Enchantment Learning & Living Blog

Welcome to Enchantment Learning & Living, the inspirational space where I write about the simple pleasures, radical self-care, and everyday magic that make life delicious.

5 Tips for the Perfect Picnic

June 15, 2016

Picnics are one of the most delicious simple pleasures of summer. There's nothing quite like a leisurely afternoon nibbling on tasty treats and sipping lemonade in the park or lazily reading (okay snoozing) under a shady tree after an impromptu outdoor lunch. I especially like how adaptable picnics are; they can be everything from a lavish outdoor afternoon tea or as basic as a sandwich and peach enjoyed in your backyard. It's also the perfect way to turn a quick lunch into an event that makes us slow down and appreciate the world around us.

Imagine my joy when I found out that there is actually a day on the calendar dedicated to this wonderful pastime. June 18th is the official International Picnic Day. As if I needed an excuse to bust out my basket! To get ready for this big day, I give you five tips for the perfect picnic.

1. Plan ahead. I've gotten in the habit of keeping a picnic basket on standby along with a little grab 'n go bag filled with the basics: a blanket, a straw hat, homemade sunscreen, DIY bug repellent, and a book or two (for that afternoon snooze, wink wink). My basket likewise includes a stash of reusable enamel plates, silverware, stemless cups, cloth napkins, and kitchen towels (for inevitable spills). This makes impromptu picnics easy and carefree. I simply load up some food then I'm out the door. Last but not least, don't forget to keep an eye on the weather and know your location--both determine what additional accoutrements you might need.

2. Keep it simple. A good picnic is all about enjoying the great outdoors with little fuss. One of the best picnics I have ever had was when I was in Sitges, a lovely beach town near Barcelona. We put together a hasty picnic from goodies at a nearby market: olives, jamon, dried fruit, caper berries, nuts, cheeses, and crusty bread were heartily enjoyed on the beach. We had no plates or silverware, just the bags our goodies came in. Bliss!

Ahhhh that perfect no-fuss picnic at the beach in Sitges...

I used to be enamoured with the idea of making fancy feasts for my picnics--complex meals and fussy seating inspired by what I saw in magazines--but they always proved more trouble than they were worth. Food got soggy or was difficult to eat, preparation was always more labor intensive than I thought it would be, and I found myself spending way more time (and money) on a good picnic than I did actually enjoying it. The reverse was also true: the more low-maintenance the picnic plans were, the more fun I had. Now this doesn't mean that you can't have your lavish afternoon tea party, just keep the menu uncomplicated with easy to assemble tea sandwiches and other make-ahead treats. So bottom line: simple be thy mantra.

3. Go green. Ditch the plastic cups and other disposable items. Use cloth napkins, real silverware, reusable storage and durable plates. Picnicking is all about enjoying nature so it only makes sense that you would make sure not to use disposable goods that damage the environment. If you don't want the hassle of bringing along plates, you can always up the fun factor by using foods that fit easily in mason jars for a low maintenance picnic. Greening your picnic basket has aesthetic benefits as well--your spread will look so much lovelier using real tableware or mason jars! You can even keep a stack of durable enamel dishes at the ready in your picnic basket for easy prep like I do. Want more ways to green your picnic routine? Check out Pure Home & Body has to say.

An assortment of easy-to-prepare goodies and reusable dishes ready for the basket.

4. Keep it real...the food that is. In keeping with my theme of simplicity, stick to whole foods and easy nibbles. Grapes, olives, cheese and a good loaf of bread are hard to beat (remember that Sitges picnic I told you about?). You can also pack a mason jar salad--my Greek or Tuna-less Nicoise mason jar salads would be delish--or an assortment of in-season veggies with an Aioli or Pesto dip. When you use fresh quality food, preparation is at a minimum. Ripe cherry tomatoes are delicious on their own or tossed into this quick Tomato & Mozzarella Salad while fruit gets an extra kick from cured meat in my Prosciutto Wrapped Apricots. Use what you have in your fridge, including Quick Pickled Veggies or Apricot Basil Jam paired with Ricotta, for a no-fuss meal.

Dessert should be equally easy: dark chocolate and fruit, or single-serve bites like my Vegan Peanut Butter Fudge. If you are sticking close to home, you can stash Mango Chile Lime or Pina Colada pops in the freezer until you are ready for them in your backyard. Top off your meal with a bottle of bubbly, Orange Lavender iced tea, or lemonade and you're good to go. If you want to go the extra mile, you could even whip up a batch of Coconut Water Kiwi Lime Cocktails (vodka optional) or a pitcher of Watermelon Coolers.

5. Make it festive! Now that you have your easy menu and picnic goodies at the ready for a spur-of-the-moment lunch, you can indulge in the picnic's whimsical side. Wear a blowsy hat and frilly dress to this oh-so-important date, scatter edible flowers across your plates, bring bubbles for the kiddos (and kids at heart), and get ready to twirl in the sunlight. Or take a cue from one of your favorite literary picnics and plan your meal around it. This a strawberry-picking inspired feast from Emma (but without the drama!), a honey-laced affair that would make Winnie the Pooh proud, or invite Alice and the Mad Hatter for a tea party on the lawn.

Whatever the occasion, whatever the plan, summer is for picnics.

A delicious spread for two strewn with edible nasturtium and pansies for a touch of whimsy.

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. Here’s to a magical life!

Brooklyn

June 7, 2016

Too often considered the refuge for Manhattanites in search of lower rent, Brooklyn is actually a wonderful community all its own. Devoted Brooklynites will tell you that, given all the money in the world, they would still rather live in this borough than the city proper. And I can see why. It's got a lot to recommend it, like many of the best restaurants and neighborhood hot-spots I got to enjoy on my recent visit, along with some of the friendliest people in New York.

Coffee & lox bagel from Baked in Brooklyn...the perfect way to start my vacation!

I confess that one of the primary reasons I went to New York--other than to indulge in museum hopping, martini drinking, & book feasting in Manhattan--was to learn more about Brooklyn, especially since my brother and his wife call it home. I have heard so many stories about it but have never had the chance to truly immerse myself in this neighborhood on previous trips. It was a total treat to see this borough as a local would. Without any particular order or hierarchy, I present to you the best way (in my humble opinion) to get the best outta Brooklyn.

The imposing Gothic entrance to Green-Wood Cemetery.

If you are taking a red-eye flight like I did, and getting into the city in the wee hours of the morning, then the only thing for you to do is to make your first stop Baked in Brooklyn, where you can fortify yourself with an excellent cup of coffee and delicious morning grub like luscious lox bagels and sinful cinnamon rolls. There was nothing like walking into this mainstay in the Sunset Park, in desperate need of a cup of coffee after a sleepless flight, to the smell of freshly baked bread and the sound of bachata on the radio! I felt right at home hearing the music I'd just left on the dance floor in Albuquerque and enjoying my restorative bagel while people watching--both the living and the spectral, as the bakery is across from Green-Wood Cemetery, the surprisingly lovely national historic landmark that brings softness to a neighborhood built on grit and concrete.

Rose and strawberries 'n cream donuts from Donut Plant.

If the idea of strolling through a cemetery isn't your idea of a good time, try roaming Prospect Park, where it seems like everyone in Brooklyn goes on a sunny Sunday afternoon to escape the hustle and bustle of the workweek. Pick up some sustenance at Donut Plant on the way over. Trust me, your rose and strawberries 'n cream donuts will taste divine washed down with a glass of iced tea on the sprawling park lawn.

