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.

Sleepy Time Tea

February 24, 2014

At night I need a little herbal tea to get me ready for bed. I grew up drinking Celestial Seasoning's Sleepy Time Tea, mostly because it had a cute bear on the cover of the box all curled up in his jammies by the fire, his cup of tea on the table next to him. All I would have to do is look at that box and be ready for bed--but, of course, I still drank the tea too. And, yes, there is still a part of me that wants to drink only that brand of Sleepy Time Tea just for the bear on the cover. These days, though, I can do a pretty good imitation of that bear myself, both in how I fall asleep on the couch in my pjs, my cup of tea at my side, and in my own Sleepy Time Tea Blend that I've concocted in honor of that Celestial Seasoning's sleepy bear.

Ingredients:

1/2 cup skullcap

1/2 cup hops

1/2 cup chamomile

Blend all ingredients in a bowl and transfer to an airtight container. Keep away from direct sunlight and heat. To brew, use a heaping tablespoon per cup of hot water. Add more tea per cup of water for a stronger brew. Makes approximately 1 1/2 cups of tea. Enjoy!

Health benefits of ingredients:

Chamomile: anti-inflammatory; sedative; skin softening; all around body soother.

Hops: contains calcium and magnesium among other vital nutrients; sedative; soothes PMS symptoms; diuretic; antispasmodic.

Skullcap: nerve tonic; tension soother; contains calcium, potassium, and magnesium, among other vital nutrients.

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!

On Pasta Making

February 23, 2014

It is made up of nothing but eggs and olive oil and flour and a flick of the wrist.

There the ingredients sit in a pile on your kitchen counter, ready to be molded into Sunday's most glorious indulgence: fresh pasta. Sunday dinner is never a real meal without it.

You pour double zero flour on your clean counter, pushing the fine powder into a small mountain. With your fingers, you create a large well in the middle of the pile--the new home to your eggs and olive oil. You crack three eggs, letting them slip from their shell into the flour nest. Next is the olive oil, the golden liquid dropping from its spout to wrap itself around the raw eggs.

Gently, you poke the yokes with a fork and whisk the eggs and oil together until they look like a rich yellow custard. You let the fork scrape the flour edges of your well a little at a time until you've got a soft dough forming on your counter. A fork will no longer do. You use your hands, folding in the last of the flour and kneading, relishing the feel of the tender pasta dough on the pads of your fingers and palms.

You are up to your elbows in flour. That is when you know it is time to let the dough rest as you put together the pasta maker, your steel jewel that transforms the golden ball into fine strands of heaven.

You take a small piece of that ball and roll it through your machine, first once, then twice, then three times until it is a thin strip. You dust the dough again in flour then roll it through one final time so that it breaks into thin strands. You do this again and again, growing your pile of pasta until you have no more dough left.

All that remains is a pot of boiling water to transform your raw strands into edible perfection.

Honey Face Mask

February 22, 2014

I woke up this morning feeling like a simple home-spa day. It was a full week, and happily so, finished off by an all-day conference downtown yesterday. Now that I've got all sorts of professional inspiration to bring into next week, it's time to unwind and recharge. So after my yoga, a bubble bath is in order, followed by an afternoon of reading and tea drinking and yes, napping.

But before we get to the naps, I've got plans to enjoy a simple honey face mask during my spa hours. This is literally the easiest face mask on the planet--and so good for you! Antioxidant-rich honey is soothing and moisturizing for dry skin and does a great job of adding a natural glow to your face. It is also antibacterial, making it great for fighting acne and unclogging pores. Best of all, honey is gentle so it won't irritate sensitive skin. You can even add a little cinnamon to your honey to get even more antibacterial benefits, but be careful as cinnamon can irritate sensitive skin.

Ingredients:

1-2 tablespoons organic honey

A pinch of cinnamon (optional)

Apply honey liberally to clean face and let sit for 20-30 minutes. Rinse off with warm water and moisturize.

