summer kitchen sink salads

One of my favorite vendors at our farmers' markets is a young couple, just graduated from college. They grow interesting and heirloom varieties of all crops, and I always stop by their stand first. For the past month, their table has been filled with head lettuces of all textures, colors, and sizes. From crunchy Ice Queen (a flavorful and crisp iceberg style lettuce) to frilly Lolla Rosa, to baby romaine, all of the lettuces are delicious, and provide a perfect bed for "kitchen sink" style salads.

Every Saturday, I buy three or four heads, and come home and wash, de-slug, and spin the tender leaves. Every weekday at lunchtime, I haul out the salad spinner and fill a small serving bowl with lettuce before contemplating my next toppings. I've let the farmers' market offerings guide my toppings, which means I've been incorporating strawberries, cherries, sugar snap peas, scallions, carrots, and radishes into the salads. I've added avocado, various cheeses, pecans, chickpeas, and/or pan fried tofu for protein and complexity.

I always make my own dressings, a single serving at a time. With a variety of vinegars, several olive oils, citrus, and sweeteners to choose from, I craft tangy, light, and satisfying vinaigrettes.

vinaigrette fixins from Michigan, Italy, and Wisconsin

Here are a few particularly winning combinations for inspiration. Let your fridge and pantry, as well as your taste and cravings, guide you:

Strawberry-Avocado-Carrot-Cucumber-Sugar Snap Pea-Scallion-Pecan-Bel Gioso Four Cheese Blend with Raspberry Balsamic Vinaigrette

 [no photo of this one. sorry!]

Cherry-Avocado-Feta-Pecan-Carrot-Scallion-Chickpea with Cherry Balsamic Vinaigrette

Juicy Michigan cherries are the star of this salad. 

Sugar Snap Pea-Carrot-Scallion-Tofu with Spicy Peanut Dressing

A glamour shot of Ice Queen lettuce, which holds up particularly well to this heavier spicy peanut dressing in this Thai-influenced salad.

These salads make lunch different and delicious everyday. Filled with several servings of fruits and vegetables, and lean protein, these salads are nutritional powerhouses...that taste decadent, and provide lasting satisfaction and fullness, especially when paired with a homemade roll or buttered honey whole wheat toast. 

new recipe challenge: falafel

So often, I read food blogs and swoon over the gorgeous photography, the featured edibles glistening in the perfect natural light, the prepared dish clearly a flawless execution of the recipe.

This is not one of those blogs.

I'm being authentic.

A month or so ago I read this post on lifestyle blogs from Kristen at Rage Against the Minivan. I love her honesty, the glimpses of a real family home. While I wish I had a Pinterest-worthy workspace, I am a cluttery person. Give me a desk or table or dresser and you'll find the top strewn with the random detritus of my daily life. Currently, at my home desk you'll find projects in process: my new (pink!) filing cabinet waiting to be filled; the vintage St. Vinnie's photo frames from our wedding waiting for fabulous photos; the sweet daily yellow notes from G waiting to be filed; lipstick, bracelets, aromatherapy mist, books (always books) waiting to be properly relocated, stored, stacked.

You should see my desk at work.

But I love this space, the light pouring in from the East facing window, the succulent terrarium I made (pinterest-inspired) a few weeks ago, my vintage desk and filing cabinet, my bulletin board, and photos from Paris (c. 2010).

But I digress.

What does this creative clutter have to do with falafel?

Let's turn to photo inspiration:

I used a recipe from Olives, Lemon, and Za'atar: The Best Middle Eastern Home Cooking, by Rawia Bishara, which I checked out from the public library. Like most falafel recipes, this one calls for chickpeas that have been soaked, but not cooked. I used chickpeas I had previously cooked and froze in their own luscious broth. They were too wet, and the first patties oozed and defied crisping.

I added panko to the rest of the batter, which helped firm the patties, but they still resisted a deep crispiness, largely due to my minimal-oil pan frying technique.

And yet, the flavor was amazing—fresh, spicy, comforting and thrilling all at once. We tucked them into pita with a thick tahini sauce as suggested by Bishara.

Less than photogenic, but adventurous and delicious. 

Messy and satisfying.

My kind of world. 

summer fun: mini golf

Yesterday, Gregg and I visited our favorite mini golf course for the inaugural round of the Summer. We've been golfing this course, Harbor Pointe in Sheboygan the past few years. I love the location, nestled along the Sheboygan river, near the harbor where Lake Michigan beckons with rolling waves and refreshing breezes. 

This course challenges the amateur and experienced mini-golfer, with several traps and water features, and a tricky lighthouse hole. 

We listened to James Taylor, Carol King, and America fill the course with mellow, relaxed tunes. 

I beat Gregg on one hole. 

We considered golfing another 18 holes for half-price, but decided to walk to the end of the pier, and then drive to Duke of Devon for a refreshing beverage; their ginger lemonade hits the spot after a morning of low-stakes, high-pleasure mini golf. 

