Category Archives: Uncategorized

09.23.16
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Trampolines, Perspective, and Selling Green Beans

One of my dearest friends called the other day– to check in on me,  give me a little business advice, and insist that I start blogging again. I stopped blogging over a year ago, and my excuse was that I felt like I was suffering from a lack of distinct focus.  One blog was about bath salts I made, another about a great chicken salad, and more often than not, I found myself tapping out nostalgic stories from the farm or recounting a recent visit or phone call with my grandmother. Most people have blogs on one particular topic, and I felt silly just sharing whatever was on my mind at the moment. The truth is, however, that writing has always brought a sense of peace to my hyper-anxious soul, and so in spite of my absence and continued lack of focus–, here we go again. Though I have to admit, I don’t feel like much of a writer or English major anymore–I’ve long since stopped correcting people’s texts and emails in my head and have found myself hitting “send” on many a terrible-worded message because I’m in a hurry. I’ve even diminished myself to being that person who voice texts without correcting– eek!

So here’s to a blog without any focus–hence the title.

Today was my first day  back on my route again–I broke my foot in early June on a trampoline, because I mistakenly thought I was still young enough to turn multiple flips without injury. The joke and bad pun is on me, as it’s taken me the entire summer to bounce back. I didn’t walk for 3 months, and after nearly 4, was cleared to drive short distances yesterday. I’m in sales, and I’ve been blessed enough to have customers who have continued to buy from me, in spite of the fact that I’m not visiting, bringing samples, recipe ideas, or really any value at all. I certainly don’t take this for granted, but I have had some days this summer where the cabin fever made me dangerously close to declaring insanity, and I felt less than lucky or blessed.

I’ve certainly gained some perspective, however, as I had no idea what it would feel like to crawl up the 3 flights of wooden stairs in our townhouse in order to get to bed every night; I found a new appreciation for my husband, who hauled my knee scooter up and down the stairs so that I wouldn’t have to crawl on hands and knees to whatever destination per floor I needed. I thought of all the people who have life-long disabilities and felt guilty every time I started to get frustrated with my situation. I had to ask for help, though, a lot.  I wore out favors with family and friends and finally started paying people to do the tasks I used to be able to do, and learned humility for the first time in awhile.

Yesterday, I was at the ortho waiting for my last X-ray and driving clearance, and the waiting room was filled with people missing limbs and in wheel chairs–permanent situations. I was punching orders and coding on my computer and rudely taking phone calls when a young woman was wheeled in by a medic; her right leg was amputated and wrapped haphazardly, and yet she was laughing, joking with the medic, and offering him the free coffee in the corner of the doctor’s office. I got off the phone, closed my computer, and disconnected for a moment from the late deliveries, orders that were waiting on my phone, and customers calling for better pricing. I knew I had lost perspective again, and I waited for my name to be called while imagining the long term life of the people in my current space. As I looked around, I knew I was the luckiest one–the only one who would probably get some kind of “freedom release,” and while I was giddy inside at the thought of getting back out to the streets and normal life, I felt incredibly guilty to be getting a pass while the rest of the room had a different kind of sentence.

I got my release—and I literally got out of Uber yesterday and right into my pollen-crusted Ford focus, worried that it may not start after months of being idle in the driveway. I drove to a couple of accounts, eager to get back going again, and then to Swifty to get the weariness of the summer rinsed clean. I couldn’t believe how fast my foot wore out, and I was back home sooner than I expected, still thinking about that room full of folks who weren’t able to even have an hour of independence like I’d just had.

So back to (one of) my point(s)–today was my first full day on my route. I said I would take it easy and just visit a few accounts, but I couldn’t stop, and found myself still out, punching my last order at 5:57 in a parking lot for a 6:00 cut off.  My foot had a few heartbeats of it’s own and the drive home was seriously painful, but the day was worth it. After a summer of just doing the mundane–like punching orders, tracking trucks, listening to the criticism and putting out the relentless fires, today I got to hug customers, talk about their kids, suggest new recipes for fall, and meet their new staff.

