Pink of Perfection

There is much to be said for what discomforts a change of scenery can ease. And because I have been nursing a cold with a sore throat that only tom yum soup, apple cider, and hot tea could make feel better, we went apple picking.

It was 80 degrees, and the pumpkins and hay bales looked completely out of place in the hot sun. Sebastian and I piled into a wagon filled with children and their parents and rode into an orchard where rows and rows of Piñata apples were––literally!––ripe for the picking. It was so pretty there, with tiny apple blossoms and lush, glossy leaves on the trees, dark green grass below our feet and a big blue sky above. We wandered between trees to the Empires, then the Golden Delicious, and finally the Suncrisps. Later, with our modest five-pound haul, we walked back to the orchard entrance and bought some cider donuts, still hot in their white paper bag. We shared a cold bottle of cider and sat in a shady spot in the grass. I wondered what had taken me so long to do what has long been on my fall fun list.

Colds lead to thick, murky thoughts and minutes lost to staring off into the distance. And so Sebastian had to figure out what to make with all those apples. Wouldn’t you know that the rookie would come out of the gates with a grand slam? My mom makes the simplest of apple pies: just peeled wedges, sugar, cinnamon, and dots of butter. What Sebastian baked was ultra-rich, and bubbled over with a caramel-like sauce. It might have been the best slice of apple pie I’ve ever had. We shared a single slice hot from the oven late last night and pronounced it a victory. (But I’m still partial to tarte tatin.)

I didn’t intend for this post to be about Sebastian’s triumph in the kitchen or to tell you about the killer apple pie recipe he found. Both were just serendipity! I set out just to recount this kind of magic moment in the weekend where even with an aching throat there was something so sweet about wandering, foggy-headed, through an orchard in the sunshine. Why did something so simple feel so utterly divine?

We play this game in our house from time to time, “what was your favorite moment?” And the surprising thing is that it’s never the fancy dinners or big to-dos we planned for, spent money on. It’s always something unassuming and random, like a nice walk, or seeing some hilarious dog, or reaching up into an apple tree, grabbing a piece of ripe fruit, and biting right into it.

Continue reading “Sweet Suprises and Apple Pie” »

Tomorrow is the official beginning of fall, but the new season changed for me with my book club’s “last hurrah of summer” weekend trip to Cape Cod. It was like a last gasp. We walked down to the beach on Saturday, and the early September air made sitting in the sand in your bathing suit just a little too cold. We braved the water anyway, and swam far out past the kelp to discuss our book in a water-treading circle. Some of us turned back after that, to get a closer look at the seersucker-and-boat-shoe wedding happening back on shore, but a few of us swam out to a sandbar. The swim warmed us up, and the shallow felt warmer. I could have sat in the sun on there all afternoon: fingers and toes in the sand, hair whipping dry in the wind, talking with my dear friend. And had she not spotted the tiny, translucent jellyfish surrounding us, we might have. We had tingly fingers later, but we survived, and it’s still one of my favorite memories of the summer.

The whole weekend felt a little like that: wonderfully fun, but a little bittersweet. And isn’t that always the way when summer ends? The air was just a little too crisp, the sunlight just a little too soft. We all knew the seasons were changing, and that work waited for us at the end of our six-hour drive back home. And until Sunday, I was almost convinced of charade, dancing into the wee hours, and having a beach picnic (champagne + pepper jelly and cream cheese = heaven), breaking into big, gorgeous lobsters at dinner and drinking rosé like it was still humid July. But morning Sunday broke and the jig was up.

Once I got over my initial resistance––and that is always my way––fall felt good. Women broke out their tall boots, my coffee went from iced to hot, apples had new appeal, and I saw a little boy on a street corner wearing plaid and holding a football. Suddenly, that soft light seemed downright enchanting.

A year ago this fall, my life felt very different. I had so much free time, and I used it to write, to cook, to make playlists, to go to the library and buy dahlias. It was a very, very nice way to live, and it gave me lots of lovely things to share here. But as the year drew to a close and we started talking about what we wanted in the new one, I knew what I needed next: fullness. I had spent the past two years living quietly, and it seemed high time to turn up the volume. I was used to the breathing room of free hours, but I wanted to fill my life right up to the edges.

That saying about being careful with your wishing? Yeah, it’s cliché for a reason.