I love the simple challenges of mini golf—avoiding the traps, keeping the ball on the green, and mostly, putting. I am not a great mini golfer, and I don't try to be great. My goal: revel in the sporadic straight, sure shot; trash talk Gregg; and enjoy the Summer day.

Our city is currently building a mini golf course, set to open later this Summer. I'm eager to support this community venture, and maybe, accidentally, improve my game.

Gregg, you're on notice.

With practice, perhaps I'll win...TWO holes.

new recipe challenge: quinoa burrito bowls

I'm embarrassed—I've been scared of quinoa. 

I'm a vegetarian. I believe in eating a wide range of grains, proteins, fruits, and vegetables. 

Quinoa, along with kale, spinach, blueberries, and broccoli, embodies holy-healthy-healing in the food world I (mostly) live in. 

But. I cooked it several years ago and...didn't really like it. Was it the lack of flavor? The texture? The strange curlicues coming off of the individual seeds? 

I don't know. 

I wanted to try again, after reading many recipes featuring the seed, after being reminded that it's a complete protein, after ogling my friend's quinoa-based salads at work meetings. Perhaps I could sub quinoa for rice in one of our standard meals...

I planned last night's meal, burrito bowls, around the vat of black beans in the fridge (a trip to Fleet Farm is in order to stock up on freezer containers!) These beans are phenomenal—flavorful, easy to cook, and economical. If you're in West Michigan, check out Shady Side Farm. 

I was also inspired after reading the NPR story about President Obama's recent DC peregrination in search of everyday food: "I just walked over to Chipotle's for lunch. I caused a lot of havoc as you might expect," the president said. "It had been awhile since I had the burrito bowl, and it was good." I can sympathize. Gregg and I love Chipotle burrito bowls, though our nearest Chipotle is a good 45 minute drive away. 

Homemade burrito bowls are versatile, customizable, simple, and delicious. I usually use brown rice as the base, but substituted quinoa. To increase the flavor of the quinoa, I followed the preparation from The Kitchn, with a few modifications. I sauteed vidalia onion and garlic in the olive oil before adding the quinoa; I tossed in a chunk of carrot and celery, along with a bay leaf, to simulate the vegetable broth I didn't have. Before serving, I pulled them out of the pan. The garlic and onion melded with the fluffy quinoa, and the aromatics added subtle flavor. A drizzle of olive oil and skiff of salt at the end completed the base of our burrito bowls. 

To elevate the black beans, I sauteed vidalia onion, garlic, and a small piece of a chipotle pepper (packed in adobo) in olive oil before adding the beans. I tossed a handful of scallions in at the end. 

I also sauteed red bell peppers and vidalia onions with a sprinkling of chili powder and salt. 

Add avocado, cilantro, tomatoes, jalapenos, scallions, shredded 9 year aged Wisconsin cheddar, and sour cream, and the burrito bowl buffet was ready. 

With this blog in mind, I artfully arranged my bowl in sections, much to the amusement of my husband. I skipped the jalapeno pepper rounds and went light on tomatoes (and then passed them off on Gregg). 

In the interest of honest blogging, I share this second photo of my burrito bowl post-photo shoot and pre-eating. A glorious mess. 

The fresh flavors of the raw ingredients married with the earthy, hearty tones of the quinoa and beans, creating a satisfying dish. The quinoa was delicious, a pleasant change from rice, and a superfood to boot. Welcome back to my pantry, oh wonder seed. 

As a bonus, I share this commercial, popular last football season. It's been so effective that I can barely pronounce quinoa correctly. 

new recipe challenge: white loaves, mini crustless quiches, and tuna pasta salad

It's a cool, rainy week in Wisconsin. 

I'm coming off a month of life transitions...grieving the loss of my kind, gentle mother-in-law to cancer, and celebrating the marriage of my one and only kind and funny brother to his bride, a generous, beautiful woman I'm thrilled to call sister. 

It's been a month to remember.

I'm taking refuge in reading novels and cooking. I finished the airy darkness of Nora Roberts' latest Shadow Spell, and am now savoring Anna Quindlan's Still Life With Bread Crumbs. 

And I made bread. 

I craved the fragrance of yeast warmth, and also wanted to bake a simple white loaf that would live up to our expectations. G and I have different tastes in bread--he leans soft and malleable, while I prefer crusty and substantial. Yet both of us love a flavorful white bread, with a thin crackly crust, the scent of butter, and a soft interior. I used the recipe for white loaves from Baking With Julia, the companion cookbook to the PBS show that aired years ago (but reruns on some PBS and create channels). This simple bread meets all of our criteria and was, unlike other breads, simple to make. 