The only reason I have this job is because Nicholas’ dad (Poppi) told me right before he passed that Gordon was coming to Atlanta and I should go work for them. I dismissed his words, as he was literally dying, and I couldn’t see past our grief of losing him, much less listen to career advice; but when the Gordon recruiter called 2 days later, I couldn’t help but pay a bit of attention and feel like there was something at work much bigger than me. After a few more signs and relentless calls from the recruiter, I went to interview, and the rest, as they say, is history.  The stars aligned, as cliché as that is, and I’m thankful for a plan I could have never schemed myself.

Today, Poppi was with me all day. I felt him in every customer visit, every quiet moment in the car and as odd as it sounds, my favorite thing about being in the food industry is that it makes me feel closer to him, even though he’s gone and I can’t pick his brain and ask his advice like I’d want to. This job is a quick path to him and when I stop long enough to be as grateful as I ought to be, he’s one I’m most grateful for.

So while I’m still limping along in a hideous, and now nearly worn out walking boot, and my “green-bean sales job” is less than glamorous, I’m grateful for a summer that taught me to slow down, taught me humility and perspective, and has given me a fresh shot this fall. I don’t know when I’ll be able to wear my 50+ pairs of cute heels again, and I’m certainly behind the 8 ball on new customers, but I have much to be thankful for, and I know it.

And for the record–I don’t plan to pull any more shenanigans on trampolines any time soon—though I would like to walk/run on the beach in time for our anniversary cruise in October and have a pipe dream of learning to surf on our Mexico trip in February…

 

PS–So, Lauren, there you have it. It’s a crappy first blog back and I know it, but I’m rusty at a lot of things right now, so forgive the lack of photos and disaster of a coherent story, but I’m back at it, and it’ll only go up from here. That’s the amazing thing about being rock bottom in your writing. 🙂

05.21.15
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Reading Lessons and A Note About Gratitude

The last couple of months have been a whirlwind of activity–beginning with a serious career adjustment. I “hit the streets” in Midtown as a sales rep for a food distribution company, and the learning curve has been massive.  Serious highs, and serious lows.  I joined our local pool board just in time for the chaos of summer and started a boxing class at the gym around the corner.  I signed up to teach “Julie’s Can and Jam” classes at a local co-op, where I’ll teach 21 and up classes on making homemade jam and the canning process.  At the same co-op, I’m re-launching some new branding for my detergent line and attempting to improve my image and marketing.  Last, but certainly not the least, I began teaching reading classes for the elderly, two nights a week.

I get overwhelmed sometimes, and then anxious about daily to-do lists left undone and the tasks of the week that I’m not sure I’m completing with the attention they deserve.  I dream about sending an order of groceries to the wrong food truck, and I’ll wake up in the middle of the night thinking about whether or not I sent the correct allergen-free pan spray to a particular account.  I stress about not knowing enough, not working hard enough or long enough, and not knowing how to ask the questions that make sense in my head.  And then I met a few people with amazing attitudes and a seriously challenging situation in life.

My “students” for evening reading classes are incredible, resilient people, who at the ages of 70-85 are looking to better themselves, and learn to read.  Their reading levels vary from Kindergarten to 2nd grade, and are quick to set goals about their future.  “Ella” told me that she throws away all her mail because she can’t read it anyway, so what’s the point? Tomorrow we’ll begin reading her mail together and making sense of it. “Wallace” told me that he’s never been read to before, and can only drive within a mile radius because he’s memorized all the street signs…beyond that mile, he wouldn’t be able to read the signs and get back home.  “Nellie” cried tonight when I read her a Bible story, because the only time she’s been read to is over the pulpit at church, and when I told her that she’d be able to write a thank you note by the end of summer, she wept openly and told me she never imagined she’d be able to master such a task.  Talk about a reality check–and a serious dose of gratitude.  I’m a month in, and they do their homework, get excited about evening class, and thank me profusely at the end, in spite of the fact that they have harder lives than I’ve ever even read about.

I know that I’m a blend of blessed and fortunate, and as stretched as I feel these days, I’m super thankful for my new batch of students who have already taught me much more about life than I’ll ever teach them about reading.  I also love that my role of teacher will never really be over.

01.18.15
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Grandma Rocke, A Self Help Book

In a portion of my recent interview with my dad’s mom, I was shocked and humbled by some of her responses. I asked her for a fond memory of her parents…and she launched into the details of her dad’s premature death, and the fact that she then became her mother’s right hand. While these were details that I did want to know, it didn’t answer my question, so I redirected her to “fun” family nights, vacations, weekend getaways, etc.