Bailey Fountain at the entrance to Prospect Park.

Emily Dickinson's place setting at the Dinner Party.

I decided to extend my Manhattan museum hopping to the Brooklyn Museum, home of the iconic Dinner Party by Judy Chicago. Artists get into some pretty heady debate about her authenticity since she designed the elaborate sculpture featuring a triangle dinner table where famous women all have their own setting but did not actually make any of it; she commissioned other artists and designers. Whatever your stance is, it's worth taking the time to view this canonical work--and enjoy the lively conversation it ignites! Although I appreciated seeing figures at the table like Mary Wollstonecraft (considered the mother of feminism and an 18th-century philosopher and writer I spent many years studying), Georgia O-Keefe (the east-coast artist who put Abuqui, New Mexico on the art-world map), my personal favorite was the frilly place setting for E mily Dickinson which was inspired by one her poems.

There were many other wonderful shows and collections to view at the museum, including Arts of the Americas featuring many wonderful native New Mexican artists. But perhaps the most interesting show (if it could be called that) was the open storage where items collected but not currently on display were placed in glass and steel for museum-goers to peruse informally. It was like peeking inside someone's closet!

The fried chicken at Sidecar...a thing of beauty.

Museum viewing is thirsty work so you should probably head to Mayfield restaurant for cocktails, oysters, and, for the culinary adventures, steak tartar, like we did once you've had your fill of art. Or you could swing by Sidecar for a drink of the same name and a plate of their (in)famous fried chicken. I'll be honest: fried chicken never really appealed to me all that much, but they've made me a convert. My brother and sister were at Sidecar the very first day they opened and became regulars. My sister would wax poetic about their kale sautéed with bacon, so much so that I tried to replicate it at home. I did okay, but the chicken, kale, and smashed root veggies of my dish were the perfect balance of comfort food and gourmet delight.

At the risk of turning this into a mostly-culinary tour of Brooklyn--aww, who am I kidding? Eating good food is one of the highlights of traveling! With that in mind, you should work in some time to visit Brooklyn's Chinatown, which, according to many, is WAY better than Manhattan's. While you're there go ahead and try some dim sum and what I only assume was the Chinese equivalent of a soap opera playing on strategically placed TVs at East Village Harbor Seafood Restaurant. Take a nice long stroll through the Brooklyn Bridge Park (gorgeous waterfront stroll through Brooklyn with an absolutely gorgeous view of Manhattan and the statue of liberty, not to mention the bridge this park was named after) when you're ready to walk off all that food and work up a healthy thirst to be quenched at one of the many micro-breweries like Threes.

Enjoying a delicious cinnamon roll from Baked in Brooklyn on the stoop.

The last place you should try to visit for an authentic Brooklyn experience might sound a little surprising--and could be elusive if you don't have friends in the neighborhood--but it is an essential part of this community: the stoop. You absolutely have to do some stoop sitting if you get the chance. What is that, you might ask? Simple: you kick back on the steps outside your (brother's) apartment and just be. I found it's their equivalent of sitting on my porch with a morning cup of coffee or an evening glass of wine, pausing to take in the world around me. So find a stoop. People watch. Nod to neighbors doing the same thing. Engage in some small talk. But most of all, enjoy the stoop. That is the heart of Brooklyn.

On Reclaiming My Writer's Roar: Visiting the Argosy, the Morgan, & the New York Public Library

May 31, 2016

One of the New York Library Lions, though I don't know if it is Patience or Fortitude...

My first visit to New York was at a pivotal time in my life. I was all of fifteen years old, and like most teens, desperate to be a cultured adult. I had just decided I wanted to be a writer and had committed to a serious daily writing practice. Heavy stuff for someone still in braces. I got drunk on words and the worlds they allowed me to build, worlds that took me far, far away from the study in human misery that was high school. So when the opportunity arose to visit my brother in New York--and miss school to do it--I was bursting with excitement to taste what to me was the artistic and literary life of The Adult Writer. I will always love the city for what it was and what it continues to be for me: a distilled memory of a young woman first finding her words, her stories, and her roar.

One of the most influential stops that trip was to the New York Public Libary, which in the mind of a budding writer, was like a bibliophile's haven in the midst of a world full of chaos and uncertainty (hey, I was a teen and so allowed to be a touch melodramatic). I fell in love with the various reading rooms and the romance of so many shelves dedicated to so many books. A small figurine of a Literary Lion, like the ones flanking either side of the library's main entrance, accompanied me home and became a fixture on my writing desk, a symbol of the literary life I would devote myself to...

...and then came graduate school. It felt like no small cosmic coincidence that I lost my lion figurine within the first quarter of my advanced studies. I've since learned that those library lions are named Patience and Fortitude, which somehow seems the perfect metaphor for the unfolding nightmare that was grad school. Don't get me wrong: I'm glad I have my doctorate degree, yet I also found that I wasn't the traditional academic scholar I had once dreamed of being (it was, in retrospect, a mere detour in my development as a creative writer). Never had I felt so silenced. Never had I struggled so hard to keep my natural exuberance alive. Never had I struggled more to keep my free spirit independent from the hive mind.

By the time I finished my dissertation, that enthusiasm for the written word had dwindled to a small half-dead spark. Then came those purgatory-like years in which I identified as a Recovering Academic, thirsting for a time when I unabashedly loved big books and knew who I was as a writer. It took some time--years--to painstakingly relearn the joys of storytelling and even longer to find my Writer's Roar again. This blog, in fact, started out as a daily exercise in reclaiming that wild woman writer with a lust for life buried under bureaucratic dust. Patience and Fortitude, indeed.

All by way of saying, I found myself taking a similar sojourn to this city fifteen years after my first life-changing experience there to celebrate the return of My Writer's Roar. The dwindling spark I nourished for so long had suddenly burst into an unquenchable internal fire. I had done it. The realization hit me at my writing desk one morning after tending my blog. I was literally living The Writer's Life teen-me dreamt of for so long. I was a teacher, a writer, a healthy yogini with a home (okay apartment) of her own. And I was one with my stories again.

It seemed only fitting to return to this literary mecca after recently finding that I had, in fact, found my words again. I must pay homage to the city that fueled me as a young writer. And so began my pilgrimage to the place that marked the beginning of my writing life.

One of the beauties of traveling is being open to the synchronous moments where you stumble upon the exact thing you didn't know you needed. Like those magical instants in our daily lives that push us in the right direction, an impulsive decision to get off the New York subway blocks earlier than you intend can lead you to marvelous places. Such was how I found the Argosy Bookstore, New York's oldest indie bookstore and my first (unexpected) stop on my day-long feast of books.

Interior shot of the Argosy Bookstore's first floor.

Here I was wandering the streets of Manhattan in search of a good cup of coffee on my way to the Morgan Library when all at once I was in front of this magical store. It was like walking into the inside of a story or some literary alchemist's den where only the most potent tales were spun. Old and rare books lined the shelves, stacks of antique prints teased the eye, and, my personal favorite, rare books and first editions on the occult promised otherworldly insights on the turn-of-the-century "new sciences" like astrology and clairvoyance. I drooled over rare prints and first editions of fairy tales, novels I'd grown up reading, and older than sin Shakespeare folios. What more could a woman ask for?

My splurges: first edition occult texts circa 1920s from the Argosy.