In keeping with my summer bucket list and my quest to make G's recent birthday special, I made mini crustless quiches for a portable breakfast (served with buttered toast made from the homemade bread). One of our favorite quiche combinations is caramelized onion, spinach, and feta. I added fresh basil and a not-hearty enough squirt of Sriracha to the egg mixture. What a simple, delicious make-ahead breakfast! And the add-ins are endless...broccoli, peppers, mixed herbs, Gruyere or other interesting cheeses, squashes, and even breakfast meats for my non-vegetarian husband.  

For a lunch treat, I made tuna pasta salad, a favorite of Gregg's. Single serving tuna pouches are the greatest gift for tuna haters (me). Open, squeeze out the tuna into whatever dish you're making, and be done with it. I used small shell pasta to nestle all of the veggies and tuna chunks. Tiny diced red and yellow peppers, a good chunk of a zippy jalapeno, diced with seeds and membrane, for my spice-loving husband. Vidalia onion, Famous Dave's spicy sweet pickles, salt and lots of freshly ground black pepper. I doused the salad with white balsamic vinegar, a drizzle of olive oil, and a big scoop of plain Greek yogurt. I hoped the salad was as delicious as it was pretty, since I didn't taste it. G loved the spicy kick, the pickles, and the combination of veggies. 

New recipes and cooking workday breakfast and lunch for G: check these two items off of my bucket list. Thus inspired, I will continue to play and experiment! 

new recipe challenge: carrot and chickpea salad

Tender carrots, crisp chickpeas, nutty sauce: what's not to love? This salad, from my favorite food blog Smitten Kitchen, would brighten up a cold winter day. It's also a fitting counterpoint to delicate Spring asparagus (which we're eating every day, every which way). Last night, I made a simple pasta with frozen snap peas, fresh roasted asparagus, and a Greek yogurt-lemon-Parmesan sauce. This salad added a hearty dose of protein and color to the meal. I omitted the pistachios and parsley from the original carrot salad recipe, working with ingredients I had on hand. Neither Gregg or I could decide whether we liked the pasta or salad better, a positive sign that both dishes are keepers. The lemon in both dishes helps create a cohesive meal, and the bright citrus tang cuts through the creaminess of both sauces.

Summer 2014 Bucket List

My friend Pam recently posted her Summer 2014 Bucket List, which inspired me to kickstart my daily journaling habit (long lapsed) and return to blogging with a simple, fun, and easy writing task: creating a list. I love lists--they embody possibility and planning, goals and dreams. Lists are shorthand for projects that promise unexpected discoveries; lists lay out simple tasks to be completed. Lists ground my free-flowing creativity in direction and order.

Dharmagirl's Summer 2014 Bucket List:

1. Bake macarons.

2. Attend at least one outdoor concert (preferably Summerfest).
3. Hike.
4. Go sailing with the WTFS women.
5. Paint our bedroom.
6. Finish Grandpa's memoir.
7. Submit flash fiction pieces to my online class and complete G's flash fiction challenge.
8. Write most days, starting with morning pages.
9. Read every day, not just at bed-time, but throughout the day. Read across genres.

10. Walk, bike, and yoga most days. 

11. Reconnect with friends via email, letters/cards, phone calls, and visits.
12. Make a photo wall in the living room.
13. Organize our bookshelves.
14. Cook a new recipe each week.
15. Challenge myself in small ways--hard reading, more sun salutations, etc.
16. Spend time in Michigan.

17. Take myself on more short solo excursions.
18. Recommit to formal daily training with Hazel.
19. Make breakfast and/or lunch treats for Gregg.
20. Get a tattoo.
21. Visit with colleague-friends.
22. Create!
23. Decorate with fresh flowers. 

24. Visit the Madison farmers' market.
25. Have friends over for drinks, dessert, dinner.
26. Take a mini-break with Gregg. 

daily bliss: simple summer lunch: chickpea and kale tacos

I love preparing lunch during the summer. When hunger calls, I survey the farm-fresh vegetables in the crisper drawer,  leftovers in little glass bowls, Wisconsin cheeses in the fridge door. I stare into the pantry at grains and oils and vinegars. A meal takes shape in my head, and my hands spring to action.

Today's offering represents my new favorite quick leftover lunch: corn tortillas crisped in an oiled pan, topped with a skiff of some flavorful cheese (in this case, Gruyere). I spoon on a sauteed melange of garlic, onion, kale stems and leaves, chickpeas, and red pepper flakes, dressed with lemon juice, salt and pepper. A few slices of avocado completes the deliciously simple meal.

I read a story or two from the Sunday New York Times; I listen to Billy Collins delivering the day's literary history on The Writer's Almanac. I sip tea, iced or hot, and eat. Fortified, I carve out my afternoon: teaching, reading, dabbling, dreaming.

daily bliss: snowflakes

The first snow of the season has danced through the sky all day long, prompting two passes by the city plow, and creating a soft landscape. I've been ensconced in fleece inside all day, still trying to overcome this late semester cold. Besides a walk through freshly fallen snow on a crystalline, blue, sunny, crisp winter morning, this is my favorite way to experience snow: from the warmth within.