Silence. Vacation? “No, honey. The first time I took a trip was with your grandfather for our honeymoon.”

My mind flashed to the camping trips my parents took me and my four siblings on every summer of my youth. We camped in every state except for Hawaii and Alaska, and while we were always on a budget, we did incredibly fun outdoors activities, like white water rafting in Oregon, camping next to the California Red Woods, and hiking down into Crater Lake. One year we even splurged big time and went to Orlando for Christmas.

My grandmother, however, had not been privy to these childhood luxuries. She helped raise her siblings, cooked, canned, and gardened at a young age; she dropped out of high school her sophomore year when she joined the church. After committing her life to the Lord, the expectation was that she was grown enough to quit school and get a job; her situation was taking up a job as a nanny with a local family, making $2 a week in turn for caring for two children.

She didn’t attend school dances, participate in local activities, sports, or otherwise usual childhood experiences. She helped her mother, raised her siblings, and served the Lord.

Nicholas and I recently booked a cruise to the Eastern Caribbean, and it’s literally the only thing we talk about at night…we read cruise reviews until we fall asleep, and check our “cruise countdown” app every morning.

I recognize the stark difference in my current life and that of my grandmother, and I listened in awe of her as she spoke so matter-of-factly about her life. Her voice didn’t resound with an invitation of pity or empathy for the childhood she experienced, the challenges of being married to a beekeeper who often didn’t make enough money to get through the Midwestern winter, or her current situation as a patient/guest at the nursing home; she speaks of her past with the same tone of voice she does about the Chinese food she had on Monday for her 98th birthday celebration. She sees the world through a lense of thankfulness. She’d never dream of being ungrateful of her experiences or wishing for more.

Every time I call her, and ask her about her care, she raves about the nursing home: the food? “Amazing. I couldn’t dream of more. Do you know they have unlimited ice cream? And for my birthday, they were willing to go to any local restaurant and get me anything I wanted. Of course, I asked for Chinese food.”

She’s incredibly resilient, and has so much to teach me.

I keep ordering and reading books about leadership, inspiration, and otherwise “self help” type books for my new career. The reality is, all I really need to do is keep interviewing my grandmother, and replay the audio when I need to refocus. Her life stories, experience, and wisdom is more powerful than any book I could order from Amazon—and I get the bonus of hearing her sweet, raspy voice with each replay on my audio. What a gift she is to me.

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12.03.14
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Atlanta “Love-List”

About a week ago, I found myself aggressively defending what I now claim as “my city,” or when Nicholas and I are talking, “our city.”  I was on a “work with” for my new job with Gordon Food Service, and was ecstatic to be riding with a 10+ year employee, a Florida transplant as of this past summer.  I didn’t realize how fascinated I am by Atlanta and how proud I am to live here, until I found myself defending nearly everything about my “town.”

Yes, you have to lock your doors, even when you’re in the car…I even buckle in my purse, just in case.

I know that the traffic is obscene…but I’ve learned to plan my day around traffic and actually don’t mind my “windshield time,” as I can catch up with distance friends, enjoy NPR or sing along (badly) to classic country on my commute.  Plus, doesn’t the excess of people and congestion just prove that this is the place to be? 🙂

We have seasons, (unlike my colleague’s preference for summer year round) and while the seasonal temps are a bit bi-polar at times, the cooler air allows for a wardrobe change and an extra skip in my step as the crispness feels fresh and new.  And, cold weather is cuddle-weather, fireplaces, and hot chocolate.  Even better.  Our seasons are perfect, because it never gets too cold for too long, like it does where my family is in the Midwest—it’s never so cold that your nose hairs freeze or your skin cracks.  Now that’s a win.

Yes, we have rain. Glorious rain.  And the rainy days are my favorite.  I don’t mind limp hair and puddles in my drainage-challenged driveway.  It hydrates my soul and the pitter-patter is soothing.  There is no better sleep than windows open with chilly air and the sound of a downpour.

I admit we have many “transitional” areas—there’s a rich history here, and neighborhoods that haven’t quite won the battles of the past. The graffiti/art covers the walls of many buildings and tunnels, and some call it “garbage,” but I think it’s fantastic.

