No (No.) Thursday: This Should Be Obvious

Lately, I'm operating from a place of abundance, y'all. Did you know men were EVERYWHERE? True story. They're half the humans on the planet! I mean, minus the ones you'd get arrested for dating and the ones too infirm to remember your name (although...there *are* possible perks to that one) and Glenn Beck, there are still plenty of men. And, if you just start looking around, you'll realize I'm right. (You shouldn't have to look around. You should just believe me, but clearly, you have trust issues.)

In fact... here is a small sampling of some of the fishes in the sea (but not Plenty of Fish, because that site is WACK, you guys) who have contacted me recently and expressed interest in my body and mind (but mostly my body because...interwebs).

If this photo doesn't scream, "bros before hoes", I don't know how to capture the sentiment on film. 

I did not blur this man's face. He blurred his own face (but unfortunately, not his chest hair). He also asked me to something called the "Erotica Ball" and wants to know if I'm ok with two partners. Hey yo! Right now, I'd just like to work up to one partner ifyoucatchmydrift. When I didn't respond to his first email, he asked if he'd been too "cheeky". I think my British might be rusty, because I thought that meant something ENTIRELY different. Huh.

As my friend J coined it, "the sexy thinker" pose. Tell me more, big boy.

WHAT?! Good hygiene, too? Stop. And please undo maybe one more button. 

[Side note: KIDS- Don't drink out of bird baths. Also, you shouldn't be reading this blog. Your parents need a better internet filter.]

I cannot tie my hair in front of my face in a bow. I already feel inferior to this guy. Also, I've never made it with a werewolf. IN.

This man is 21 years old, lives in New Hampshire and is very comfortable in his own skin. I'm so glad New Hampshire is still located on the other side of the country.

Wait. Is this guy trying to sell me a time share in Boca Raton?

Like I said, EVERYWHERE. Go get it, ladies.  (But, uh...I'm just gonna sit this round out.)

Kind of Real Writing

In Real Writing Class, you actually study the words! Except you call it the "craft". Fancy!

Creative Nonfiction. When I saw Stanford was offering a course in it this spring, I impulsively signed up. (By the way. I shouldn't have to use words like "impulsively" in this blog anymore. At this point, you should know me well enough to realize this is how I make 95% of my major life decisions. This blog could be so much more concise if you paid more attention. Just saying.) From the course description, it sounded like the ground between your high school history text and Three Cups of a Million Little Pieces. So...basically this blog (except with editing, emotional distance and an actual plotline)! While I did have a little trepidation given the only thing I really have going for me with my writing is its, uh... personality, and the last time I took a course to improve a skill my photography actually devolved into this, I took a chance. 5 weeks in, and it appears I can still put together sentences that don't sound like Me like kisses  or  Deseo un non-asshole hombre (I have a lot of dreams where Spanglish is the primary language so this is not outside the realm of possibility).

I further confirmed I was in the right place when my first interaction with the professor involved her not only condoning but encouraging my (over-)use of the parenthetical. I'll admit that this exchange caused me to immediately check her credentials to ensure they weren't predominately composed of things like "Wikipedia entries" but also to feel more comfortable with my blatant misuse of the English language. And really, what more could you want from a graduate level Stanford course? (Except maybe a book deal and/or better grammar.) Thus, I've spent the last month and a half completely terrified about submitting work to be read by someone other than my friends and people who search the interwebs for things like "spoiled pork products and bad dates". (Dear Internet Troller, stop being redundant.) And I haven't been writing much here. Mostly because it's hard to procrastinate in two places at once.

In lieu of some hastily scribbled (but undoubtedly hilarious) dating anecdote, I'm going to provide you with a (dark and pretty depressing) sample of my first piece for the class. DO NOT BE ALARMED. Remember, when you write in Real Writing class, you write with Distance and Perspective. (Things I wildly abandon on this blog with great regularity.) Also, lots of therapy. While I'll admit maybe I still have a teensy weensy problem with believing a man could ever really love me, I'm pretty solid in the friend department. (Read: I now selectively choose friends who are excellent at verbal and written affirmations of devotion. And never say bad things about me. Ever.)