As I watch the Lions-Packers battle on the frozen tundra (also from a safe distance), I cut several snowflakes from copy paper. Folding, snipping, playing, experimenting, I created six lacy flakes to grace our front and back door windows.

And I felt a little like a kid again, playing with snow.

daily bliss: taking care

Mrs. Grass' chicken noodle soup, flavor enhanced by a wee golden egg. Kraft macaroni and cheese. Tea. Juice. Warm blankets. Mom's soothing care.

When I'm feeling under the weather, these are the things I long for.

For many years, living alone, I had to drag myself to the store for the provisions, and fix my own soup, brew my own tea, and feel sorry for myself in silence, regaling my Mom with details of my illness over long distance.

Through the years, I turned to friends and neighbors for supplies the very few times I was sick enough to not leave home.

Since Gregg and I have lived together, we've taken on the loving task of caring for one another in sickness. We've discovered that I like to be taken care of; he mostly wants to be left alone. And so we nurture each other in the ways that suit us best. This time around, he fixed me tofu noodle soup following my detailed directions, brewed me tea, brought me water and juice, cooked oatmeal for breakfast, and gave the bed over to me the night I was tossing and turning, shivering and sweating.

Today, when I started feeling better, we made homemade mac-and-cheese-and-broccoli together, and diced peppers and onions for black bean soup, taking care.

There's an art to taking care, balancing the needs of the person being cared for and the person caring. We're finding our way, and giving each other comfort.

daily bliss: weekend breakfast

Back when G and I were dating, I made special breakfasts most Saturdays and Sundays. These days, I strive to create a non-oatmeal breakfast at least one weekend morning.

As I attempted to fall asleep last night, I conjured up this morning's breakfast: sour cream pancakes (made with part whole wheat flour and touched with cinnamon), with quick strawberry sauce, maple syrup, and toasted almonds.

G magically appeared, bed-headed but bright eyed, right as the last pancake was bubbling in the skillet. Excellent timing.

What a sweet start to a domestic day of holiday decorating and leaf hauling and essay grading and laundry.

daily bliss: the dress

I remember sunny summer afternoons, before or perhaps after blueberry picking season, when I toted my red plastic briefcase of art supplies to the backyard. Our canvas tent, airing out after one of our family vacations spent at Michigan state parks, made a perfect work space. I flipped the pages in my drawing tablet and selected my pencils and began to sketch. It was always the same: a woman's body, with little detail on face or hands, the emphasis on the dress. My favorite dress was inspired by Anne of Green Gables' early obsession with puff sleeves, as well as the contemporary fashion trends of big shoulders and sleeves that bespoke empowerment. I still remember the white dress, with big puffed short sleeves, adorned with bows. The fitted bodice erupted into a ballgown skirt, and the dress was embellished with pastel floral and swirl embroidery. I loved this dress. I wanted this dress. 

And, a few years later, when I was a sophomore in college, I tacked up my favorite Estee Lauder Beautiful ad, featuring a bride in a puff sleeved confection of a dress. I would, according to the elaborate timelines my friends and I created, marry at age 24, in such a dress. I also imagined the romantic repartee between myself  (J) and my future suitor (FS):

FS: What scent are you wearing?

J: Beautiful.

FS: How fitting, because you are beautiful. 

J: (beaming, rapturously in love)

Clearly I was in college, and soon to be majoring in English literature, for a reason. I needed better  romantic repartee (hello, Mr. Darcy!).

Fast forward some decades, to early August 2011, when my beloved boyfriend G and I have just become engaged. Within two weeks, I was wedding dress shopping. While my fashionista tendencies have ebbed and flowed depending on paychecks and student loan payoffs, as well as proximity to shopping centers, I still love clothing, especially fancy dress clothes. The kind of gowns that have a limited use, that stun with well-cut lines and sensual fabrics. The kind of clothes I have worn, well, almost never in my life. This was my chance. 

I previously blogged about the first wedding dress shopping trip here, and these first two photos show my interest in tea-length gowns and lace. I dreamed of a tea-length, fitted bodice and floofy skirted 1950s vintage style. I even had one such dress, purchased on eBay long before our engagement. This bargain dress featured a pink taffeta underlayer and lace overlay, with a pink chiffon embellished bustline. Somehow, though, this look wasn't flattering, and while I loved the party feel of a short dress, I didn't feel sufficiently bridal. 

Bridal. What does that mean? I knew what it meant in the 1990s when my friends and I had a strict, conventional timeline to adhere to: graduate, marry, wait two years, have kids. The bridal phase would truly be one of transition, from the newly minted independence of recent college grad to a wife, soon-to-be mother. This narrative alluded all of us, in one way or another, and I think we're all better, stronger, truer selves because of it. But what does bridal mean when you're engaged at 38, in your first serious relationship, cohabiting, and sporting enough degrees to justify your student loan payments? What does is mean when your plan, post-marriage is to move to a bigger (rented) home, earn tenure, and consider a canine "child"? 