The niches of my city are full of eclectic characters—it’s not the all white suburbia of some folks’ choice, but a multi-cultural collection of interesting people, perfect to sit and google-eye from a park bench.  There’s nothing like a trek to East Atlanta, just a mile up the street, to make me feel comfortable in my own skin. No one gawks or judges (except maybe me still gawking from the park bench), because there’s no single appropriate style, mode of transportation, or acceptable hair color.  You’ll see a businessman on a bike, a 50-something on her Vespa, and the punk hair stylist on his skateboard. It’s anything goes, and that is a beautiful thing.

I love that it’s hard to find a chain restaurant (besides fast food, if you call that a restaurant) within driving distance, and that the boutiques are making a comeback in our need to “shop local” and continue to give Wal-mart and Target a run for their money. (Pun intended.)

While I know that my Floridian colleague is just merely adjusting to a new locale, I’m pretty sure I made his ears bleed with the laundry list of reasons to love Atlanta.  I don’t plan on convincing him, but as my Atlanta “love-list” mentally expanded on the way home, I found myself so grateful to feel this way about a place that not only holds a good piece of our past already, but a fully vested present and an inevitable future.

 

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10.18.14
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A Love Story to Celebrate–11 Years Later

Eleven years ago today, Nicholas and I were recklessly in love and pretty young to be getting married. I don’t think we thought so at the time, of course, but hindsight is always 20/20. We’re not crazy young any more, but we’re still crazy in love, and that more than enough for me. In celebration of us, here’s a few anecdotes of our wedding, from an 11-year memory and perspective.

I planned our wedding during my second year of teaching, and while I’m sure it was more challenging planning an out of state wedding than I remember, I mostly remember how excited I was to say “I do,” venture to Negril, Jamaica for our honeymoon, and start our married life together.

We didn’t have an expensive wedding, and even as I write this, I can still hear Pastor Andy telling us to focus on building our life together, instead of just fixating on the wedding. We didn’t have time or money in abundance, and this advice was perfect for us.

My sister and I made the bridesmaid’s flowers from discounted floral from Hobby Lobby, my cousin made my bouquet, a family friend from church made our cake, and we cut Red Vines in half, using Mason jars for containers. My best friend’s sister took most of our photos, and we served a simple dinner, fruit punch for the beverage, and didn’t even toast using champagne.

I wasn’t nervous about the ceremony, but I was terrified about walking down the aisle in corkboard-type platform flip flops—the only shoes I could find that would at least bring me to Nicholas’ shoulders. I didn’t want to make the “You may kiss the bride” moment any more awkward than necessary.

We wrote our own vows, and I inadvertently printed mine on the back of “ABC, 123” recycled paper in my parents’ printer. (My mom taught 1st grade). It was a small wedding, and I’m pretty sure that even the back row could see my error as I unfolded my vows and blushed crimson.

The point is, it was a beautiful day because I was marrying the love of my life, and it didn’t matter that everything wasn’t perfect. We only needed three weeks to figure out we loved each other and should get married, and were engaged for eight months before we officially “got hitched.” It was the beauty of finding someone perfect for me, and in spite of our family and childhood differences, I knew that we’d be creating a future together that was entirely up to us.

I remember the concerns and doubts about us, as I was taking an unconventional route—I didn’t join and marry in my parents’ church, and actually announced I was engaged before they knew I was dating someone. I remember one of my brothers’ responses to my “I’m engaged” announcement—“too who??” he had demanded. I admit I could have handled the time line a bit better, but at the time, I was young, in love, and knew what I wanted. Only now can I look back and appreciate the genuine concern and fear my family felt, as now they knew I’d not be moving back to Illinois, but staying in Atlanta with Nicholas, and beginning a life that would feel foreign to them.

This “foreign” life has come easy for me, for us, and I’m so thankful, and feel entirely blessed to reflect with a grin about our beginning. What began as a chance meeting in a coffee shop has turned into the best thing that has ever happened to me, and every year promises more adventure, memories, and above all, a great, consuming love that I could have never imagined.

Happy Anniversary, Shug.

 

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10.15.14
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An Ode To My Mason Jars

(Well, It’s not really an ode…just a blog.)

This past spring I made a few road trips from Atlanta to central Illinois, where my parents were cleaning out and preparing to sell the family farm. Regardless of whether it was just nostalgia, or a general need for certain items, I hauled full loads in my CX7 back to our townhouse, in hopes of preserving pieces of the farm in the city.