And with that stellar intro, I leave you with My First Official Creative Nonfiction Piece:

I keep a note. It is written on faded notebook paper, thin blue lines barely visible now beneath the perfectly penciled manuscript print. Folded intricately, it is turned and bent and tucked with the precision of adolescent handicraft. At the bottom of a crushed shoebox, it sits in a collection of childhood scraps. The note doesn’t stand out amongst its paper companions.

Pull on that pointy tab and unfurl it though, and everything changes. The signature is that of a childhood best friend. The girl who sat with me quietly in my first kindergarten time-out, charged with speeding down the hallway in a walking-only zone. Someone who’d traveled with me through bikes with no training wheels, first camping trips, boy crushes and eight years of birthday celebrations. Whose older sister’s dress I danced in at my first formal. Swam every summer in her backyard pool.

The note arrived in Algebra class with no preface. No big dramatic moment. No fight. It was passed surreptitiously up the row of desks, over-under, under-over, until it was flicked into the waiting mouth of my own as I struggled to determine the values of a and b. Its thickness alarmed me. Cruelty, apparently, takes a lot of paper. Words jumped off the page. Loser. Stupid. Unpopular. No one likes you. And the big clincher... “I was just pretending to be your friend.”

It’s tattered now, the note. On the page and in my mind. Worn as only something that’s been fingered many times can be. While it sprang from adolescent angst, from a person who apologized in later years a thousand times over, the words linger. Could I throw the note away? Of course. But its sting I revisit every time I am insecure in a relationship, doubtful about someone’s intentions. The paper could be destroyed, but the note...the note would still hurt.

Photo "courtesy" of Food and Wine magazine. (And by "courtesy", I mean I took it off their site, because I forgot to take one.)

RECIPE
I bet after reading that, you're thinking, "Let's celebrate!" AmIRight?! Recently, in looking for a birthday dessert recipe, I stumbled across this gem that I'd clipped from an old cooking magazine but had never tried. The birthday girl had expressed a preference for alfajores, so I just bastardized and Americanized the hell of that into these puppies. You're welcome! I know these are good fucking fantastic, because the night I served them a party goer (ahem...not the birthday girl) surreptitiously wrapped some up in paper towels and sneaked them home in her purse. And you KNOW that shit is good when people are going all grandma on your ass and confiscating table scraps. BAM! Enjoy.

GANACHE-STUFFED CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES
Makes about 12-18 stuffed cookies

1 cup plus 2 tbsp flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 stick unsalted butter, room temp
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 large egg
1 cup bittersweet chocolate chips

1. Mix flour, baking soda and salt in a small bowl. In a mixer, beat together butter, sugars and vanilla. Add in the egg. With the mixer at low speed, slowly add in the flour mixture. Fold in chocolate chips.
2. Spoon heaping tablespoons of dough on 2 ungreased cookie sheets and chill for 30 minutes in refrigerator. (Don't chill for too much longer or dough won't caramelize well in the oven.)
3. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Bake for about 12 minutes, and then cool completely.

4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
5 tbsp heavy cream
2 1/2 tbsp light corn syrup
2 tbsp creme fraiche

1. Bring cream and corn syrup to a boil in a small saucepan. Place chopped chocolate in a small bowl and pour hot cream mixture over it. Stir until chocolate is smooth. Whisk in creme fraiche. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour, stirring periodically, until thick and spreadable.

Make sandwiches with cookies and ganache.