The books were alive here. Breathing living things made up of leather stretched across book board and handstitched pages smattered with inky words. Needless to say, I could have spent a whole day there. There was splurging. There was a rekindled love of old books and the rich vanilla-like smell of stories that have had time to marinate on their shelves. And there was also that fantastic cup of coffee I was looking for from a food cart on the corner of Park and 59th, thanks to the recommendation of the bookstore's employees. The day was off to a good start.

My next stop was the Morgan Library, a must for any bibliophile. Once the home of famous financier and avid collector Pierpont Morgan, this museum, according to the website, houses "illuminated, literary, and historical manuscripts, early printed books, and old master drawings and prints." What does this mean in layman's terms? Only the first edition of Jane Austen's Emma, in the original three separate volumes; or the remains of the earliest known tarot card set, circa 1450; or a 15-year old Mozart's attempts at a symphony; not to mention preserved hand-written letters of Samuel Johnson to his publisher and Victorian-era musings on magical flying machines (hello airplanes!) and early discussions of what we now know to be computer coding. But perhaps the most breathtaking piece on display was a first edition of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, which he wrote, designed, published, and marketed himself. Now there was a free-spirited writer if there ever was one.

First edition of Jane Austen's Emma (1816). — First edition of Jane Austen's *Emma* (1816).

Four Italian tarot cards from before the deck became associated with occult practices (1450).

First edition of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass (1855). — First edition of Walt Whitman's *Leaves of Grass* (1855).

This is to say nothing of Morgan's fabulous library where you feel you could while away an afternoon reading selections from this marvelous collection or spend an evening in thoughtful conversation with the man who so passionately hoarded these treasures. And even if all those manuscripts aren't enough to stir up writing inspiration, then there's always a Hemingway three-martini lunch (featuring three 2 oz martinis) to top off your visit. Writer's fuel never tasted so good.

The secret vault where Morgan kept the most prized pieces of his collection.

My final stop that day (but by no means my last literary adventure in the city) was the New York Public Library, naturally, and just a few short block away from the Morgan. I wanted to see how good 'ol Patience and Fortitude were doing. It had been a long time, but they were just as majestic as I remembered them. I spent some time wandering the library, through the various reading rooms and up and down the wide, imposing staircases, remember how big it all seemed to me at fifteen. Okay, how big it still seems to me.

Like your favorite novel, you never get over your first time reading it. Each successive rereading is enriched and informed by that initial experience. This is the only way I can seem to describe what it was like to revisit this literary landmark. Walking through those halls I was fifteen again, awed by my first exposure to the bigger world--bigger possibilities--outside my own small teen life, and I was also thirty-one, seeing the library through the eyes of a woman with a little more seasoning under her belt. I'd done things. Gone through stuff. Made mistakes and made things right. Had adventures and even written some of them down. Experienced the plot twists that make life--and stories--and people--interesting.

Best of all, walking these halls, sitting in these reading rooms, and reclaiming those literary lions (I just had to get a magnet of them for my fridge!), I realized I always had it: that spark. The internal joy of living and reading and writing deeply had never left me. Not really. All I had to do was reclaim my Roar. Own it. Because there is no room in this world for anyone who thinks they can silence you. There is no room in your stories to submit to being silenced. I owe this lesson to Patience and Fortitude. As with many of my travels, I went a long way away to find that I what I needed was right in the palm of my hands.

Patience and Fortitude manning their posts in front of the New York Public Library.

Honoring the White Rose: A Tribute to the 9/11 Memorial

May 17, 2016

Those of you following me on social media will have noticed that I did not post any photos of the 9/11 Memorial during my recent trip to New York. It was, in fact, one of my first visits to the city and never have I been so moved or awed by melancholy as I was watching dark rivers of water cascade into and even darker, endless abyss that made up the tribute to those who lost their lives in the 9/11 attacks.

And yet the saddest thing to me was not the memorial itself, but the number of people taking selfies--complete with big smiles and thumbs up--using this place of tragedy as their backdrop. Don't get me wrong, I love a good selfie as much as the next person, along with the joys of documenting travels and adventures. But all I could think when I saw throngs of people mindlessly snapping photos was that they have already forgotten the terror of that day. They must have, or why would they so carelessly pollute this landmark with elbow-shoving and photo-snapping?

This is a place where countless people lost their lives, a place where the American psyche has been irrevocably scarred. There is no room for selfies here, only solemnity and gravitas for the fallen, as touchingly expressed by the single white rose left in one name inscribed into the dark marble of the memorial--one of many victims. I later learned that survivors place these roses in victims' names on the day of what would have been their birthday.

So I could not take a picture here (the one you see in this blog has been lifted from the 9/11 memorial website). I could not devalue that pain and suffering this day caused, and continues to cause, for so many people. To this day, the 9/11 Memorial will remain one of the most profound studies in grief for me and, likewise, one of the most touching memorials for this overwhelming loss--for those who took the time to truly engage with it.

I have clear memories of visiting the Twin Towers during my first visit to New York over fifteen years ago. I was a teenager, happily playing hooky from school with my dad to visit my brother in this grand city. We spent the evening walking through the financial district after dinner, seeing the famous bull of Wall Street, among other sights. I recall clearly how my imprudent strappy high heels clacked on uneven streets; I was still under the illusion that women could somehow walk miles in strappy heels without pain or blisters. We had gotten it into our heads to go for a nightcap at a restaurant located at the top of one of the towers. It was when we entered the ground floor of one of the towers that I gave up on my dreams of effortless glamour and took off my high heels.

I walked, at fifteen, still in braces and wearing a too-tight dress (I had yet to outgrow that conception of glamour), walked barefoot through the twin towers, my utterly gorgeous but impractical heels swinging from my crooked fingers. We never got to the rooftop restaurant that night for one reason or another. Next time, we said.

A year later, my brother called from a rooftop in Manhattan, saying planes were crashing into the towers. My sisters and I were on our way to school. We turned on the news. We watched as the second one fell. The rest of the year was spent in a stupor, worried for my brother's safety, crushed by the immensity of what had happened. The was numbness. There was crying. There was scarring. Terrible, terrible scarring. And we were the least affected by this horrific tragedy.

So no, I did not take a photo of this memorial. I wouldn't smile for a selfie behind the white rose, a token that somebody with a still-beating heart mourns for another burried beneath this city. I will honor the white rose and the souls, like each drop of water in the memorial, that forever fall into the abyss.

5 More Ways to Green Your Routine

April 21, 2016

Every year I get a little better at greening my routine. As I read more about the impact we have on our environment and the little but important changes we can make to our lifestyles to leave a greener footprint, I become inspired to live in better harmony with nature. Surprisingly, as I've gotten greener over the years, I've found that it hasn't just improved the planet, but my overall sense of well-being. I use less. I buy less. I enjoy what I have more. My home is clutter-free, as is my mind.

More and more, I cannot escape the intrinsic link between the planet's health and my own. Where once I was stressed or anxious, I found healing in de-cluttering my life and simplifying my needs. I unplugged from what mainstream society says will make me happy (buy more, do more, move faster, burn hotter) and found, in creating space to connect with myself and nature, that my happiness comes from slowing down, doing less, and enjoying life's simple pleasures.

The changes I've made have been radical in their own small way, from giving up conventional makeup, which was causing severe skin irritation, to using only the organic kind, and now, beginning the adventure of making all my own products. I've switched from conventional groceries and the traditional food pyramid of health to organic, local produce and a whole foods diet. I've even terminated one-use items like paper towels and plastic wrap in favor of reusable mason jars for storage and old towels for rags to reduce waste.