One of the many items I rescued was a serious stash of Mason/Kerr jars that were in my parents’ cellar or in the chicken house. Much to my dismay, my mom actually admitted that she had thrown a load away already, and terrified at the thought, I took as many as I could box up.

My sheer delight regarding my farm things hasn’t exactly been shared by my husband, who is under the delusion that I have inherited too many jars. Too many?? That’s impossible! The options are endless, but he doesn’t quite appreciate that, as he only sees the precarious stack of them on a garage shelf. I say I’m hoarding them because I use them for my homemade detergent, but the reality is, I have a hard time parting with them, even for a sale.

In perusing Pinterest the other day, I determined it was time to begin my fall decorating, and as I began changing the seasonal goods around our house, the ideas for my sacred jars began: candle holders, toothbrush holders, make-up organizers, vases, weight loss marble visual aids, and the list goes on.

I love to find a purpose for them, but I don’t mind just having a serious stash of them for the intended use—next summer when I have a neighborhood garden plot, I’ll can up any kind of fruit or veggie I can harvest from our red-clay soil. Until then, I love having them sprinkled throughout the house, and don’t mind that there’s still an un-used stash in the garage. I feel a bit of the simple, country life every time I dust one off and use it, and the older I get, the more inclined I am to cling to a few things from the past.

Disclaimer: I know this is a lot of pictures–that’s the point. 🙂

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09.28.14
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My First Food Show–“Italian Heritage”

I worked my first food show last weekend, and while I was pretty anxious about flying to Toledo, working on a weekend with people I’d never met, and finally meeting my boss and co-workers, it was a fantastic weekend. It was overwhelming, for sure, as most people I met have worked in the food industry forever, and I have so little experience to offer. I kept thinking about my former life as a teacher and how different this all feels, and quickly realized that as long as I can talk to new people and have a sense of personality (and humor) I’d fit in just fine.

It was quite an undertaking—I rep 22 brands of product, and this particular show had a booth for every single brand, offering a variety of their products in whole form and of course, bites to taste. The set was already built when I arrived, under the theme of “Italian Heritage” so each booth was like a little café with a window and fabric-covered awning. We arranged bottles of wine and photos of the Sofo Family in the front, and attempted a fall-themed décor elsewhere, as fall clearly visited Ohio long before the Georgia heat gives up on us for the season.

We set up all day Saturday, Sunday morning, and by 2pm, we were ready to open our doors and push some product. I felt like I had a “I’M NEW!” badge on my shirt, as I tried to talk to customers about the products at my particular booth (Wayne Farms Chicken), and quickly felt confident when the third customer logged in to our portable booth computers and bought 18 cases of chicken fajita. That was followed by case counts more like 80 and even one of 150. I decided to pretend like this was my specialty, and soon found that it worked out quite nicely for everyone involved. After about 4 hours, I started to feel a bit redundant in what I was telling customers about the fried wing versus the ovenable, and then realized it’s no different than teaching the same lesson 7 times in one day.

My favorite moment was when a SOFO salesman from Lima, OH came to my booth with a serious crew of customers to taste the chicken fajita that was on special. They tasted the product, commented to each other that it was too salty and appeared ready to move on. I had flashbacks of making chicken-bacon-cheddar wraps the night before and sent them to a few booths down to try the product in a wrap application.

They walked down, found that the chicken wraps were gone (duh, they were delicious) and continued on down the aisle, dismissing our chicken and looking for the next item to sample. I knew if I could just get them to taste an application with our product, they’d buy it.

I abandoned my station, and went on a hunt for the ingredients I needed to re-create a wrap. I snatched a wrap from the original station, and then just went booth-to-booth, “borrowing” ingredients until I had something similar to what I had made the night before. I hunted down the pack of men, got them to try my creation—and long story short, they not only bought the chicken fajita, (times five stores) but we got all their chicken wing business, too. I know it sounds silly—it’s just chicken– but that was a win for me; as a girl who has only ever taught English, little old me got a chain account to switch two major products to ours.

The weekend was exhausting, and my feet looked like anemic sausages by late Sunday night, but it was an incredible experience, and I found myself feeling so invigorated by the people I met, the food we cooked, and the potential of what may come next with this industry.