Bad Apple

Y'all! I'm feeling pretty incredible for the first time in months. I've basically been humming George Michael's "Freedom" in my head for 48 consecutive hours. (Which frankly is getting a little annoying and making me consider it might be time to switch to some -equally embarrassing- Kelly Clarkson power anthem. But no more Taylor Swift, because, girl, I've seen the light.) Anyways, if you have any sort of reasonable inference skills, you realize I've been dealing with an *ahem* issue for quite a while now. It's no secret that I've been involved in a rather twisted, toxic relationship for months. Much to the chagrin of many all (every single damn one) my friends, I became friends(?) with someone who basically made a large portion of my life operate like the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at the carnival (the broke-ass-down carnival, people). A tiny portion of the time it felt really, really good with that no-bottom-in-your-stomach sort of spin. The rest of the time, I felt like projectile vomiting and could never find my footing. It is a strong, strong testimony to my friends (preach!) that they stuck by me, because MY LORD, this person was not good for me and more than one of them reached a point where they said (really, they more screamed it in that sort-of garbled way that people sound when you've asked them the same question 3,545 times), "I refuse to discuss this person with you any further."

In short, it was some pretty awful shit, yo.

Finally, finally, I had a friend say to me this Monday, "You've got to burn down the bridge. Torch it. It's the only way to make sure you never cross it again. Do it." And, y'all!!, I FUCKING DID IT. I can hardly believe it myself. I told Toxic Friend how much they hurt me, called them out on all their bullshit power plays and basically summarized, "we can never talk again, but I want you to know how much you hurt me." It felt AMAZING. Empowering. Liberating. I didn't do it because I felt bitter or angry (ok, fine, maybe a smidge angry). I didn't do it for a rise or a response. In fact, I really hoped to hear nothing. (Of course, I did hear something. Something ridiculous. But reassuring in the solidity of predicted asinine behavior. Toxic friends are good for that.) I was just ready to be free. And now, I am.

Sort of.

You see, apparently Apple, in all their wonderful problem-solving and solution-oriented business applications, does not understand the concept of ex-friends or ex-lovers or ex-people-who-pretended-they-cared-but-really-only-fed-their-own-ego (did I mention, not bitter?!). I've gone into my flashy iPhone 5 and swiped "delete contact" (which I've only done approximately 15 times in the course of this relationship). Contact disappears. But, anytime I start a text and type a letter that also happens to be in the contact's name, BAM!, it pops up- name and number- like it never left. What the fuck, Apple?! Are you trying to sabotage my liberation?! Same thing happens if I "search" for...well...pretty much anything. One of this person's texts pops up as my "top hit". And I don't know about you, but I don't like reminders of my poor decision-making smacking me in the face anytime I want to order a pizza or call my dentist.  I even tried a visit to the Holy Cloud to see if this shit was stored there, but no, I've never backed up to my Cloud.

This put a serious damper in the joy of hitting "delete contact" in my phone on Monday. I resorted to asking my friend SB who knows pretty much all the knowledge of the Genius Bar. He replied with this, "Well I was hoping to actually find a solution; but everything I read says resetting the whole phone (then reinstalling from iTunes or the iCloud) is the only way to kill auto-contacts." So, apparently, I have to load everything onto the f-ing Cloud, then reset the damn phone and then restore with the Cloud (where I guess I can delete the contact permanently) AND I lose all my other (non-toxic) auto-contacts in the process.

WHAT THE HELL?

The moral of this story? It's easier to burn bridges than it is iPhone auto-contacts. Or possibly: one bad apple deserves another.

I've settled on a little Flo+the Machine's "Shake It Out" for my next selection. Cut it out and restart. You got that, Apple?

10 Truths and a Lie

As I rediscover myself again amidst the rubble of the last few months, I took some time to reflect on heartbreak. Rejections and break-ups (of any sort, not just the romantic kind) can make you feel crazy and depressed. After two decades of participating in them, witnessing them, and writing about them, I've learned a few lessons. Here they are:

10 Truths 

• It's ok to hold people accountable for their actions. If someone emotionally wounds you, treats you poorly, leads you on with bad intentions or otherwise pulls a dick move, it's perfectly reasonable to inform them of how it made you feel. Even if they were the ones rejecting you. Actions have consequences. It's completely within your purview to remind them of this. Keep it short and focus on the actions, not the person. 
• ...but not to teach them a lesson. If you're telling someone how they made you feel with any other intention but liberating yourself, stop for a second. It's not your job to lecture someone on maturity or human decency. Address the issue to get it off your chest, but don't expect a result or response. People can change, but it usually happens very sloooowly. And not because some ex tried to school them on loving kindness.
• Caring about someone is never wrong. How many times have you berated yourself upon a break-up for telling someone you liked (or loved) them? THIS IS CRAZY! Stop doing it. Caring about someone is a lovely and wonderful thing. It makes the world a better place. Being a loving person is not a fault. Seriously, please stop beating yourself up about this one. Good grief.
• ...nor is believing someone cared about you. This is another line I hear, uh, from myself and a lot of girlfriends regularly. "I can't believe I thought he cared about me." Well, why the fuck not?! You're awesome. You have lots of friends who love you. Why would you not believe some man(or woman) would love you, too? This does not make you gullible. It does not make you stupid. It makes you confident and strong. You are worth loving. It's actually kind of amazing everyone doesn't want to date you.
• Timing is everything. Even when it's not. I'd say the vast, vast majority of relationships don't work out because two people are not in the same space- physically or emotionally- at the same time. And sometimes, people ARE in the same place at the same moment and that moment passes. This is why divorce exists. You can't always work it out. Even if you are, or were, amazingly compatible for a second.
• People are complicated and trying to crawl inside their heads is futile. You must refuse to play the "what was he/she thinking" game. You don't know. You'll never know. Even if a person articulates their thinking to you, you can never quite know for sure, because people lie. This is a puzzle you will never unravel, so don't even try. Focus on your end of the game, because YOUR thinking is the important part to understand. And the only part you can control.
• Forgive yourself when dealing with pain. Fine. So, you texted him three times in a night when you said you'd never text at all. Try to be kind to yourself. When you're in the throes of working through heartache, it's good to call on friends and self-check to modulate your behavior. But, don't make yourself feel worse when you stumble a little. Nobody has the right answers to life. It's ok to make some mistakes while you heal.
• Resolve the situation for yourself and no one else. For reals. You're the person who counts. What's going to make you feel better?
• Leave nothing on the table. If you wonder if things would be different if you said/did something, then do it. Say it. Regrets suck. 
• Trust has to start somewhere. Avoid making big pronouncements (even in your own mind) like, "I'll never trust a (wo)man again". You can. You will. Or you'll never find love or a solid relationship. 

And a Lie

• Letting someone hurt you (or know they hurt you) gives them all the power. Oh, HELL NO. Where did this come from? You get hurt when you believe in someone or trust in someone or love someone, and it doesn't work out. You take a risk. If there's nothing to lose, it wasn't a risk. And here's the thing: If you risk nothing, you get nothing. Because, with love, there is always something to risk.  So, if you're the person feeling hurt, CONGRATULATIONS. You were strong enough and brave enough to take an emotional leap and risk losing something. That makes you powerful. That other person, the one hiding in the corner behind their bricks and mortar? That person's a coward. Now, move along with your awesomeness and your emotional ninja skills and you'll eventually meet someone where the risk pays off.

RECIPE

One of the other big things I've learned post-heartache is to treat yourself well. For me, that's time with people I know love me sincerely, long baths, strong runs and healthy food. It's no secret kale is my favorite superfood, so I feed myself plenty of it when I'm feeling emotionally or physically low.

KALE SALAD WITH CRISP APPLE AND PARMESAN
Serves 4 (although, I ate most of it myself as an entree salad one night)

2 tbsp olive oil

Zest and juice of 1 lemon (if you don't have a zester, you can use the smallest holes on a cheese grater, press lightly)

red pepper flakes and salt, to taste

Combine all that to make the dressing.