Each step to a sustainable lifestyle was challenging at first, but then became a delicious expression of a balanced life. Now I could never, ever imagine eating fast food or buying drugstore mascara. What's more, the transition to a better-quality lifestyle was easier than I thought it would be once I got past the mental block of thinking that going green was difficult, expensive, or labor intensive. The eco-friendlier I get, the more addictive it is. I am healthier, happier, and more in balance with myself and the world around me. Want to feel these good vibes too? Check out these easy ways to green your routine.

1. Say goodbye to junk mail. Not only is it a nuisance, but it wastes so many trees, not to mention huge amounts of water and energy to produce what essentially goes directly into our trash cans, or if we are more conscious, our recycling bins or compost. Luckily, opting out of junk mail is easier than you think. Simply sign up for a free account at DMAChoice.org to stop receiving catalogs, credit card offers, and other miscellanea. Not only will this one small change make a huge difference in the environment, but it will also make sorting your mail easier. Want to know more about the environmental impact of junk mail? Check out what Sustainable Baby Steps has to say.

2. Reduce plastic use. Part of moving towards a zero-waste lifestyle is saying goodbye to one-use items like plastic bags, wrap, and other conveniences like bottled water. The energy, water, and materials it takes to produce these items are nothing compared to the resources it takes to actually recycle them...when they can be recycled. Too often these disposable items can't be reused or recycled because they are made of the cheapest (and most chemical-laden) forms of plastics that have no life beyond covering your leftovers. Even worse, these items end up in the ocean, destroying marine habitats and harming sea life. Check out the Earth Resource Foundation to learn more about how harmful plastics are to the environment.

The good news is that reduced plastic use is WAY easier--and addictive!--than I thought it would be. First and foremost, I eliminated bottled water, including my favorite, sparkling water (I got a fizzy water maker instead and love it! It lets me get my bubble fix, is more cost-effective than buying bottled water, and easier to store). I also don't buy plastic bags or saran wrap anymore. I admit, it was hard to give up the convenient plastic bags at first, since I used them for so many things. Now, though, I could never go back to using them. I use what I have (I won't buy more wasteful products) and then get creative about how I store my food....hello mason jars! Turns out, they are just as convenient as plastic (and bonus, more aesthetically pleasing!). I still haven't gotten rid of my Tupperware, but I'm not buying more of it either. I'll use what I've got, then invest in glass and silicon storage containers when the time comes. The funny thing is that thought doesn't seem so intimidating as it once did before I gave up plastic bags and bottled water.

3. ...and paper towels. I just use old cotton dishtowels that no longer look pretty in place of paper towels as rags. I love never having to remember to buy paper towels. I keep a set of old towels as bathroom and house cleaning rags and another set of towels strictly for kitchen use. If part of living a green life is reducing what we consume, then giving new life to old items is a smart way to limit the production of unnecessary disposable goods. Did you know you could also compost towels made from natural fibers like cotton, silk, and hemp?

4. Recycle your clothes. Every few years, I clean out my closet and donate anything I haven't worn in the past year. That's recycling in its most basic form: passing along usable items to someone who needs them. But what about those wardrobe staples you've worn to death? For a long time, I never knew what to do with these items and often threw them away, for lack of better options. Now I give those items to Goodwill or your local Thrift Town because I learned from Earth 911 and some strategic web searches that these places collect unusable textiles and sell them out to other companies to recycle or reuse them. To make it easy on them, I keep my wearable clothes and well-used ones in separate containers.

5. Conserve water. This is another simple yet important part of green living. Most of the water we use day to day is actually wasted--the time people leave the faucet running on high while washing dishes, for example, or taking a super-long shower. Take shorter showers (and if/when you are shaving your legs, turn the water off!). Same goes for tooth brushing and dish washing: clean first, then, rinse, keeping the faucet on low. Sustainable Baby Steps has even more ways to reduce water use that are easy enough to incorporate into your everyday routine.

Bottom line: with a little extra care and a few tweaks to our lifestyle, we can make substantial positive changes to our environment and improve our overall quality of life.

Easy Homemade Dishwasher Detergent

April 13, 2016

In an effort to make my home eco-friendlier, I've begun making my own cleaning supplies. Not only is it cost-effective, but I feel like I'm taking care of myself and my planet by being more conscious about what I use to care for my home--including the dishes I wash.

As a fan of home cooking--the ritual of preparing a nourishing meal and the health benefits of doing so--I can rack up a lot of dirty dishes just by spending an hour in the kitchen. I've found that many green dishwasher detergents include unnecessary and, in some cases, harmful ingredients. Thus was born my quest to find a more sustainable solution to the sinkful of dishes waiting for a good cleaning.

This recipe for my eco-friendly dishwasher detergent is a love child born from mixes by Wellness Mama, Thank Your Body, and Overthrow Martha. After months of testing, I found the perfect recipe that gets dishes clean and, with a little help from vinegar, sparkling. An added bonus to this recipe is that, since you aren't buying packaged detergent, you are also cutting down on packaging waste. I buy the ingredients in bulk and mix as needed, storing it in a mason jar.

As with all my recipes, this one shouldn't take you more than a handful of minutes to whip up. Homemade anything is wonderful...as long as it isn't too labor intensive!

ingredients:

1 cup washing soda

1 cup citric acid

1 cup baking soda

1/2 cup sea salt

Combine all ingredients in a large mason jar (or another container) and shake vigorously. Makes three cups (roughly 24 loads). Pour approximately 2 tablespoons per load. Add vinegar in your dish washer's rinse compartment to avoid clouding on dishes. Enjoy!

Two-Ingredient Laundry Detergent

April 6, 2016

I've fallen in love with homemade laundry detergent. Why? Because it's earth-friendly, cost-effective, easy to make and even easier to use. With a few minutes and two simple ingredients, you've got yourself a great detergent that is gentle on your clothes, your wallet, and the planet. Still not convinced that homemade is better? See what Wellness Mama has to say.

I avoided making any liquid laundry soaps because they are too labor intensive and more difficult to store. I also chose a Borax-free recipe, because this ingredient is so controversial, as Crunchy Betty can tell you. That, and I try to only use ingredients that I readily have on hand. I'd rather use baking soda and castile soap than have to buy additional ingredients. It reduces clutter and keeps things simple for me.

I adapted my recipe from ones by Thank Your Body and Mommypotamus, finding that the fewer the ingredients and the quicker the recipe, the easier it is for me to be eco-friendly. This recipe makes enough detergent for about 50 loads at roughly 5 cents a load. Of course, you can always double or triple the recipe to save yourself time and energy. All in all, after using this on my clothes for six months now, I can never go back to traditional detergent.

Ingredients:

1 bar Dr. Bronner's Castile Soap (5 ounces)

2 cups washing soda

Using a fine grater, grate the full bar of soap. Mix with 2 cups washing soda in a bowl until combined. To use, pour 1 tablespoon in washing machine before adding clothes. Makes about 3 cups (48 loads of laundry). Enjoy!

The Wind in My Hair

March 10, 2016

Sometimes it is like thick, cool fingers grabbing a fistful of tendrils, but today it is soft, gentle. The hands of a child braiding your thick coils together.

It won't let you be still--it wants you to twirl and dance the way it does, whipping around trees and snaking its way through the dry brush. This force of nature shapes everything, even the hard granite. The wind only wants to kiss away bits of silt that grind against the rock's back. That is how it feels today: a slow, consistent presence molding you into a better self.

Other days it is pushy. A big flirt stuffing its long fingers between the buttons of your blouse and tugging at your skirt. It throws fits too, casting sand and pebbles your way when it knows it's not always welcome.