In a nut shell, the weekend was one of those moments in life when I felt stretched, out of my comfort zone, and terrified that I was going to screw up, say the wrong thing, or make food that tasted terrible. The reality is, the moments that terrify me most are the ones that provide the most growth, and the hindsight is terribly satisfying.

I only wish Poppi were here to listen, laugh, and give me perspective, but telling Nicholas, Mom, and my sister, Amber, felt pretty good, too.

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I wish I had more photos, but it was such a blur of excitement and tasks, I didn’t even think about taking more pics until it was torn down!

09.12.14
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Fish Filet Lessons, Rocke Style

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When I was kid, I was pretty “squeamish,” as my mom would say.  I hated the sight of blood, despised butchering day, and wouldn’t even consider touching a worm long enough to get it on my fishing hook.  I suppose this is probably par for the course for most girls, but as a “farm girl” with three brothers, I think the expectation was that I should be a little tougher.

This summer, my youngest brother, who is the closest person I’ll ever know to a real cowboy and professional fisherman, was catching and filleting fish in mass quantities at my sister’s lake house in central Illinois.  The family was all in town for the 4th of July, and what I assumed would be a leisure day in the hammock, turned in to a blood bath of catfish and walleye.

I kept watching Jeff skillfully turn a flopping lake catch into two fine filets of dinner, and decided I really  needed to know how to do this, too.  I think he thought I was kidding when I asked him to teach me–my white ruffled skirt was trimmed in delicate lace, and I had a pretty fresh manicure, but I was ready to take over the knife.

I’ll spare the bloody details, but after a few rounds of coaching, I did a pretty decent job of prepping a good size catfish for the fryer.  It sounds terrible, but after I did a few, I wanted to filet every fish that was unfortunate enough to be hooked that day.  We dredged filets in this yummy cornmeal called “Fish Fry” and golden-fried fish all day.

I know I didn’t master something crazy hard, but I was oddly proud of myself, and felt like I added a “skill” to my arsenal that I just may need some day.  You know, just in case I ever get stuck in the wilderness with a stream and a knife.

I still have a pretty weak stomach and am certainly not signing up to help with butchering day ever again, but the next time we’re all gathered and fishing at my sister’s, maybe I’ll give the knife lessons. 🙂

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09.12.14
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Getting Away: Coming Home

After months of anticipation, last week was finally cruise time, NCL Getaway style.  When it comes to vacations, my husband and I are like small children–“Is it time yet? Are we there yet? It’s not over yet, is it?”  We plan and scheme and anticipate with reckless abandon.

Actually, Nicholas does all the planning: he makes dinner and show reservations for each night, chooses and books the excursions in port, coordinates the travel documents…you get the idea. 

My planning contribution shakes out a little differently. I plan outfits.  Three costume changes a day is quite a packing commitment, especially when there are shoes, handbags, jewelry, hair-flowers, hats, and sparkly eye shadows to consider.  I take this task seriously, and spend excessive amounts of time making lists, and then piles, of all my vacation necessities.

We flew out of Atlanta on a Friday morning, were saddled up next to the Westin pool in Miami by 1pm, and shamelessly blared Bob Marley on our new “Beats” system. Instead of the 2-day mental disconnect process that usually ensues, we were distressed and disconnected from anything unpleasant by the time we ordered our burratta and wood-fired pizza for dinner.  The following morning we embarked on the Norwegian Getaway, headed straight to the pool for the “Sail Away” party and settled in for our 7 days of cruising bliss through the Eastern Caribbean.

To say that we aren’t “go-getters” on vacation is the understatement of the century.  We don’t hike, we certainly don’t jog unless we’re being chased, and while activities like scuba always seem like a good idea, we’ve come to decide that it’s actually much too strenuous for our good time.  We opt for pool/beach leisure, good food, cocktails, and sunscreen.  Rinse and repeat for 7 days with a show here and there, and a bit of night time Craps in the casino. That, my friends, is how we roll.

The down side to all of this vacation chatter is the inevitable dread that settles in about day 4 or 5, when we realize that we’re past the half way point, and have more dirty clothes on the floor than we have clean in the closet.  At this point, I’m done trying to keep our little cabin space picked up, and instead start making piles of dismembered outfits that must be repacked soon.  This is about the time that we start to discuss our next vacation—where, when, and with whom, just to distract us from the ticking clock.  We’re infamous for actually booking our next vacation on the flight/drive home in order to curb the certain depression the strikes upon our return.