On Grocery Lists

February 21, 2014

There it is, a little blackboard sticking to your refrigerator door, a continual work in progress.

You use up your last sweet onion, caramelizing it for a mushroom pizza. As the onions simmer in the pan, filling your kitchen with their savory aroma, you take a moment to write 'onions' on your grocery list in thin white chalk. It is then you see that you also have nutritional yeast on the board and you erase it, having bought more of the cheese-like miracle on your previous grocery trip. There is now a blank space over blue corn tortillas, those kitchen staples you have had on your list for some time, the ones you keep forgetting to pick up with each trip to the grocery store.

It is your daily work of art, the truest expression of your life: the recipes you cook to nourish self and family, the ingredients that make up your week--here a wedge of aged cheddar, there more radishes because you can never keep enough of them in your refrigerator. Spinach, your perennial favorite, never quite erased from your list because you always need it.

It occurs to you as you finish caramelizing your onions that your life is made up of a series of grocery lists, each one building on the other, like layers of paint on an artist's canvas. Your life is made up of caramelized onions and red wine, chia seeds and fresh blackberries. Your life is made up of a deep desire to nourish and be nourished.

On Maybes

February 20, 2014

Maybes: at the crossroad of no and yes. Mislabeled as indecision.

But really the maybe--when used right--is a coy invitation to synchronicity to do what it will. Maybe you will go out for drinks with friends at the end of the day, or maybe you will do yoga, or maybe you will go home, disappear into a hot bubble bath with nothing but a jazz record, a book, and a finger of whiskey to keep you company. You just don't know which way your maybe will pull you.

It is the thrill of possibility, an unplanned adventure ready to unfold if only you don't quite commit to any other plans just yet. It is the last minute decision to turn left instead of continuing to drive straight ahead in the hopes of catching the bookstore before it closes. This maybe invites the day to lead you where it will.

Maybe. It is the sweet pleasure of being gently pulled in one direction, then another over unimportant decisions: perhaps you will get these antique tea cups or maybe these small ceramic plates. It is the potential of a moment, the split second where you can imagine where your life might go.

It is the safety net, this maybe--safer than a clean no, more relieving than a grudging yes. It hides a multitude of sins and births others. Maybe stretches the gap between what might have happened and what could happen.

Maybe. It is our verbal trickster, stirring up life around us and making us hungry for something new.

On the Power of 'Yes'

February 19, 2014

Yes.

Yes to singing in the car on your way to work. Yes to the weekend mid-day bubble baths when you should be grading papers. Yes to the impromptu visits to the herb store. Yes to watching the sun set. Yes to the joyful moments that impregnate your day--the ones too often looked over in a hurry to get from here to there.

Yes to a good day at work. Yes to a good lesson plan and absolutely yes to the students who take you by surprise and take that carefully scripted agenda in a different direction. Yes to feeling your might as a force in your field.

Yes to listening to the birds, yes to tuning out the mindless chatter of others. Yes to the afternoon cup of tea--and yes to a second cup. Yes to losing track of time because your enjoyment turns time into an irrelevant construct invented by the bored and tiresome. Yes to getting lost in the magic of the day.

Yes. Yes.

Yes to dressing like a fictional character and yes to living out loud. Yes to collecting jewelry and crystals like a magpie collects shiny treasures and yes to wearing them all at once without rhyme or reason. Yes to writing who knows what--a poem, a list, a blog entry--and enjoying its amorphous exuberance. Yes to living your creed.

Yes to the power of your no's and yes to the power of your yes's.

Yes.

Just hell yes.

On the Power of 'No'

February 18, 2014

You used to be no good at it: the no.

You would want to say it, feel those two little letters roll over your tongue and escape your lips, that one little syllable slips out of your mouth like a soft exhale.