Still, in whatever form it takes, it will always carry away your burdens--the heavy heart, the endless to-do list, the crick in your back that makes your dreams feel smaller and smaller. The wind wants you to get tangled up and flustered and maybe even a little gritty-eyed so that you forget to hold on so tightly to the flotsam of your day, the small hard facts that you think make up your essence.

You are not the pebble in your shoe, it says. Or the number of tasks completed. You are the number of dreams you plant and the moments you lose track of as you feel the caress of the sun-warmed breeze tickling your knees.

So let it whip away the debris. Let it remind you that you are the hopes you tend.

Leap Year: Or the Magpie and the Time Thief

February 29, 2016

It can't help itself. There are so many shiny little seconds, like copper pennies, buried in the sand. And all those fat marbled minutes that roll downhill and find themselves half-submerged in a puddle. Then there are the hours, glittering gears forever moving forward one plodding step at a time. The magpie must have them all, plucking them from their gutters and trash bins and other places time goes to be forgotten.

The thrifty bird plucks a lost second from the bottom of your pocket--a strand of silver tinsel in its black beak. Broken-down minutes are trapped in its wings as if stardust were woven into each feather. It greedily clutches and grabs for the heaviest and most elusive of treasures: the hour that slipped away from you, frittered away or just lost when you forgot to look for it. The bird hooks its claws through the gear's hollow center, careful not to let the teeth bite into its scaled bones.

Back to the nest.

The scavenger's home becomes a museum of so many beautiful moments. So many grains of sand that escaped the hour glass. So many sparkling instants that could have sprouted another story, a different path. They all belong to the magpie. It wants to gloat over its hoarded treasure buried between rounded twigs and moss, revel in the delicious possibility of lost time.

But the temptation of finding more--bigger--gems lure it from its nest.

That is when the time thief strikes. She waits and she watches the magpie fondle discarded clock faces and rusty numbers that used to mean something. She hides in the shadows cast by the brilliant light of those silver timepieces and memories swept away with the seconds between blinks. And when the magpie shakes the last of the stardust from its wings and flits off in search of more sparkling tick-tocks, she makes her move.

Gathers all the dazzling lost instants and stuffs them into one day so that she may bask in the warm promise of extra time. (She knows too, that this borrowed time will always fetch a high price at the market.) Like the magpie, she cannot resist the glittering cogs that insist there is a past and a present and a future. Who can withstand the rotation of two hands on a circular face?

Certainly not the magpie who returns to its nest, drawn by the luminous day built from its hard-scavenged treasure. It will take back its precious collection, drive its sharp claws into the thief's spine--but the thief knows better than to turn her back to the nest. She instead hides in the shadows of the waning light, attempting to pull her stolen loot along in her wake. The bird tugs back, wrapping tinseled seconds around its beak and claws for better purchase; the thief refuses to let go, holding fast to a handful of minutes.

Push-pull, push-pull, until the moments and hours and seconds and minutes shake loose and scatter themselves over the earth, once again disappearing into gutters and drainpipes, under rocks and tree roots. The magpie has no choice but to start its work once more. The thief returns to the shadows, waiting until the bird's nest is once again full of lost time so that she may feast upon it herself.

The earth circles four times around the sun. Four sets of four seasons sweep through the land. And the cycle begins anew.

What Love Looks Like

February 11, 2016

You find it in the small hand, no bigger than a silver dollar, pressed against your forearm as your niece finds her balance. Each finger, barely larger than a thick blade of grass, has left its mark on your skin though nobody could tell by looking at it. You find it too, in the fuchsia baby blanket that cannot possibly hold all the tenderness you feel for this little creature that has made her way into your life; this blanket gets bigger and bigger with each passing day so that you can loop happiness and abundance into each shelled stitch. You want her to remember that her palms were once wrapped around your thick thumbs as she learned to hold herself upright--you want her to know that she has always been strong, always been eager to experience this world. She only has to look at this blanket, or wrap it around her slight shoulders, to feel the support of her auntie and know that she, like her mother, is a force to be reckoned with.

This four letter word people bend into two kissing curves that pucker into a point looks nothing like a real heart. A real heart is messy, made up of pumping blood and so many veins and memories that keep it going. And something else that you cannot fully name but know it is sweeter, more life-affirming than the oxygen that this organ provides. It is that moment (years ago now, a recollection tattooed into your artery walls) when you said everything was fine, and your parents knew what you really meant was that you were slowly being swallowed by fog, and so sent you a care package full of sunlight, red chile pods, and pinon coffee. Yes, that kept your blood pumping and chased away the darkness. You were not alone.

It is on the journey home with your older sister and the promises you made each other to live as extraordinary beings (and the bottles of wine and long conversations that prompted those promises, now like so many matches lit and thrown into your enteral fires). Then when she found her roots and wings, you found another brother. Here is the solid earth-forged spirit that grounds, ready to remind you that you don't need to carry so much weight on you shoulders--shouldn't. But there is more. You find this ephemeral warmth in the taste of kimchi and oysters on the half-shell chased down with a dirty martini. This is always somehow accompanied by images of your brother arranging all your boxes, most of them books, into your travel pod so you could bring your life home. Or of him and wife walking through the park that was once your refuge on their wedding day. There was so much sunlight that afternoon.

And still, you find this thing--this beating, pumping thing--woven into each breath. You can't even look at the inside of an orange peel without thinking of long full fingers scraping away pith one orange quarter at a time to transform this fruity carcass into leathery hugs, a reminder that your younger sister is always close though an ocean separates you. Close enough that you can never simply tear a banana open with a quick tug of its gnarled stem but must carefully slice the skin apart from stem to nubby bottom so as to better preserve that yellowed husk; she would know somehow if you took a shortcut. And you think of the man that loves her. Here you know a kindred spirit, one who understands instinctively that the internal life is just as important than the external one--perhaps more so. There is much to be found on the page and the inward-turning gaze.

You don't have to be anything other than yourself with these people; you can be the quiet wildling with bare feet and kinky hair happy to get lost (found?) in a book or a garden--or a kitchen. And when you can't always give yourself permission to be this elusive creature, they remind you that your soul was forged from ink and summers playing outside with your siblings and always, always from feeding the wonder and delight that makes each day worth getting up for.

That's the day-in-day-out of it: the barely contained smile from your sisters because they know you are all thinking the same thing...and probably shouldn't say it out loud. We are surrounded by strangers, after all, and the thought is not fit for polite company. Even the frantic lick of puppy tongues on your hands and pawing of your furry charges when you haven't seen them for some time tells you that your life is full. Or the smell of green chile stew and the pure pleasure of a tortilla fresh from the griddle in the kitchen you grew up in that reminds you at the end of the week that you are surrounded by love.

That's it. That's the word. Such a small one for an awful lot of feeling.

Writing at the Kitchen Table

February 3, 2016

Sure you have your own writing desk, one lovingly crafted over the years. You can still see evergreen where it bleeds through the turquoise you painted over it, a tribute to the expansive lightness of your beloved skies. The inevitable wear and tear of scratches and well-worn grooves where your feet rest on your chair are as familiar to you as the lines on the palm of your hands. And the scattered gemstones, carelessly placed daisies, and stacks of half-read books only add to this still life, a study of a writer's mind.