2 cups kale, roughly chopped (I used Russian Red, green curly would be good, too...dino, I'm not so sure)

1/4 cup shredded parmesan cheese

1/4 cup candied almonds, smashed or roughly chopped (I like the sesame glazed ones from my local farmer's market)

1 Honeycrisp/Fuji/Pink Lady apple, thinly sliced

Combine ingredients and toss with dressing.

Live - and love- well.

Beans, Bieber and Butts

I actually found this photo on the interwebs listed as "sexy ass plumber's crack". There really is a fetish for everyone.

I used to have someone in my life with whom I frequently shared the absurdities of events and pop culture. I'd be lying if I said our exchanges weren't often the favorite parts of my day. A significant source of happiness and laughter is missing for me now. So, you'll forgive me if while I'm waiting for my life to fill up that vacancy I occasionally share some of the randomness of the world here. If these strike a chord with you, too - or if you'd just like to share your own take on some recent random news- holler at me in the comments section.

• I don't really want to be a Justin Timberlake fan. But...I'm kind of a Justin Timberlake fan. He's one of those celebrities I think is an incredible performer, but I might not like in real life. (Which is cool, because we're both *really* busy and don't have time for a lunch anyhow.) If you missed Justin on last weekend's Saturday Night Live, make sure you check out this "Bring It on Down to Veganville" mash-up of hip-hop songs converted into vegetarian propaganda. My favorite line? (To the tune of Ice, Ice, Baby) "Fiber! It's a dope ingredient! What you need to make your bowels expedient!" Genius. You can also catch JT on last night's Jimmy Fallon doing a barbershop version of SexyBack. (Note: Foreshadowing for bullet point 3.)
• Sunday's Parade magazine featured their annual "What People Earn" survey. Featured this year at the highest end were Justin Bieber** and LeBron James, both of whom rake in about $55 million in salary and endorsements a year. I'm proud of Parade for really emphasizing where a college barley high school education can take you. Stay in school, kids! On the other end of the spectrum, I learned Honey Boo Boo and her entire fam earned a mere $50, 000 from their reality show (which I could not complete ten minutes of before weeping helplessly into a pillow). Now, is the fact that the Boo Boos are barely eeking past the poverty line a reason for hope or despair? Discuss. I need someone to tell me how to feel.
• Finally, in the Sunday New York Times One Page Magazine, I was introduced to rumpology. This is a real career (for people supported by their rich sons), and Sylvester Stallone's mom is apparently the preeminent expert in the country! What?! I did a little research (read: a Google search) and discovered her website where she touts her knowledge of this "ancient art". If "rumpology" is too much of a mouthful for you, the site says it's ok to refer to it as "butt reading". The best news? You can have your rump read online!! That's right! Just take a photo of your butt and send it on over to Jackie Stallone and you'll receive practical advice about your future. You have to have some bank though. A full butt reading will set you back $300 while a crack-only reading costs $250 ('cause that's the important part, ya'll). I wish I was making this up. 

**If you'd like read a hilarious cautionary tale about what happens when you cross the Biebs, check out this story of the 17,000 hateful tweets Olivia Wilde got after she asked Justin to put some damn clothes on.

Communicating:

• I've had a few readers mention date stories they'd like to purge themselves of for all eternity. Maybe you don't want to start your own blog, but would like to air out your experience here? Send me an email at lovehurtsbaconheals@gmail.com . Misery loves company! And LHBH loves guest bloggers.
• You can follow me on Twitter if you'd like. I say all sorts of inappropriate things all day long there. @kale1stMenLater 

The beans make this recipe. I used Rancho Gordo's cassoulet beans. Because San Fran is the Greatest Show on Earth, I can get them at the farmer's market. You can follow the link to order them online. 

RECIPE
Readers, I respect you too much to explain how this recipe links to today's post. I trust you'll make the connection (and that it won't cause you to stop visiting forever). Like this version of a classic, it's childlike but made for adults.