This question, and the corresponding question of what a wife is when you follow a more progressive, feminist, deeply spiritual but not religious, ethical model, accompanied me throughout our engagement. 

I realized that I wanted the long gown. I wanted the sweep of some kind of train. I wanted a dress that would trail romantically across the beach, where our wedding would be. I wanted a gown with some kind of sleeves, and I hoped for a gown made in America. I found Premiere Couture, a perfect bridal shop in Madison, Wisconsin. When I told Laura what I wanted, she pulled several dresses, including one that met all of my wishes. 

Since strapless dresses are so ubiquitous, I tried a few here, and loved the previous dress, an airy silk dress by Canadian designer Lea-Ann Belter. As rivulets of sweat manifested everywhere during our ceremony, I thought back to this dress and had a moment where I wished I was wearing one lightweight layer instead of double-faced satin with a double lace overlay. 

Alas, that gown, nor this classic, elegant strapless lace couldn't compete with the gown that felt perfectly me. 

With a flattering v-neck line, a ruched satin waistband trimmed with satin covered buttons in the back, to the a-line skirt and short train, from the scalloped edges of the Italian re-embroidered lace, my gown, Amber by New York designer Janet Nelson Kumar, was everything I could hope for. I felt bridal, but most importantly, I felt me. 

The dress was hot on a 90 degree day when the reliable Lake Michigan breeze had apparently absconded, but was keeping the white reception tent, some five miles inland, relatively cool. Still, I had no trouble lifting the dress and traipsing into the chilly waters post-ceremony before greeting and hugging family and friends. 

My dress was one of the clearest links to bridal and wedding tradition, as the color, style, fabrics neatly fit into conventional trends. And while G and I eschewed many wedding traditions, we agreed that the dress would be secret until that moment he saw me crest the dune, walking with both of my parents. A little mystery creates a greater allure around the dress. 

Later, my mom helped bustle my dress for the dancing hours to come. And, yes, I was true to the claim I made to post-college roommate K that I would dance all night at my wedding. And, yes, I can be added to the long list of brides whose bustle falls out with an errant step. The ribbon tie came loose, but my dress is just fine. 

I wore my dress to the hotel, and reluctantly took it off, hanging it in the closet after inspecting the hem for beach and grass stains. The mystery was gone, the dress worn, sweat-slicked, and a little frayed and dirty around the hem. Soon it will be cleaned, then I'll hang it in a muslin bag in my closet, in our new home, and in subsequent homes to come. I'll slip into it on random occasions and twirl around my bedroom, remembering a day of such great happiness, such beauty, so perfectly me and G and us. 

Will I trash my dress, wading deeper into the lake for soulful, artful photographs? Doubtful. Will I throw a wedding gown and other fancy dress party? Perhaps. 

G is packing some of his wedding garb for our honeymoon to Seattle, and I'm envious on one level. Will he wear the clothes and relive the memories? Will the linen shirt and purple Chuck Taylors bring him back to a marriage of water and sand, of smiling faces, and swirling dances? Or will they lose their allure in the everyday? I can see both outcomes.

A wedding gown holds dreams, desires, intentions, and mostly, the woman who is moving between fiance and bride to wife. Ultimately, through all my questioning of what these roles are, I've found that the answer has always been to be, well, me. To live and love in the ways I know, and some ways I've yet to learn. And that is as, nay, more beautiful than a once-in-a-lifetime gown. 

daily bliss: epithalamium

"An epithalamium... is a poem written specifically for the bride on the way to her marital chamber" (source: wikipedia (yes, i know this is not an authoritative source, but it's what i have to work with now).

Since poetry has shaped so much of our beginnings and settling-ins, I wanted to try my hand at this ancient form, for Gregg, on this, our wedding day. This is a rough, rough draft that I will polish for the next 50+ years of our life together. I love you Gregg, and I can't wait to be married.

Epithalamium
for Gregg 

One plus One
is magically Three—
You and Me and
the Space in between:
the curve of the ampersand,
where everything conjoins
and expands; the shoreline, 
where water and sand reshape
one another...
constant
mutuality
liminality
marriage.

daily bliss: wedding baking

G and I co-write a monthly food column for the local weekly paper that G works for, and this month I wrote about our wedding cupcakes. I hope you enjoy! 

blossom, dressed in flour and chocolate

This week we're deviating from our usual he-ate, she-cooked format since Gregg is consumed with Groom duties as the wedding date approaches. I jest. I think. He's back in Wisconsin; I'm in Michigan helping with landscaping the reception site (my parents' home) and being showered by friends and family. 

On my last trip to Michigan a few weeks ago, I toted my trusty pink Kitchen Aid mixer (named Blossom); pounds of Pine River Dairy butter; bags of flour, sugar, nuts, and cocoa to my parents' house in Michigan for a baking extravaganza. I've dreamed about baking my own cupcakes for our wedding, and in three long morning baking sessions, I created 250 cupcakes for our special day.