But sometimes you need to forgo the creative splendor of that desk for the warmth and sanctity of the kitchen table. Here you can spread out and make your journal and pen at home with the salt and pepper shakers. Your hands can smooth the wrinkles from the homemade mustard and ochre tablecloth strewn with embroidered vines and buds impatient to burst open, a gift from your mother; this homey task is a welcome respite for your fingers, much more soothing than finding their way around the roughness of each wooden groove and lost story on your writing desk.

The only music is the whistle of the kettle and the sound of you and your words breathing in unison. Perhaps there is even some stew simmering on the stove, perfuming your cozy space with comfort and garlic. There is no room for dainty tea cups here, just as there is no time for a lady-like cup of Earl Grey. Only fat mugs will do, enough to hold the rich brew you concoct out of oat straw, alfalfa leaves, and astralagus root. This is working tea. It fills you up with nourishment from the earth and protects you from the elements. Each sip brings you closer to the ground, where you write best.

It is easier to plant your letters in that minerally dirt and watch words bloom. Their sun is the glitter from the mica mugs from which you slurp your tea. And you watch with the pleasure of a gardener who has pulled the last weed from her plot of land, as those words unfurl into sentences, and burst into story just as the tight buds on the tablecloth erupt into bloom.

Only at the kitchen table can you get your hands dirty and your mind clear.

On Januarys

January 27, 2016

January.

A paradox of thirty-one days. One month. One word. Too many resolutions and too little time to turn our attention from the previous year to the one already underway, pulling us along before we are completely done with our past.

Always divided with itself, torn between what was and what will be, just like the god it was named after. Janus, that divine soul is one whose features are split in two for she must forever keep her gaze on the river of time that overlaps and circles itself so that a person may be at once here and there, both moving forward and stuck at a fixed point in the past.

Let its divisive nature be January's strength. When it tears itself from the strain of living the paradox of inward-looking winter and the promise of spring's emergence, let those ripped and ragged edges be filled with light. Let the gap that has emerged from the tensions between your reclusive nature and your desire to experience this world be a passageway, a doorway to another universe in which your contradictions are the stars that illuminate your path, not the stones in your pocket that weigh you down.

And if you are lucky, you might even find nourishment in the space between one close door and another just waiting for your gaze to fall upon it so that it may wink into existence. Pomegranates, fat and full with garnet seeds, will sustain you as you travel down this new road. Each fiery drop you slip between your lips is a soul-seed sown deep within your belly to birth new intentions, sparks of light to guide you back to the eternal flame within yourself when the nights seem darkest and the path split in two.

Writing is like Cooking

January 12, 2016

Writing is messy, messy work. And the mess is half the fun.

It's a lot like cooking that way. Think of it as this alchemical process of mixing ingredients (one-half cup of a dream, a fourth of cup of memories beginning to fade, a pinch of cheekiness, a tablespoon of sweat, and a rounded cup of time); spices (one saucy phrase, a heaping teaspoon of innuendo, a sprinkle of read-between-the-lines); equipment (saucepans and spatulas, fingers and keyboards); and of course, timing. You cannot make a respectable beef bourguignon in less than four hours, nor skip on the loving task of first searing your beef cubes and sautéing your mushrooms, carrots, celery, and onions before adding them to the stew.

So too with writing. Sure you can put words on paper. Many of them all at once. But they do not come together to form a cohesive whole--that story come to life on the page--unless you have tenderly cared for them in batches and slowly added them to your alphabet soup.

The spices are a different matter altogether--too much of one and you've lost your dish to the ever aggressive nutmeg or your prose to the temptation of alliteration. Not enough spice and you have a meal as thin and unappetizing as gruel or underdeveloped backstories.

This is nothing to say of the most potent and mercurial of ingredients: your energy. The love and time and essence you pour into what you create. There is no accounting for the tasteless feast you slaved over all day, following the recipe exactly, or the accidental perfection that comes from a few minutes of hastily throwing pantry odds and ends into a bowl. Similarly, you can spend forever on a piece of work and it still feels as dry as burnt toast. Or you can simply trust the hours you have lingered in the kitchen or at your writing desk and let the words come to you of their own accord, ready to make their mark on the page and produce nothing short of a miracle.

And like any dish, the final product (if such a thing exists) is built in layers, over time, and refined by practice (that word to encompass each and every kitchen disaster from the undercooked flan to the overcooked dhal). Each limp string bean, a product of over-boiling, and each burnt salmon are lessons in balance as is each typo, each half-formed paragraph or each experimental tone that made it no farther than the compost. Yet if we never risk a deflated soufflé or flaccid prose, we lose out on the potential for a perfectly risen confection of air, chocolate, and whimsy. The enthusiastic over-use of cumin and the semi-colon (or parenthetical asides) eventually lead to a healthy respect for using both in moderation.

All of this is by way of saying that writing is in the rewriting, just as knowing your way around the kitchen is cooking and recooking specific dishes and attempting new ones. Once you have a recipe down, you must go back and refine it as you learn more about your ingredients and are yourself seasoned by life experience. That is why this year, you'll find me marinating on the messiness--the beautiful, delightful, challenging messiness--of writing and rewriting my thoughts on the magic of everyday life.

Biscochito Coffee

December 17, 2015

Nothing says the holidays in New Mexico like a fresh batch of biscochitos. I look forward to those anise dotted sugar cookies every year. In fact, it's pretty much the only time I eat those treats, so each bite seems laced with memories of unwrapping presents and lingering over cups of tea by the fireside.

Another way to enjoy that biscochito flavor throughout the holiday season is to lace your coffee with the anise seeds, something my family has been doing for years to add to the festive quotient of our morning cup of cheer. The fun in making you own holiday coffee blends is that you can create your own flavors (hello pumpkin spice and A ztec mocha coffees) and control the quality of ingredient. Most commercial flavored coffees are made with artificial ingredients and poor quality beans--yuck! You can also play with the strength of your flavors, from just a kiss of anise flavor in each sip to tasting the equivalent of one biscochito in each cup.

Don't forget to use good quality coffee here. I go for the Santa Fe-based Aroma Coffee's organic Black Lighting dark roast. Seriously, it has ruined me for other coffee. Once you try the good stuff, you can't go back to the so-so. This is an excellent last-minute gift as well since the prep work is virtually nada (you can keep the beans whole or grind them) and everyone appreciates a tasty beverage high on the festive quotient, but a welcome break from the heavier eggnogs and hot chocolates.

Ingredients:

12 oz quality coffee

2 oz anise seeds

Mix ingredients together and store in an airtight container. You can grind your coffee right away before mixing, or grind as you go with each pot you brew. Just make sure to get some anise in each batch you grind as it might settle to the bottom of your container. Don't hesitate to play with the proportions to find the perfect balance between coffee and spice for you. Brew as you normally would. Enjoy!

Lavender Blue Corn Soap

December 9, 2015

For my latest entry in my kitchen gifts series, I decided to whip up a batch of lavender blue corn soap. This is the perfect gift for anyone who is not necessarily a big fan of the more seasonal soaps like my orange spice, peppermint hot chocolate, or pine and charcoal soaps (as if such a person actually existed...seriously, who doesn't love the warming scents of winter?). It's also an ideal gift for people to enjoy long after the holiday is gone; once all the other festive treats have been used, they can turn to this soap and the promise of spring.

Okay, I admit it: I got the idea for this soap after my favorite doughnut, a sinful blend of lavender and blue corn made by a local bakery. Blue corn has always struck me as a very New Mexican ingredient, so this soap always makes me feel like I'm gifting a little bit of the Southwest magic I live in. You can, of course, always substitute regular cornmeal if you can't find the blue kind. You don't have to get fancy with molds, either. You can simply use a muffin tin unless you want to get playful with your molds like I did with the soaps pictured.