Continue reading “Telling Truths” »

My best friend and I hadn’t seen each other since Thanksgiving, way too long in our book. She finished grading papers, I met a deadline, and we reunited on a bitterly cold evening at the dark wood bar of a cozy tavern in the West Village. The banquettes were covered in plaid, and we both ordered a drink called the Forager’s Press. Made with rye, apple, honey syrup, and lemon, we felt instantly warmed and appropriately holiday. More drinks followed, we cleaned our plates. We took notes on the Ultimate Mixtape of 2011 and talked about how we’d spend imaginary millions if it could only be spent on jewelry. We both went home with our wallets a good deal emptier but feeling very, very rich. I can’t imagine a better way to ring in the holidays.

Still glowy from such fun, I had to replicate that drink. This is my best effort, a little twist on a recipe that was in a very fun cocktail feature in the New York Times. My husband was my taste tester. First he puckered his face up. “It’s very sour.” I added more honey. “I’m just not a mixed drink guy. It’s like Christina Hendricks said: men should drink Scotch.”

Whatever. I made my drink, purred at its deliciousness with each sip, and sat on the couch finishing some work. But you know what I looked up to see about thirty minutes later? An empty glass next to my Scotch-drinking beloved.

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Apple Smash” »

When an acquaintance from college moved to New York two summers ago, Sebastian and I offered to put them up for a night as they began their hop from couch to couch. She was more of a friend-of-a-friend than a true blue bosom pal, but I was more than happy to host them. We had shared bowls of cereal together when the dining hall options were subpar, and I have an irrepressible sweetness towards anyone who went to my alma mater.  But more importantly, this woman’s mother had taken me out for lunch years ago when she was passing through an Italian city where I was stationed for a semester, homesick and melancholy. She fed me and gave me some wine, and sent me back onto the cobblestones feeling set right again. So we blew up the air mattress and turned the air-conditioner on high.

The poor things. They arrived carrying heavy bags strapped to every part of their bodies. They’d been searching for our apartment number for a good fifteen blocks, having accidentally gotten off the subway one stop too early. It was June, and very humid, and my heart went out to them. Carrying heavy things in humidity is one of my visions of hell.

We ate sharp cheddar cheese and triscuits and drank a very cold rosé, and when Sebastian asked how well we really knew each other, our guest’s response was a little embarrassing for me. “I know Sarah really likes cocktails.”

Guilty as charged. At the time of their stay, though, I was feeling much too poor to spring for giant bottles of booze. Instead,I would lay out crumbled singles and slide quarters across the wine shop counter to pay for a bottle of wine. Who am I kidding: if need be, I charged it.

Cocktails in summer are dangerous business. I get so wiltingly hot that I can suck something potent down in just a few sips. But cocktails in winter are practically required: a quick warmer, a medicinal antiseptic, a honeyed drop on the throat with a fun extra kick.

My friend Laureen served these at our most recent book club. I wasn’t feeling well that night and I only decided to have one for the––you guessed it––medicinal quality of bourbon and honey on my sore throat. Also, what goes with the steamy heat between Rochester and Jane better than a stiff drink? A gypsy costume! Kidding. Anyway, I am exceedingly glad I drank one (er, two) of these. It gave me the dramatic daring to conduct a stirring reading, complete with voices, of a passionate yet understated encounter between Jane her “her master.” And then, in two weeks time, I rushed out to buy the ingredients myself.

First, you’ll need a bottle of amaro, a kind of Italian liqueur from herbs. It’s commonly consummed as a digestif and is a bit bitter, a bit sweet, and a little syrupy (fernet, also a kind of amaro, is the bitterest). There are many different brands of amari out there, which is always a surprise when you’re introduced to an entirely new-to-you category of spirits. I scanned the shelf and bought the cheapest one, cause that’s how I roll after I’ve purchased a $25 bottle of bourbon.

Make two drinks for you and a friend (or “the master” in your life), nibble a couple crostini––one with blue cheese and fig jam, one with ricotta and pesto––and welcome the weekend. Cheers!

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Italian Manhattan & Blue Cheese Fig Nibbles” »

On Saturday night, I had a chicken in the oven, my sister on the couch, and a bottle of prosecco in the fridge. I was telling myself (and anyone who would listen) that it was my Jesus Take the Wheel dinner party. Sometimes when life doesn’t feel like it’s going your way, the best thing to do is give up the illusion that you are at all in control, cast your fate to the winds, and sit down at the dinner table with your family. And eat cake. You must eat cake.