Gregg and I taste tested recipes for the past six months, and finally settled on vanilla, chocolate, and carrot as our three flavors, and we selected recipes from some of my favorite cooks--Dorie Greenspan, Martha Stewart, and Deb from the Smitten Kitchen blog. We were looking for moist, flavorful cakes that would stand up well to a month in the freezer. 

Each baking morning, I tied on my favorite all-purpose apron and set out my ingredients. While I know all of the baking rules about room temperature ingredients and precise measurements, I often relax these standards in everyday baking. Not so for these cakes. I followed the recipes religiously, carefully rotating the pans in the oven as they baked for even temperature distribution. I nicked my hands on the hot oven racks once or twice, but the burns are already faded. 

As I creamed butter and sugar and roasted nuts and scraped vanilla beans, I also thought of Gregg and our celebration to come. I love baking recipes we previously enjoyed together, and I love the idea of sweetness and celebration. For what else is a wedding about? I thought of one of my favorite novels, Laura Esquivel's Like Water for Chocolate. Tita, the main character, infuses her emotions into the food she cooks. The wedding cake she created for her sister's wedding (to Tita's true love), causes the guests to sob and fall into a deep sadness over unfulfilled love. On the contrary, I want our guests to taste our love, and to feel joy, lightness and laughter with each bite. Thinking of my family and friends eating the cupcakes while happy music plays made the joy infusion even easier. 

The baking wasn't without some glitches. As the first batches of vanilla cupcakes cooled, they pulled away from the beautiful golden papers I had specially purchased for all of the cakes. Apparently grease-free also means quick-release, not ideal for neat, contained cupcakes. I plan on removing these cakes from the papers and placing them in new papers when it comes time to thaw and frost. For the rest of the baking, however, I used classic foil grocery store papers for a simple, elegant appearance, with no more mess. 

I baked all morning, three days that week, while my Mom was at work, and when she arrived home at noon to a house scented with sweet vanilla, cinnamon and spice, or warm chocolate, I was pulling the last cupcakes out of the oven and loading the dishwasher with bowls and spatulas and measuring cups and spoons. Each day, I offered her half of a cupcake--the leftover test cake I had previously sampled. Vetting the recipes ahead of time paid off, as each test cake met our expectations of moisture, crumb, flavor, and shape. 

chocolate cupcakes everywhere!

The kitchen table was filled with cupcakes until we packed them away for the freezer, sealing them in foil baking pans. Mom and Grandma generously moved around their stash of last year's berries and venison steaks to make room in their chest freezers for the cupcakes until it's time to frost, decorate, serve, and eat them under the stars on July 14. 

My wedding party and I will spend the day before the wedding carefully spreading frosting on the cakes. While I've seen gorgeous cupcake creations on the Food Network and in cooking magazines, I have a simpler, more realistic vision in mind: a generous spread of buttercream, topped with something that hints at the flavors inside, whether a carrot slice or chocolate covered espresso bean. 

I can't wait to set the cake table with my collection of vintage cake stands and depression glass plates in shades of pink, jade, milk glass, and clear glass. I also baked one six inch layer of each flavor, which I'll stack, fill and cover with cream cheese frosting (Gregg's favorite). Crowned with a vintage bride and groom cake topper, this will be our cake to take back to the hotel with us, to freeze and eat on another happy day when we celebrate our marriage, tasting the love in every bite. 

daily bliss: market time

Saturday morning I giddily walked downtown with G, soaking up the warm sun, gentle breeze, and anticipation. We noted the bright tents dotting the parking lot across from the library, next to the river. I prolonged my excitement a bit longer as we stopped at our favorite Saturday breakfast spot, Wrap it Up, for a large Alterra coffee. Then, the moment was upon us: the first market day of the season.  

We chatted with friends, vendors, and even a local newspaper reporter. Then, we bought veggies—so much green. 

Sunday night, after finishing addressing and assembling and sealing our wedding invitations, we made risotto primavera. I sauteed asparagus and set it aside so it wouldn't be soft and overcooked. Then, I made a delicious base of butter sauteed carrots and onions, added rice, and a generous splash of wine. A simmering pot of homemade veggie stock made an easy, taste task of ladling stock and stirring rice. 

I baked squares of tofu and made a sort-of chimichuri sauce of cilantro, garlic, lime juice, and olive oil. It was bright, tangy, and delicious on the slightly dry tofu. A bed of steamed spinach completed the plate. 

Some meals come together even better than in my mind, and this was one. I like to credit the fresh, local veggies, as well as my less stressed frame of mind: a Sunday night when the semester is finished and all the grading in is luxurious. And, that first Sunday off the academic calendar: magical. 

daily bliss: happy holidays!