For this recipe, I use a natural shea butter melt and pour soap base which I got here (remember how I like to keep my crafting simple? Well, a melt and pour solution gives you the fun factor of making your own soap without the more labor intensive and tricky ingredients like lye to work with). Make sure to buy the suspension formula for your soap base so that the blue corn is evenly spread out in your soap rather than sinking to the bottom. The lavender oil is an excellent antibacterial agent and nerve tonic, while the blue corn acts as a gentle exfoliate perfect for everyday use.

Ingredients:

16 ounces (1 lb) shea butter soap base

1/2 cup blue corn

100 drops lavender essential oil

Chop shea butter soap base into half-inch chunks and place in a microwave-safe bowl. Heat for one minute and stir. Then continue to melt base in the microwave in 20-second increments, stirring between each heating until liquefied, about 5 minutes. Once the soap is melted stir in essential oils and blue corn. Pour into muffin tins (or other molds) and allow to set, about an hour. (You can speed this up by placing them in the fridge for about 20 minutes.) Remove soap from molds by gently inserting a butter knife around the edges of the muffin tin until the soap pops out. Wrap individually in parchment paper or tuck multiples in an airtight container. Store in a cool, dry place indefinitely. Makes about 6 small soaps or 4 medium sized ones. Enjoy!

Homemade Vanilla Extract

December 3, 2015

Today I have another entry in what is becoming my annual holiday kitchen gifts series (aka gifts from the heart). This is the time of year when we can become over-saturated with marketing ploys trying to convince us to buy! buy! buy! To which I say: no thanks.

I've never been one for malls or big shopping extravaganzas (with the exception of grocery shopping and some fond memories of girl days with my sisters when we were teens). This is also the time of year when we should be indulging in the gentle rejuvenation and restoration that the winter months invite, but instead are all too often pulled into the frazzled energy that can be the holiday buzz.

My anecdote to this frenetic energy has always been in making gifts, particularly ones that people can enjoy long after the last holiday cookie has been eaten and the final decoration has been packed away. Time in the kitchen soothes and relaxes while slowing down and making gifts is a wonderful way to meditate on all the love in your life.

Of course, you also want to make sure that whatever you are making isn't too complicated, otherwise you defeat the purpose of simplifying your holiday. I personally only make things that allow plenty of time for tea drinking and playing with my niece, so I don't I lose all the fun of hanging out in the kitchen.

This recipe for homemade vanilla extract fits the bill for easiness and deliciousness; it's a gift you can whip up in no time and that your friends and family with love receiving. The flavor of a homemade vanilla extract is so much richer and smoother than the store bought kind--and surprisingly less expensive. Genuine vanilla extract can be pricey and the imitation stuff is no good (just think of all the artificial flavors and coloring they use).

The only difference between making my Vanilla Bourbon and vanilla extract is the dose. One vanilla bean is strong enough to gently infuse a few cups of spirits with its flavor. More vanilla beans in less alcohol offer a concentrated flavor perfect for baking. I used organic Prairie vodka in this recipe, but you can play with the flavor of your extract by using rum or bourbon instead.

Ingredients:

1 vanilla bean per 1 oz vodka

Slice vanilla beans almost completely in half lengthwise. This ensures that the vodka can soak up the flavor from the little seeds on the beans' inside and makes it easier to remove the vanilla from the alcohol once it has done soaking (as opposed to slicing it completely in half). Place beans in mason jar and pour vodka over it (I used four beans for four ounces of vodka pictured below). Seal jar and let sit for a week, making sure to shake jar periodically. Then strain the vodka by pouring it through cheesecloth draped funnel into a clean jar. Store in a cool, dry place. Lasts indefinitely (though I doubt you will be able to keep it around that long!).

On Gratitude

November 25, 2015

Here is something no heavier than a feather, no larger than the minuscule crack in an acorn's shell through which where new life can seep.

It offers only a memory of loving hands stitching two frayed ends back together where once there was just a hole in your coat pocket. It produces nothing but a soft sigh after a long day as you settle in your favorite reading chair to savor the company of your books. And where others debate over the fullness of a glass, you see only that you have a cup the color of the sky on a clear day capable of holding anything.

That is the gift of gratitude. You see everywhere signs of abundance rather than absence, wings rather than cages. And finally, enjoyment in the way your feet always take you back to your own doorstep and the pleasure--deep and full like your first breath of the day--in knowing you are home.

Vanilla Infused Bourbon

November 19, 2015

We've had glorious weather this week, from a lush snowstorm that swept over the city, creating an air of frivolity and lightness (let's just say there was more than one pool going to see if we would get a snow day--we didn't, but the blissful fat flakes seemed to cool the minds of everyone burning too hot at the end of the semester), to the gentle windy days that tickled fiery autumn leaves from their branches. It has been nothing short of mystic!

This cold weather has made me want to curl up by the fire and enjoy the hush that seems to settle over the earth when autumn transitions to winter--something we too seldom indulge in as we get swept up in the flurry of the work week and the upcoming holiday season. It goes without saying that a book and a delicious beverage would make fireside snuggling nothing short of epic. Tea works well here (you know how much I love those cups akin to a warm hug for the soul), but if you are looking for something a little more festive, look no further than this vanilla bourbon.

It is super easy to make and tastes of the season, full of the lush caramel and vanilla flavors we crave in our holiday desserts. You can make a sinfully vanilla old fashioned or give my cinnamon-apple cocktail an extra dash of yum with this vanilla bourbon. Of course, it is equally delicious on its own.

As with all my recipes, the trick is getting good quality ingredients. I used Maker's Mark bourbon (nice, but not so nice that you wouldn't want to infuse it with anything) and organic vanilla beans which I got here. Make sure the vanilla bean is soft and plump. A brittle bean is a sign that it has gone stale and the flavor won't be as strong. The rest is easy: simply forget about the bourbon for a week while it soaks up all the lovely vanilla flavor. My advice? Mix up a double batch so you have some for yourself and another for a friend. This bourbon is so good, you'll want to gift it to friends and family this holiday season.

Ingredients:

2 cups bourbon

1 vanilla bean

Slice vanilla bean almost completely in half lengthwise. This ensures that the bourbon can soak up the flavor from the little seeds on the bean's inside and makes it easier to remove the vanilla from the bourbon once it has done soaking (as opposed to slicing it completely in half). Place in mason jar and pour bourbon over it. Seal jar and let sit for a week, making sure to shake jar periodically. Then strain the bourbon by pouring it through cheesecloth draped funnel into a clean bottle. Store in a cool, dry place. Lasts indefinitely (though I doubt you will be able to keep it around that long!). Makes two cups.

What Writing Looks Like

November 12, 2015

You are lost in thought, have moved from gathering herbs to the opening scene of one of your stories (there are herbs in that too). You are no longer in your garden but in the kitchen of a home that only exists within the puddles of ink gathering onto your page.

Casual onlookers would see nothing out of the ordinary, nothing more than a woman pruning her garden. The fools. They do not see the story weaving itself before your eyes, made of rosemary, eggshells, and a spark of imagination. They do not know that what they just witness was nothing short of magic. (Perhaps one day they will, though, when they pick up that story with that opening scene in that kitchen built of words and paper. Then they will know how you spun stories out of stolen moments among your plants.)