My sister, husband, and brother-in-law carried their chairs into the kitchen to keep me company while I chopped. Squeezed into the tiny space between the garbage can and the fridge, they were nibble garlicky olives and duck pâté with pistachios (it’s nice to have a sister who can be relied upon for a touch of luxury). And then we moved to the table, switched the Pandora stations to the Magnetic Fields, and toasted to something likely worthwhile and sweet and tender. I wish I could remember.

Roast chicken is the ultimate comfort food in my book. It makes me think of Sunday night dinners in cozy kitchens with a cat curled up on the windowsill and Nina Simone on the stereo.

Would you believe though, that the salad really stole the spotlight from the bird? We all (vegetable-phobic paramour not withstanding) flipped for the earthy, green salad of shredded Brussels sprouts and Swiss chard, sweetened ever-so-slightly with maple syrup. Who knew cruciferous vegetable could be such scene-stealers?

Continue reading “3 Cozy Fall and Thanksgiving-Friendly Recipes” »

Sometimes I’m a guest on radio shows about various lifestyle topics I feel really passionate about, like how to live a life that feels luxe without breaking the bank. Recently, I was on a show talking about saving money on groceries in November. The segment idea was based on the cost of the holiday meal itself. Many hosts are spending the equivalent of their entire monthly grocery budget on a single meal. And that means having to get by with less than usual on the rest of your meals this month.

Some people know that terrified let’s-rub-two-pennies-together-and-call-it-dinner feeling. It is an insistent, heavy stress to not know where how you’re going to get by. This weekend, when my own future looked uncertain, these old familiar feelings came rushing back, as dogged and insidiously intimate as ever. It’s as if your normal thoughts of are now overlaid with a pertinacious sense of dread. Worry trails you everywhere. On a walk in the park: The yellow leaves sure look pretty. How am I ever going to pay the rent? It’s an unrelenting downer of a companion.

But I had the feeling that the radio host I was talking to had never been in this situation. He couldn’t understand being so low on money that you choose to make your own wholesome, homemade bread with pantry ingredients instead of buying a supermarket loaf for $3.99. His version of roughing it was a grocery store rotisserie chicken. He had probably never chosen dried beans over canned; the necessity of that choice for some was lost on him.

And that’s fine, in a way. I wouldn’t wish the feeling of grocery store poverty on anyone. To worry constantly about money is to lug over your shoulder a sack of bricks that you have to carry everywhere; it immediately affects all aspects of your quality of life. But I did feel, talking to this fellow on the radio, that it is a real badge of honor, and an important life skill to know how to still make your life feel beautiful, your home cozy, and your relationships nurtured with no money. It involves a little creativity sometimes, and often a bit of extra elbow grease. But to know how to create something out of nothing is to feel armed with the sense that you can provide for yourself and the people around you no matter what. And that’s a feeling I wish on everyone.

Continue reading “$5 Dinner: Spaghetti with Pepper and Cheese & Spicy, Lemony Broccoli” »

This month, it’s all about banyuls in the bubble bath, swooning over Jane Eyre and the creepsters in the attic, listening to French pop, and getting ready for the first long holiday weekend of the season. What are you happy about this month?

I have you to thank for this one. When we got to talking about the foods of our childhood, so many of you mentioned tuna noodle casserole. Growing up, this wasn’t a staple in my house––tuna macaroni salad, on the other hand, is another story––and I’m not even sure I’ve ever had this piece of Americana. So when you were all waxing poetic about your memories, I started to feel a little left out. How different would life be if I had grown up on this casserole classic? One wonders. One really, really wonders.

So I made this for supper on Wednesday night. It was creamy and comforting and a great bolster for a cold, already-dark-at-5pm evening. I washed it down with a malty Blue Point Toasted Lager, which I don’t think I have to tell you was the perfect accompaniment.

If budget weren’t such an issue, I would love to try this again with artichoke hearts, red pepper, and scallions. You know, fancy it up a bit. But with pocket change and a husband in favor of a low vegetable-to-creaminess ratio, this version did the trick. (“I could eat this every night,” he declared. “Even without the tuna.”) Besides, I’m not sure a gussied-up version would have put me in touch with such an illustrious and storied culinary tradition. I’m glad to have now joined the club.

Continue reading “$5 Dinner: Tuna Noodle Casserole” »