every time she passes it. She considers this joy a good investment.

She pads across the honey-colored hardwood floor, over the cushy flokati rug and into the small, white-tiled kitchen. She unpacks the day’s wares onto the sparkling tiled counter.  She washes the vegetables and fruits one by one before storing them in pretty wire and ceramic bowls, ready for use in tonight’s dinner and tomorrow’s lunch.

She prepares the night’s repast.  For her: a lovely spinach salad with blue lake beans, sweet shredded carrots, and cold leftover organic chicken and garlic from last night’s meal, served with a little scoop of red lentils with diced cherry tomatoes on the side.  For him: all of the above, plus a scoop of wild rice with shallots and chanterelle mushrooms, another savory leftover.  They talk about the day, careful to not dwell too long on workaday things, sharing instead their impressions of the books they are reading, the coming election, the environmental action group to which they both give their time.  They linger a bit over a glass of wine before they pack the leftovers into containers to bring to work for lunch the next day.

After dinner, she pours herb-infused oils into a hot bath, which she has drawn for her nightly beauty ritual. She brings her Italian textbook with her to the claw foot tub, along with the language tapes she puts into the bathroom’s little portable stereo, tucked behind a stack of fresh, white folded towels, their tidy plush stacks reminding her of the northern spa she visits twice a year: once in the winter, just after Christmas, and once in the summer, on her birthday.

As she relaxes in the bath, conjugating verbs after the voice on the tape, the herbal mask dries on her face, plumping her skin with fresh organic ingredients that feel wonderful and smell divine. She soaks a bit longer, inhaling the relaxing scent of lavender and lemon balm, practicing the rolling r’s, the musicality of the language that comes more naturally to her—she must admit—than French ever has.  Still, like beauty, intelligence is also pain, and to learn is often to struggle; so she still practices her French, a bit every day.

After the bath, she attends to her face, dissolving the mask with cool water and finishing with a simple swipe of her homemade herb-infused apple cider vinegar.  It is good for her skin type, at a fraction of the cost of a commercial toner.  She flosses, she brushes.  She dabs a bit of sandalwood oil on her pulse points and heads off to bed in a vintage kimono from a flea market years ago.  Tomorrow night she will meet friends for dinner at an inexpensive little Vietnamese noodle place, followed by a band at a local club.  Tonight she is totally happy to be staying in. The bed is warm and covered with soft jersey sheets and a fluffy white eiderdown. She lights a candle and nestles in, grateful for the day.

Day One

Day one of my little experiment in formalized self-improvment. It's been all right. For being entirely under-slept and over-committed I feel well and happy.

I ate a solid paleo diet today, with not too much coffee. I went to a therapy appointment and recognized that I've honestly made some breakthroughs this past week. And so much of that has stemmed from me remembering to use the tool of manifesting my ideal self as an "Inner French Girl."

For specific goal setting with regard to cultivating a more elegant life, a more chic manner and appearance, I've decided to select some random style tips and give them each a week to take shape.

More tomorrow, and more detail. For now I wanted to check in quickly before giving the apartment a post-dinner sweep - a new nightly goal to manifest a shiny wooden floor, beginning now.

What am I Doing Here?

Using this blog for goal-setting, it seems fitting to post now, the night before a "strict" month of evolutionary eating after this past week of St. Patrick's Day and Girl Scout cookie seasonal indulgences.

Right now this is feeling like the month will be something of an image makeover. I long for a simpler, more elegant, less child-and-couple-centered existence. I love my child and the couple I am in, but I've recently moved to a suburban community that is family-focused in the extreme. I miss my adult life, my single life, my grown-up hobbies and interests. My journey this month will include fun stuff like closet-culling, more visits to cultural events, looking less grubby as I schlep my little boy to and from preschool and the health food store.

The shorthand idea I always come back to for this project I am documenting here is represented in this idea of cultivating a more European lifestyle.

So what exactly does that mean? For me, an American of Irish, Italian and a small bit of Swedish descent, it's a fair bit of fantasy. I have a vision in mind of my ideal self and I am seeking here and now to act as she would act. It's a useful psychological tool-- not to "pretend to be French (or Italian or whomever is the chicest and least likely to get fat)" but to slow down and behave consciously, choosing only to bring into my life those things that make life beautiful and fun.

I've been pondering and trying cultivate a conscious and beautiful life for a long time. I've been a member of the Yahoo French Chic/Je Ne Sais Quois group for seven or eight years - since I was at university, since before I was married or had a child. My other interests are varied but they dovetail nicely. I'm a wellness and beauty professional, a life coach, an avid writer and voracious reader. I'm an "attached parent" trying within a suburban nuclear family framework to  build community a la the Continuum Concept. I'm a real food advocate - slow, organic, local, sustainable: all the good stuff that is the food zeitgeist right now.

Evolutionary eating makes me feel better, after years of dietary experimentation that ran the gamut from strict vegan to typical SAD, than anything else ever has. As I get back to it I notice I have more energy for doing the physical things I like to do.

I am only now learning to drive; I walk a lot. I love dance and I take a weekly belly dance class and a weekly floor barre class. Time permitting, I take a short jog a couple of nights a week. And I love, when I have time, to do Bar Method workouts at home.

My major priorities beyond my health are my family and figuring out my marriage. I have a good handle on the parenting most of the time, and I will likely not go into detail about the marriage, though the anonymity of having no readership at all makes it tempting to explore these issues here. For now the likelihood is that I will use this blog mostly to cultivate the rich inner life and fabulous outer appearance of my "Inner French Girl," expanded outward to include bits from any culture, any time period as they please me.

More detailed goals are forthcoming. Tonight I'll stick with a renewed enthusiasm for healthy food and more exercise.  One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.