Or take the hour you spent away from your writing desk because your body no longer wanted to sit still but dance the silent dance of yoga asana, freeing the words nesting at the bottom of your spine. Your prose came more fluidly after that as if your spine were a pen dipped into the ink of your day, ready to release the stories it has acted out on the mat and absorbed between sunrise and sunset.

Sometimes your writing is the evening you set aside for more words, but after a day of being saturated in them, you find that there is nothing more appealing that pajamas, a glass of wine, and whatever old movie is playing on the television. And if your hands must move--that twitch a phantom ache from not pressing your fingerpads on the keyboard--you will knit, stitching memories into the threads you loop together for your infinite blankets.

Then there are the words hastily scribbled on a crumpled tissue or old handout as your students pour over their marked up papers, trying to make sense of the narrative you wove into those tight margins. This is when the words come most of all: it the space between breaths, when you are not allowed to labor over this comma or that scene, but can only hastily spend a brief flash of insight onto the wilted edge of last month's essay prompt.

And yes, sometimes you even find yourself writing at your desk, as people so often suspect you do in order to lay sentences, like bricks, into the walls that make up the home of your craft. This comes with its own pull to wipe the excess mortar between those brick for the most elusive of miracles: a page without typos (if such a thing exists, you often wonder, when you run your fingers between your bricks, once again hoping to smooth out the pebbles in the thick cement you had already combed through).

More often than not, writing is in the moments you close your eyes and let sleep take you; where else would you find the worlds carved into the inside of a star or the memory that seems to come from nowhere except the amber-leafed shade tree you find only at the crossroads between wake and sleep? Other times you find yourself in similar dreamworlds, this time within the folds of book covers rather than your sheets. Yes, your writing is in feeding your soul, so that each story you devour becomes a future bone in the vertebra of your own.

You find your words, too, at the tip of a fountain pen waiting to spill its black seed onto your page. Sometimes you keep those seeds in the pen, for as eager as they are to make their mark in this world, you can tell they are not truly ready to commit themselves to paper. This moment, between holding your pen in your hand and pressing its tip to a blank page, is where the writing happens, not so much in what will be written as in what you ponder to possibly transcribe.

So you let your words come to you of their own accord. You let yourself feel your craft wrap around you like a cozy sweater, stocking up on all those images and feelings and memories (some your own, some pressed within the pages of books), until your pen is full to bursting, ready to let the abundance of your prose gush onto the page. In the meantime, you get lost in thought. You make a cup of tea. You take a long walk down a forgotten lane. You feed your senses until you feel as if you might burst with the pleasure in peeling and eating an apple. That is what writing looks like.

The Haunting

October 30, 2015

There was the wishing vessel. Bold as the dawn, solid as earth.

Strange. Its home was on your left side nightstand; its height measured out in the stack of paperbacks behind it; its radiance mirrored in the collection of raw stones and gems circling it. Instead, you found it on the right-hand nightstand where your water glass should have been. You took this vessel in your hand--this vessel, hewn by your mother's hands, baked with the power of hope and sealed with a sea-blue glaze marbled with pebble brown streaks.

Stranger still: it felt heavier than it should as if weighed down by your bottled wishes. You held it in your hand a moment longer, wondering what occurred in those eternal moments between closing your eyes and waking.

Then that evening as you chopped vegetables for roasting, thinking about things that belong in other lifetimes (half-remembered thorns that only nip at your heels when you are tired), the lights flickered in and out of consciousness. Of course, that would have meant nothing if it weren't for the misplaced wishing vessel and your keys, now no longer in the drawer where you know you'd left them. Or the sudden chill that swept through your home, easy enough to blame on the draft forgotten after months under the gaze of the summer sun.

It wasn't until you drifted off to sleep, in fact, that you knew the truth of the situation: you were no longer alone in your own home. You felt the ghost brush cool, soft fingers along your naked back and settle in next to you as you hovered between dream and wakefulness. Then there was your whispered name the next day as you tended your garden, sounding nothing so much as dried leaves rustling in the wind. And the wishing vessel again misplaced, perching precariously on your bookshelf, so much heavier this time as you carried it back to its rightful post. The faint scent of memory and wet dirt began to permeate your home. Yes, you had a ghost, a living, breathing ghost contained within your walls.

Each day the specter became more and more distinct, once a faint shadow hovering just beyond sight, now a thick presence that didn't feel the need to hide any longer. It patched a form together from stray bits of thread, used tea leaves, and lint from the bottom of your laundry basket. The smell of mulched garden debris and damp earth became stronger each day, strongest of all at night when the darkness could feed it.

But you grew tired of its presence. You grew tired of never finding your keys where you always put them. Tired of hands, now with the feel of knobby sticks for fingers, pressed against your back before sleep took you. Tired of never knowing where your wishing vessel might turn up--and when you found it half buried next to your rosemary, as if a seed waiting to sprout the hopes buried inside it, you reached your limit.

It took so long to dig out that heavy, heavy vessel. Longer still to drag it in from the rain. The ghost was no help; it merely watched you puff and pant and try to set things right. This had to stop. You wanted your home to be yours again.

So you did the only thing you could: you brought another spirit into the conversation--one holier, more honest even, than you or your spectral companion: whiskey. You poured a glass for you and your phantom guest, now bearing the faint outline of a person, smelling of moss and old books and the inside of a wishing vessel.

"So how is it you found me?" You asked the specter sitting across from you at the kitchen table.

"I found a blossom of indecision, a wrinkle of silence and traveled down the puckered road of an old scar." Its voice was like crackling leaves and smoke.

A gulp of whiskey was your response. You drank in companionable silence for some time as you mulled over its words. The rain beat out a tattoo on the window pane. The shadows in the room grew longer in time with the setting day.

"And where did you find this blossom, this wrinkle, this scar?"

It gestured to your curled up palm. You opened it and saw several little half-moons carved into its surface. What had you been holding on to so hard? So tightly?

As if in answer to your soundless question, the wishing vessel now sat between you on the table, still caked in dirt. The table creaked under its weight. There was your collection of unspoken wishes, your barely-acknowledged hopes like lead dandelion puffs.

"It's the voice that does it," your specter explained. "Just the sound of your lips and tongue wrapped around one of those dandelion heads."

What would it hurt, you thought, to give voice to all those dreams you'd stashed away for so long? What would it take to breathe life into the many roots and veins you'd allowed to go dormant? What would it cost you to loosen your grip on those fragile seeds you have guarded and protected and stashed away for a rainy day, much like this one?

"They are stronger than you think," the ghost again replied to your unvoiced thoughts.

You brushed the dirt from the vessel and dragged it toward you. You held it between your hands--gently this time--as if it were a butterfly flitting through your laced fingers.

Perhaps just one. There is no harm in allowing one stray seed to breathe and bloom. You named it, this wish, to yourself. To your ghost. To this vessel that had held it for so long. You felt it being released into the air around you like a cloud of sandalwood perfume or the flap of wings. Your skin tingled with this unblemished possibility permeating the air around you, and you closed your eyes to savor this new-found lightness.

When you opened them, the ghost was gone, and with it the smell of dead things. There were only the two whiskey glasses and the vessel (so much lighter now) left, along with a stray blue thread that once held the specter together. The other wishes slipped more easily from your lips after that, the hopes too. You felt only sweet release, the joy of freeing these pods into a life you dared to think possible.

Your home was your home again. Your wishing vessel was once more what it should be: a womb, not a stopped bottle, fertilized by syllables slipping from your vocal chords. And the air was thick with dandelion seeds.