We're happy holidays folks in our household, not because we hate Christmas and everything it stands for—we both grew up celebrating Christmas at home and at church—but because we have a wide and varied circle of friends who celebrate the range of early winter holidays, and we want to include them. We want the transition between the old and new, the days of dwindling light and growing darkness, to be filled with warmth and love. And, in our minds, that's what all of the holidays do. (save Festivus, but that's a whole other post).

On the solstice, which was also the second day of Hanukah, I made latkes, using the recipe from the red tome of awesomeness otherwise known as the New York Times Cookbook. I riffed a little on the recipe, adding finely chopped rosemary to the batter, and using regular flour (having neither potato flour nor matzo meal). I fried them in less oil than called for, and used a mixture of olive and canola. 

In lieu of the traditional applesauce, I made a chunky pear sauce, infused with vanilla bean and topped with a hint of cinnamon sugar. 

The latkes were tender inside and crisp outside. The pears were edging on sweetness and fragrant. The sour cream, which these two dairy lovers couldn't resist, was tangy. 

As we ate next to our Christmas tree and observed the crystalline night sky, we felt warmth, and most of all, love.

Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays!

daily bliss: sailing away

The docks creak as the boat pulls away, easing into the harbor. I'm sleepy awake—a short night's slumber, an early morning, two non-drowsy Dramamine—and I feel a little woozy.

Around me, fellow passengers eat breakfast from trays and the air smells smoky sweet, essence of bacon and maple syrup. Families file outside to watch as we glide into the open sweet water sea of Lake Michigan. People dot the breakwater and piers, waving to the big ship as it cruises west for the last time this season.

The Michigan dunes are impressionistic autumnal. The lake rolls with small waves, and the ship lumbers along, at a slow 16 miles per hour.

I am sad.

The falling leaves, the last day of sailing, both signs of the coming winter. My mom, now out of sight, driving back down the lake, farther away form me. My cell phone spins and roams, still connecting but not for long.

A group of Great Lakes Maritime Academy students gather in the lounge downstairs, and a young man with piercing eyes stares my way.

I sit in the upper aft deck, where small round tables fill an airy enclosed room. I can face forward, which is west, which is the direction of my chosen home, where my fiance waits for me.

A toddler with long blond hair and a pink sweatshirt grapples with a glittery Rubik cube. She sits on her grandma's lap; her mom types a college paper on her laptop, a classic composition notebook at her side.

The boat is full.

A stack of papers fills my clipboard and my purple pen is uncapped and poised to critique my students' words.

Old people, young people sport sea bands to prevent motion sickness, and drink coffee. The ruffle of cards being shuffled, and the banter of multi-person games surround me.

My cell phone sits next to me, as I hope to catch the moment when we slip between time zones. The phone is confused, switching back and forth, and time eludes me.

Our here in the middle of the lake, I am somewhere and nowhere. I am home.

The boat bustles with conversation and activity. A dedicated stream of people perambulates the outdoor deck, eyes shining in the bright morning sun, hair winging back in the light breeze. My cell signal is lost, and I settle in, deeper, into myself.

The 410 foot ship plies the water, frothing the dark aquamarine depths into a deep V and enfolding whirls. One hour away from docking, and the shore of Wisconsin begins to rise on the horizon, shadowy and ill-defined.

A father and young daughter eat soft pretzels. A Grandma walks briskly around the boat. On the fore deck, books claim chaise lounges and, inexplicably, a Canadian flag flutters from the bow.

Back in the aft lounge, a brother cajoles his sister to smile for the camera, "Bree! Say cheese!"  while a large family eats pizza and plays cards. Behind me, a woman meticulously pores over bound lab reports.

People move, shift, pack up, and disappear into the boat, but I stay rooted, a stack of papers, now graded, a slim volume of short stories beckoning like candy.

As we glide into the harbor, I scan the shore for my neighborhood, my workplace. As we pull closer to shore, poised to back into the dock, I circle around to the port side and scan the shore for a familiar figure, tall, dressed in short sleeves and jeans, lifting a Nikon, and walking with a gait I recognize from a distance.

The captain blows the horn a few extra times, and the dock replies. Soon, she will depart for one more trip across the Lake and then settle in for winter.

I gather my bags, walk down the stairs, head into the bright sun, and a warm hug.

daily bliss: late summer, meet early fall

Warm sunshine hits my bare shoulders, and the lake sparkles with caribbean hues. At the farmers' market, huge zucchini and cucumbers share table space with hard shelled butternut squashes and crisp apples. The sun sets earlier everyday, and darkness brings chilliness. It's almost time to put the cotton blanket back on the bed, and to haul out the lightweight sweaters.

My days are filled with teaching, reading for class, and responding to student writing, balanced with journaling, reading for fun, watching football, and trolling wedding sites for inspiration.

I love these bridge seasons of summer to fall, and spring to summer, when the best aspects of each season balance each other.

Like returning to the classroom, and dreaming of the future.

daily bliss: not a princess but a woman

this is not my dress. this is a BIG dress. a heavy dress. 