FRANKS AND BEANS
from Bon Appetit
Serves 4

2 tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
6-8 garlic cloves, smashed (peel, then take the side of a knife, place it over the clove and push down with your fist)
1 1/2 lbs. good-quality Italian sausage (about 4-6 links), divided
3 cups white beans (about 2 cans, if you're not soaking/preparing dried)
1 cup dry white wine (I used some leftover sauvignon blanc)
10 flat-leaf parsley stems
2 bay leaves
10 sprigs of thyme
2 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 tbsp butter
3 tbsp chopped fresh herbs (I used parsley and chives, but you could also try tarragon, oregano, etc.)
salt/pepper

1. Heat the oil in a large pot or dutch oven over medium heat. Add onion and garlic and cook about 5-8 minutes, stirring frequently. Remove casings from 2 sausages (if firm, you may need to chop it into small pieces before cooking. Softer sausages you can break apart in the pan.). Add sausage to pan and cook, breaking up until everything is lightly browned (about 5 more minutes).
2. Add beans and wine to the pot and simmer 8-10 minutes until wine reduces by about 1/2. You can tie the parsley stems, thyme sprigs and bay leaves together with kitchen twine, or you can just throw them in and pick them out later as I did. Add broth. Cook over medium-low heat for about 40-50 minutes. Remove stems, sprigs and leaves.
3. In a separate pan, slice remaining sausage into coins and cook until browned (about 10-15 minutes).
4. Stir butter and chopped herbs into bean mixture and then season with salt/pepper to taste. Divide into serving bowls and top with sausage slices.

Now, you have dinner AND conversation! You're welcome.

This photo is not appetizing. That is why I am putting it in super-small version here. I SWEAR it was so delicious though!

Like, EVER?

I intended on spending February using this space to recap past dates and blog about the fun goings-on here in San Fran. In real life, I planned on getting to know better certain people in my life, exploring new neighborhoods and eating more food. Oh, and not getting my heart crumpled like a used-up piece of paper. Obviously (and less obviously), nothing in February went according to schedule. Before I resume regular programming here for March, let me give you a quick catch up.

From the top:

February the beginning: I turned 39. Now, I am not one to sit around and bitch and moan about aging, because I realize I will never be younger than I am right now. (Pause for a second and let that soak again, because REALLY. Yeah.) I take decent care of myself and (possibly farsighted) men still whistle at me on the street occasionally and I have my sparkling personality and a great ass, so aging...whatever. Except 39 is the YEAR BEFORE 40, and just UGH. The word "mature" suddenly starts to resonate. Nonetheless, people were really lovely to me on my birthday, and my relentlessly optimistic nature had me looking forward to things...

February, Week One: ...for about 3 days. And then, the shit started to fall. Now, in the grand scheme of the universe, my life is still ridiculously awesome, so don't send me hateful messages or comments about "seeing the bright side" or "accentuating the positive". I see the fucking bright side, all right? Doesn't mean that I can't say something sucked. Here's what blows: I need to join an AA group. In my case, Assholes Anonymous. Because seriously, people, I am addicted to dramatic, emotionally bankrupt men. (And tell me, does this actually exist, because if not, I'm ready to start a support group. I can't be the only woman with this problem.) Anyways, the dramatic man who I just happened to be completely crazy about in a way I have not experienced in ages and spent way too much time digging for emphasizing the good in, unleashed a whole lot of non-ignorable BAD on me. Sadness ensued as I finally had to admit I might have made a teensy-weensy error in judgment involving the realization that: this man did not give a shit about me at all.

February, Week Two:  You saw my Valentine's post, right? Despite being completely disillusioned (or illuminated? depends on your point of view) about my own love life, I plowed forward in platonic love for the holiday. And got a phone call mid-afternoon from my dad saying my mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer. At this point, I am not ashamed to admit that I yielded to melancholia, drank an entire bottle of champagne and went to bed at 8pm. I spent the rest of the weekend not answering phone calls or emails and scaring the shit out of 95% of my friends. Sometimes, you need to lean in to the feeling, you know? (Speaking of which, there is no confirmation that someone could care less about you quite like not hearing from them after a close relative is diagnosed with a serious illness. Rock? Meet Bottom.)