But there were big Bambi eyes and even bigger stories about why you must obligate yourself. You were needed, they were needy--you could help, just this one last time--you should really give more of yourself. Although lately, you felt you had less and less to give, like you were a butterfly whose wings were stuck through with pins, your lack of no on display for all to see. The more you showed your yes, the more you gave--the more they needed--the more they took--the less they gave.

But that was before. Somewhere between the new year and your last birthday, you felt it growing inside you: the desire to let go of responsibilities not your own, shedding them like heavy flaps of other people's skin you'd worn. All it took was one courageous whispered no to release you from the bonds of over-extension.

The other no's came more easily after that. You began to feel a gentle fulness swelling in your chest; you learned the bounty, the joyfulness of no. You shed your fears of the names you might be called, the people you might lose, learning instead that there were others like you--those who knew the power of this light syllable--the heady commitment of a balanced life.

You learned that no is not a vulgar, two lettered word, but a gentle embrace of self-care. It is given gently, reminding self and others that you cannot save everyone, fix everything, nor does anyone require it of you, not really. The no reveals--giving others, too, the freedom to tend their lives, their needs in their own way, in their own time, which they inevitably do, also freed from the obligation of your yes. It is a lesson a long time coming, but you welcome the no into your life with open arms, grateful for the space it creates, the calming energy, the positive results blooming in self and others, dormant seeds that only needed the nourishment of your no to unfurl and grow.

On Eggs and Ham

February 17, 2014

They are your much anticipated morning indulgence, a break from your usual chaste breakfast quinoa.

You fry up some hash browns while sipping perfectly dark, rich coffee. Corelli plays in the background as if in harmony to the birds' song outside your window. Then ham is next in the pan. You like it slightly seared, the heat caramelizing the outer layers of the sweet meat. You sift through the news while your morning breakfast cooks and take a moment to drift to your porch, savoring a lazy Monday morning, a rare treat gobbled up by teachers and students alike as the semester barrels forward.

Back in the kitchen, your hash browns are perfectly crisp, your ham expertly cooked. Carefully, you crack two eggs over the skillet, enjoying the sizzling noises they make as they hit the pan. You give them a quick flip, careful not to break the golden yokes.

You plate up.

At the table, you liberally sprinkle pepper on your eggs, then just a touch of salt. Your fork breaks into the tender yolks, spilling their thick liquid all over your plate. The hash browns soak up the juice, the ham acts as the perfect salty-sweet balance to the savory eggs. You devour every last piece of your ham and eggs, washed down with coffee until all that is left are faint golden streaks on your plate, a few wet coffee grounds in your cup, and Corelli in the air.

On Visiting the Herb Store

February 16, 2014

You feel like you've stepped into an old apothecary shop. Jars and jars of herbs, dried flowers, gnarly broken down roots, and strange powders line the shelves.

You run your hands across the line of pots, marveling at the wealth of healing magics birthed from the earth. Each herb is a little miracle, made from dirt and sunlight and water--tiny seeds brought to life by sheer willpower and raised through the ground for no other reason than a will to see the light, breathe in the fresh air that tickles their leaves and feeds their roots. These glorious specimens contain the life force of all they sucked in through their roots, all they absorbed through their leaves.

You have a list of herbs you need. More raspberry leaf for women's health, along with some hops and skullcap for a sleepy time tea recipe you are concocting. You allow yourself to be seduced by the jar of nettle leaves, the prickly thing known best for its sting, but is, at heart, a gentle tonic for the system. You also get taken in by rose hips, more robust than the fragile petals of their flower, an unsung nutritional powerhouse.

You watch the herbalists measure out and weigh your selection, while you contemplate how you will use these new herbs in blends and simple steeps. You can't wait to get home and unwrap your little bundles of herbs and pour them into your own jars, your own collection of earth's healing magic.

Because I Love Sunflowers...and Polka Dots

February 15, 2014

Flowers on my kitchen table...