Highstepping into a big, ballgown, strapless wedding dress, I tried not to look too closely in the mirror until I was zipped and clipped in.

Body image issues, bridal style.

Magnified by layers of tulle or disguised under heavy lace.

My inaugural wedding dress shopping experience left me feeling frustrated with this body of mine, and wondering about what kind of dress would feel right.

I am not a princess.

I do not want to utter that stock bridal phrase, "I feel like a princess," at any time during this betrothal-wedding process.

I want to recognize myself in the mirror, whether clad in lace or tulle or denim or cotton.

I left the shop, glad for the fun outing with two of my attendants/best friends, Mom, and Grandma, but unsatisfied with the dresses themselves.

On Monday, back in Wisconsin, I drove diagonally across the state to Premiere Couture, a dress boutique on one of my favorite streets in Madison. Once I walked into the shop, I felt hopeful.

Laura selected several dresses for me based on my descriptions of what I wanted. The dresses were light, elegant, bridal, and beautiful. No overwhelming tulle or heavy laces. Just pretty gowns.

The first one I tried on looked and felt...like me only...bridal. I loved it.

While not all the dresses felt like me, they all felt sophisticated and bridal and relevant. The collection at Premiere Couture stands out; as Laura said, they have dresses for women. (not princesses, I thought).

Readers, I bought the first dress I tried here and I love it. I can't describe it just yet, but I can tell you that I feel absolutely beautiful, elegant, romantic, and absolutely accepting of my body as it is right now in this dress. And that is amazing.

Now, if I can just find some back-to-school clothes that elicit that same feeling:)

daily bliss: betrothal

It's all I have to bring today –

This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

Emily Dickinson, #26

"Are you awake?" Gregg whispered.

"Mmm," I mumbled.

"Wanna go see the sunrise?"

"Okay." I looked at the clock: 5:15 am. I rolled out of bed, twisted my hair up in a clip, pulled on my favorite pink Patagonia shirt, and grabbed my glasses, camera, and phone. 

By 5:30, we were driving the two minute route down to sunburn beach (called so in memory of our fourth date when we got lost in conversation and forgot to reapply sunscreen). The light was dim, an almost colorless pastel, with blue-grey clouds popping over the lake. 

"I think it's going to be good," Gregg said, an undercurrent of doubt in his words. 

"It won't rise until 5:45, according to the weather channel," I added, ever optimistic. 

 We waited, cameras poised, until we saw a hot pink ball slip slowly above the horizon, huge and magnificent. It plied its way through the low lying clouds and ascended, turning golden the higher it rose.

I sat on a big white boulder, wrapped in a beach towel from Gregg's car. I was half asleep, waiting to go home and snuggle back into bed and delicious sleep. 

Gregg reached for my hand and pulled me up. We walked along the shore, and then he led me into the water. It was right on the edge of chilly and warm, still, lapping our calves. 

"In light of our conversation last night..." Gregg started and I looked confused, as he began to lower one knee into the water. (last night's conversation about weddings and marriage and such was provoked by the film Sweet Home Alabama, which I love, and which was on cable TV).

I looked at him with some degree of disbelief, which I come by naturally, readers, since he has assumed this position at least twice before to ask me questions as awesome as "Will you write a monthly food column with me?" and as mundane as "will you go to the movies with me?"

He reached in his pocket, and suddenly he was holding a shiny, shimmery, sparkly ring that looked an awful lot like the one I tried on in Douglas, Michigan a few weeks ago. 

Neither of us can remember his exact words, filled with love and the desire to share the rest of our lifetimes together, but we both remember the all important question: will you marry me? 

"Yes, of course!" I replied, stunned and utterly surprised and all of the sudden waking up from my half-sleep. This is really happening! I can't believe this is really happening!

Gregg slid the ring on my finger and I gazed at him in wonder as I giggled and said silly things like "We're engaged!" and "You're my fiancé!" 

We reveled in the moment, alone on the beach, feeling that our lives were both different and the same all at once. We drove home and waited a little while to call our parents. I brewed coffee, which Gregg actually drank (he has a policy that he generally only drinks straight-up coffee on holidays. I noted that this was definitely a special day, if not technically a holiday).

As we woke up, we decided to treat ourselves to a lovely, long brunch at the American Club in Kohler, Wisconsin, something we've also put in the "special occasion only" category. On our drive to the restaurant, I called more family and friends to share the news. "I'm engaged!" "We're engaged!" The words formed in my mouth as they took shape in my head. I stared at my finger, at this gorgeous, sparkly vintage 1920's ring from the town where I was born, and loved the symbolism on so many layers. What an amazing gift from my best friend, who I now call fiancé and will (relatively) soon call husband (we're working on dates and plans). 

I don't have a ring to offer him (though an engagement gift is in the works), so for today I offer up the Emily Dickinson poem that starts this post. I share myself, I share the world, I share forever. I love you, Gregg.