February, Week Three (oh my god how long does February last again?!): I emerge from my long weekend of womblike seclusion, stronger and ready to head to Florida for my mom's surgery. My childhood friends there were amazingly supportive and helpful and my mom totally nailed the surgery and emerged with a great prognosis. In a side note, my entire body rejected Florida (where I grew up and am convinced I developed a full body allergy to) and my face became red and splotchy (and has continued to stay that way) in a way that mimics how I feel about this whole goddamn month in general. Otherwise though, things were looking up.

February, Week Four (Is it over yet?!): Unlike much of the human race, I don't get self-destructive when I'm sad. That weekend I spent hibernating, I actually exercised, ate well, did not drink and slept a ton. When I feel bored though, I do stupid stuff. And after multiple weeks of stress and excitement, the down slope of returning to normal life was that little AA problem. Just enough time had passed for me to start thinking, "Well...what's the harm in X?" Luckily, I have a friend who was wise enough to say, "Can heroin addicts do heroin *just* on Saturdays??" No, no they cannot. Cold turkey is the only way to go. So...

The first week of March has led to new dates and new activities and new beginnings of new stories. It's brought back optimism about my mom's physical health and my emotional health. And while I'll still struggle with the fact that things I *so* wanted to believe were real and true were not, I also have hope that my new reality shows great promise. Years have passed, actually, with me always trying to get some man out of my brain. It's going to feel good to have my mind to myself for a while.

The colors aren't great, but I SWEAR it was delicious.

RECIPE
When I first saw this recipe, I thought, "Pistachios, citrus and olives?! Yuck." But, if life is going to throw the unexpected at you anyways, you might as well embrace it. I took a chance on this salad and was so glad I did. The salty, tangy, crunchy combination is divine. Unlike the men I tend to fall for.

FENNEL SALAD WITH ORANGE, GREEN OLIVES and PISTACHIOS
from Cooking Light magazine
Serves about 4

1 tbsp grated orange rind
3/4 cup orange sections (about 2 oranges), can be in pieces if you butcher citrus like I do
3/4 cup coarsely chopped green olives
2 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp fresh lemon juice
salt/pepper, to taste

2 small-medium fennel bulbs, cored and thinly sliced or shaved on a mandoline (remove tough outer leaves first and cut off fronds, saving some to use as garnish if you want)
1 cup roasted pistachios

1. Combine first set of ingredients in a bowl and toss gently.
2. Add fennel slices and toss with nuts and fronds, if desired.

March forward, people!

The Wait

The backyard lemon tree.

When I was a kid, my favorite book was "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day". If you were raised on another planet, the gist of this story is a kid who has a myriad of small, but annoying, misfortunes on the same day. He has to wear the pajamas he hates. He gets the middle seat in the school carpool. His brother scores the toy from the cereal box. He squirts soap in his eye. After each hiccup in his life, Alexander threatens to move to Australia. In Australia, clearly, there are no bad days. In the end though, he learns from the people who love him that life is about perspective and that there are trials and tribulations everywhere, even in Australia. As a kid, the book made an impact on me. It made me laugh through rough times and remember that frustrating, sad days are just as common as happy, joyful ones. That's life.

February has kind of been a Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Month. As an adult, misfortunes gravitate towards slightly more serious than not getting the prize from the junk food container. Career possibilities dissolve. People disappoint you. Cancer strikes your family. Hope disappears. Still, life is about the ride. The bad days with the good. And waiting things out is sometimes the best course of action you can take.

That's what I've done this month. I've been waiting it out. Waiting to see if my mom is healed. Waiting to hear about a new opportunity. Waiting for feelings to dissipate and drift away, so I can move on.

I know these things will come. If I keep my eyes open, an opportunity will arise. If I keep my spirits up, healing will occur in one form or another. And yes, if I let my heart heal, love will eventually spring up. Life will roll around and surprise me in a good way again.

Some days are like this. You just have to wait.