On a Deli Lunch in the Sunshine

February 14, 2014

It feels like spring. You woke up ready for an adventure, to push aside the pile of essays you have to grade and to just be, at least for the morning.

The first part of the day is spent running important human being errands: the bead and stone store for new crystals to add to your collection; the herb store to stock up on ingredients for a new blend; the chocolate shop...because, well, chocolate is always a good thing.

The morning slowly turns to noon just as your mind turns from errands to lunch. The day calls for an old school meal at a deli counter. You want a tuna sandwich on rye tucked safely inside a basket lined with wax paper next to some decorative lettuce and a pickle spear.

You find there is no more room at the counter, but it is just a well. The sun has lured you outside to a small patio table. The cool air stirs around you and the light kisses your forehead. A man cruises by, the hood of his car down, blasting oldies from his radio. A woman rushes by carrying a bouquet of flowers. A family talks loudly at a nearby table, clearly enjoying each other. A biker zooms down the sidewalk.

And you: you sit at your table in the sun and enjoy your tuna on rye.

On the Necessity of Good Coffee

February 13, 2014

The week before you greeted the day with sub-par beans bought in a moment of desperation--you needed to replenish your coffee stash, but didn't have the wherewithal for another errand. So: you settled for some regular store brand beans.

The days to follow would teach you how foolish you were, how necessary that extra errand would become.

You brewed your first pot from those unfortunate beans on a day when you most needed a cup of rich liquid strong enough to put hair on your chest. What you got was a stale, brackish brew akin to hot, dirty water. It soured your taste buds and made your brain feel fuzzier than it already was. No. This was simply no way to start the day--any day.

You stared forlornly into your cupboard as if it would take pity on you and your Bambi gaze and procure some dark, rich grounds that had been pushed to the very back, stuck behind cans of beans and jars of olives. But no such luck.

The day unraveled as a foggy plot to find a solid cup of coffee from school cafes and nearby stores. This one had gone cold sitting on the burner too long, the other brewed too weak, yet another thick as molasses and twice as cloying. Eventually, you give up the hunt and commit to that one errand you now wished you had taken the time to run days earlier.

You buy your beans. You grind just enough for the next day, keeping the rest of your stash tightly sealed for freshness in your cupboard, as far away from the other offending beans as possible. The kitchen is perfumed with the robust chocolatey aroma--a promise of tomorrow morning's pleasures.

The next day you turn your coffee maker on, longing for the simple indulgence of good coffee too long denied you. And there it is--a perfectly brewed cup of rich, decadent goodness, the scent wafting from the mug, teasing you, begging to you take your first sip. And then another. And another.

On Home

February 12, 2014

It is your sanctuary. Your refuge from the world, from the bustle and noise. The quiet place you rest your mind and nourish your soul, peeling back the layers of the day until all that is left is you. Your tender skin exposed, breathing freely now that you've cast off your thicker skin, your armor, and hung it in your closet, where it waits, ready to be donned again the next day.

You ponder this, as you slide your key into the front door, so grateful for the coming hours of solitude. Inside, your home smells faintly of pineapple, thanks to the fruit ripening in the ceramic bowl on your kitchen counter.

You take one breath, then two, inhaling the sweet scent and taking in all your familiar things: the tea mug left just so in the kitchen sink waiting to be washed, the turquoise knitted blanket folded haphazardly on your ruby couch, the rolled yoga mat leaning against the corner of your bookshelf.

These things, your things, they are your home. They fill up your space with memories of collecting seashells on the Californian and Italian shores. Of books read and reread, first with dread sometimes and then delight as life experience seasons your understanding of what makes stories worth telling, worth reading. Then there is cooking with family, the warmth in your kitchen a by-product of the hot stove and long loving dinners.

You wrap these memories around you. You admire your things. You breathe in the homey scents of pineapple and lavender, content to once again tuck into your sanctuary for the evening.

On the Breath

February 11, 2014

Sometimes it eludes you.