Our vacation last week was fantastic, but the difference in the norm was that we didn’t dread the end; we instead said multiple times how long the trip felt (in a good way) and were actually excited to get back home.  It makes a difference when we talk about “going home” and genuinely refer to the house we live in as “home” and Atlanta as “our city.”  I’ve always prescribed to the idea that “home is wherever I’m with you” (insert Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Heroes) but home has never felt so good as it does now in Atlanta.

This is all to say, my ship has come in.  As thankful as I am for an amazing cruise, I’m even more grateful for the contentment of “welcome home.”

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08.13.14
by

Random Tips and Tricks: A Partial List

Today I was planning the menu for my sales meeting on Friday, and as I pondered ideas of possible soups, Paninis, flatbreads, and crostinis, I thought about my former colleagues who are probably already knee deep in essays to grade; it’s funny how quickly we can adjust to new things in life.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about little tips and tricks, (mostly for the kitchen, but a few others) that have become “normal” to me, although I didn’t learn most of them until I was an adult. While they may be fairly common, I wanted to share a few—just for giggles—in case anyone discovers a new tidbit here. (And I apologize in advance if these are too obvious, but I went at least 20+ years not knowing most of this list.)

The inspiration here began when a friend/salesperson for the company I work with met me at my house to grab food samples. I opened my freezer to snag appetizer bags, and she’s like, “Why do you have bags of Ziploc-ed Doritos in your freezer?” I always freeze my chips. They taste better, and never go stale. Plus, if they’re out of sight I don’t eat them in one sitting. But seriously, try some frozen Cheetos. They’ll blow your mind.

So here’s a few random tips and tricks that are common place in our home:

  1. Keep your chips in the freezer. Any and all of them—they don’t actually freeze. They just get super cold and are delicious.
  2. Dry your sheets (or any blankets) with a few tennis balls. It’ll make a bit of racket, but your goods won’t get as tangled up, and thus are less wrinkly.
  3. Add any type of fruit that you have in excess (or is about to go bad) to ice cube trays, fill with water and freeze. I pop them out, keep them in a Ziploc bag in the freezer and love to dress up water or cocktails with colorful cubes.
  4. Don’t crack eggs on the edges of bowls—that’s how I always ended up with shells in my cookies. Instead, gently crack them on the counter, or any flat surface—you’ll never have an egg shell escape in your food again.
  5. If you burn votive size candles in the glass holders, pop them in the freezer for an hour or two after they’ve burned out. The wax shrinks and pops right out so you don’t have to pry it out.
  6. Use an ice cream scoop to make perfectly round cookie-dough balls, put each scoop in a muffin tin, and freeze. Then Ziploc the dough balls and you can bake a few cookies at a time instead of the whole batch. (I make big batches of the kind we like, and I prefer a 10-minute bake for a fresh cookie versus keeping some pre-baked in the freezer.)
  7. When making any boxed-mix of muffins or bread, use apple or orange juice instead of water—your finished product is moist and flavorful, but people never say it tastes fruity–It’s more of an enhancer than a flavor profile change.
  8. Rub your skin with baby oil after your shower, then dry off. Your skin will stay super soft all day without the need for any lotion. (This is especially nice in the winter when the air is dryer.)
  9. Invest in a $3.99 bunch of wildflowers at Aldis. They last about 2-3 weeks and one bunch is enough to make 3-4 ball jars worth of flowers for the bathroom, table, etc. It’s a small price for the splash of happy it brings.
  10. I know by now I sound like a freezer nut, but keep your grapes frozen. Wash them, Ziploc them, and freeze them for a quick treat. They freeze part way, but are still soft enough to bite through, and there’s something about the sugar that intensifies when they’re frozen. It’s our favorite pool snack.

I know it’s silly, but picking up quirky tips from family and friends—mostly family—is one way I always feel connected. Nona (Nicholas’ mom) taught me about the eggs, my Aunt Jane always kept her chips frozen, and my mom loved her baby oil. I like to think we’re just a pretty montage of the most important people in our lives, and the tidbits and quirks that make them, and us, unique.