You realize you have gone through your day taking only short sips of air through your mouth. It isn't until you feel the tightness in your chest that you realize your lungs have not had the chance to expand--in and out, in and out. You don't know when you stopped taking full, belly-deep breaths only that now they have turned shallow.

You stop what you are doing and simply stand there. You close your eyes. And you breathe. It is a slow breath in; you feel the air filling your lungs and making its way down to your belly. You feel each rib expanding. You feel your chest opening up, shedding the short survival breaths and the pinched feeling that came with them. You breathe out, letting a slow stream of air leave first your belly then your chest, finally your nostrils.

You do it again and again, pausing between your inhale and exhale. Now you feel your breath, not just in your lungs and belly, but your veins, your spine. It travels through each sinewy muscle bringing life with it; it sings up your spine--a vibrant coil of Shakti energy. You feel it down in your toes last. They tingle and reach towards the earth, grounding you to this world.

And you move through your day once again aware, once again firmly planted in your own skin, air filling your lungs one long, deliberate breath at a time.

On Camel Pose

February 10, 2014

You take a deep breath and stretch your body upward even as you kneel, shins planted firmly into the ground, the top of your feet glued to the floor. Your hands are anchors pressed soundly into your lower back.

Each slow sip of breath helps you reach higher into the sky until you must bend. Your spine curves in a backward swan dive; your chest is open, more open than you've dared let it be all day. It is as if the backward movement peels back the layers of your day like fragile onion skins from your body. Slowly your hands fall from your back to cup your heels, grounding you so you can fly. Your arms have become wings that lift you from your day.

You can feel your heart beating through your rib cage, light seeping through the slats of your chest bones. The well of emotion tumbles out of you, starting first in your belly, then traveling up your spine, and pouring out of your heart; it is a song you had forgotten you could sing. Your throat tightens then opens, ready to receive this luminous gift--the breath, the song, the slow dance--of camel pose, releasing all that has been buried in your soul, covered in a layer of dust, to be purged through your open chest, a ball of cleansing light.

Orange Lavender Tea

February 9, 2014

This time of year, I always have the faint longing for spring. I eye the ground hopefully, looking for that first almost-there flower bulb peeking out of the earth, its green shoots braving the cold winter air, while its roots stay firmly snuggle underground. I begin to think of my garden, of the radishes and lettuces I wish to plant. I find there is no better remedy for this early spring fever than a cup of Orange Lavender tea--it has the subtle brightness of spring from the citrus and the soothing floral aroma of winter's passing from the lavender. So when you find yourself longing to be in the dirt sowing those first seeds in your garden even though spring is still a long way off, console yourself with this gently fortifying blend.

Ingredients:

1/2 cup tulsi

1/2 cup dried orange peels

1/4 cup lavender

1/4-1/2 cup spearmint (depending on how minty you want it to be)

Health properties of ingredients:

Dried orange peel: contains vitamins A, B, and C; unblocks stagnant energy.

Lavender: a traditional nerve tonic and relaxant; antiseptic and antibacterial.

Spearmint: soothes nerves, motion sickness; cures headaches, cramps, sore throats, and stomach aches.

Tulsi: helps body adapt to stress by balancing out cortisol levels, antibacterial, and anti-fungal.

On Preparing a Dinner Party

February 8, 2014

You feel like Mrs. Dalloway on the morning of her party: fresh, excited, ready to relish everything from the flowers at the market to the bright red radishes you will pair with your Toscano cheese for appetizers.

You get to use your fancy dishes--the elegant salad bowl, a gift from your parents; the cheese tasting slate board, a new-home-splurge; and the rich gold and teal cake stand, the perfect accent for your chocolatey desert. You are even pleased that your pantry is fully stocked, ready for an impromptu dinner party without much fuss. It takes only moments to sift through the contents of your freezer and refrigerator and put together a menu--braised pork chops with winter vegetables, a salad with pistachios and beets, a platter of artisanal chocolates and citrus.

Menu complete, you turn your attention to your apartment. It is clean and tidy, as it always is. You must only tuck away your knitting and blankets, leaving your couches free for guests. You pick out the records that will best fit the evening: Bill Evans, Dave Brubeck, Gerry Mulligan. They are the perfect backdrop for a dinner with family, mellow but festive. They won't overshadow the laughter or the conversation.

The food preparations complete, your apartment fragrant with the scent of pork chops simmering in apple cider, the only thing left for you to do is don your festive dress and put on some records while you wait for your guests to arrive.

On An Unexpected Friday Morning at Home

February 7, 2014

It is not quite the snow day you had hoped for the day before. Although the trees are still coated in white crystals and there are patches of ice on the grass, most of the snow has melted, leaving behind only bracingly cold air and a pleasurable hush.

Still, it feels as if it is a snow day. Your meetings have been canceled one by one, toppling like a string of dominoes after the first push. Afternoon plans have melted with the snow too for one reason or another. It is as if the world has granted you an honorary snow day: no important things to do or places to rush off to.

You linger over your morning coffee, aware of the fact that you would be applying your last swipe of mascara and hurriedly stepping into your shoes now if you still had those meetings. Instead, you putter around the house makeup-less in a cozy cardigan.

You are hesitant to fill up this time stretched out before you; you want to continue to feel the abundance of this moment as you fill the kettle with hot water for tea and then step out onto your patio to breathe in the winter air.

There will be plenty of other Fridays to venture from your home and flit from one activity to the next. But today is not that day. So instead you linger on your porch to savor this unexpected gift and the sweet slowness of the morning.

On Almost Snow Days

February 6, 2014

The night before you had watched the snow pile up outside your window.

You went to bed thinking perhaps there will be no school tomorrow. No. That's not true. You hoped fervently there wouldn't be. Not that you don't love your work, but as soon as the snow started falling the playful child in you woke up and began dreaming of making snowmen and drinking hot chocolate and curling up next to a fire after you've exhausted yourself playing out it the snow all day.

Your childish hope was almost answered: a two-hour delay. You discover this early the next day when your alarm goes off and you roll out of bed, ready to begin your morning rituals of yoga, breakfast, coffee. Then you remember the snow and rush to your computer to check the news as if it were a gift you couldn't wait to open. There it is. A two-hour delay.

You peak outside to see the snow glowing in the darkness. You eye the clock. For a moment, you don't know what to do. Email your students? That would be the responsible adult thing to do. Stay up and go about your routine? That would be the organized thing to do--think of all the work you could get done at home. But you leave both ideas behind in favor of the simple joy of crawling back into bed, snuggling under your pile of downy comforters and knitted blankets.

It is, after all, an almost snow day.

On Introverts

February 5, 2014

You know who you are.

The quiet soul in need of home, a good book, a cup of tea to replenish yourself. The one who knows that a mellow evening listening to jazz records in the comfort of your pajamas is a legitimate Saturday night plan.

It is not enough for you to simply be out with strangers--seeing and being seen--filling up your time in an effort to be busy or important. No. That way leads only to tiredness and a dry, brittle feeling deep in your bones. If you must surround yourself with anyone, it will be your fellow introverts, the kindred spirits who understand the intricate world that unfolds in solitude. They are the ones you can linger over a pot of tea with or share in a yoga practice. The ones who relish time spent together but understand--even appreciate--when you need to curl up on your couch, just you and a novel.

Other would say you are doing nothing when you turn inward. But they do not understand the luxury of letting your mind roam unfettered, unfurling in the silence and tenderly probing one thought after another, then drifting beyond the borders of this world into others.

In these silent hours, you begin to cast off that dusty brittle feeling in your bones like an old coat, filling your body up with stories and dreams and the gentle murmur of a heart content.