It’s hard to really define home these days.  I love our city townhouse and breathe easier when I step inside and smell the muskiness of hardwood floors and the faint scent of last night’s cinnamon candle.  But I also feel a deep sense of comfort in Mom and Poppi’s house in Sugar Hill, as life doesn’t get much more comfy than the feel of family around a table of Italian food.

My parents’ farm in Illinois will always be a significant way that I define home, as it holds the memories of 18 years of growth and invention; as we all get older and talks of who might take over the farm become a norm of conversation, my heart panics.  I can’t imagine being unable to “come home” every winter and summer.  The patchwork quilt that hangs over the upstairs banister kept me warm on the wooden loveseat when I was home sick from school.  The horrific orange carpet of the stairs was our laundry shoot as we rode the piles of laundry down the stairs and onto the kitchen linoleum.  The “hamshack” is my dad’s version of a man cave, and is not only where he harbored all his radio shenanigans, but also the place where he taught me about the computer and I got my first email address  sauerkraut1980@aol.com.  And don’t get me started on the front porch, the haymow in the upper barn, the three-wheeler in the pasture and the hand painted swing set.  Sigh.  The point is, this is really what home looks and feels like and this year, for the first time in our ten years of marriage, we’re going home for the holidays.

Nicholas works retail, so Christmas is usually a no-go.  But somehow, we were able to make it happen this year, as we booked tickets last night for the weekend after Christmas.  This way, we get the best of all worlds….we get to have a Christmas Eve slumber party with the Italian family here, and spend the following weekend on the farm for a (hopefully) white Christmas.

I know that home will always be wherever Nicholas and I are together, but it feels good to look forward to going back to my roots, especially at the holidays.

Nicholas has recently determined a new hobby.  I came home one day to a variety of packages at the front door and Nicholas was giddy with excitement.  We unpacked an exorbitant amount of pizza making supplies–a couple of peels, a huge pizza stone, a dough slicer, metal containers for each dough ball, double-zero flour imported from Italy, an oven temperature gun, dough starter…the list goes on.  I can’t remember where I was when he decided to order all this stuff, but I do remember the excitement in his voice when he told me he ordered a “few” things.

We used to make pizza with Publix dough on the grill, but after his pizza shopping spree he changed the technique.  One night I found him sitting on the floor in front of the oven with a hack saw and pliers.  He had decided to dismantle the lock on the oven so that we could set it to cleaning mode and cook pizza at 800 degrees.  I thought he had lost his mind.

He made his first round of home made dough with precision and attention like I’ve not seen in the kitchen.  Flour coated every possible surface, but he had 3 beautiful dough balls at the end of the flurry, and enough starter to continually “feed” and use indefinitely.  Our first pizza party was a smashing success.  We took all the necessary precautions with tin foil over the oven glass and under the stone and then fired the first pie.  It was quite literally fired, as we scorched it a bit too long, and quickly realized that 2 minutes would do the trick.

We had pizza every few nights for a little while, and the pizza cutter was constantly in the dishwasher; we’ve throttled back a bit now to about once a week, but the excitement hasn’t faded.  He’ll announce, “I think I’ll make some dough tonight” in a very serious tone as if he were entering in on nation secrets.  He refuses to wear an apron and is somehow always dressed in black for his flour debut, but I love that he takes his pat-a-pat-pat on each so seriously, with no mind to the excessive effort or mess.  My favorite is pancetta, garlic, buffalo mozzarella, and purple basil, and I’m thrilled to announce that my task is merely to shop for the ingredients and clean up the mess.  Life is good when you’re married to the Pizza Man.

I learned very quickly that Nicholas didn’t do anything half way.  We had a quick bite together one night after I clocked out at the café, but our real first date was a serious outing.  Soon after I returned from Illinois, he called with plans for us on a Saturday night.  I took the night off of work, agonized about my outfit, and anxiously waited for him to pick me up.

We went to Café Tu-Tu Tango for dinner, a tapas restaurant in Atlanta that was housed in an art gallery.  It was a whimsical restaurant with belly dancers, magicians and art collaging every wall.  I’d never been to a restaurant like this before and it was a serious step up from my last Waffle House date.  I was enamored by the ambience and remember feeling like I’d stepped out of my teacher life for an incredible moment that I hoped to hang on to as long as possible.  We ordered some tapas and cocktails, and although I typically hate eating in front of people, it wasn’t my nerves that kept me from eating much. We were so lost in conversation, that for the first time in my entire life, I cared more about what he would say next than the stuffed mushrooms in front of me.

My favorite memory of dinner was getting up to use the restroom–he grabbed my hand as I left the table, and as cliché as it sounds, time froze for a moment.  I remember the look in his eyes…I scurried to the restroom, stared in the mirror and told my reflection that this was it. I can’t explain the moment beyond saying that I think I have a strong intuition, and knew that in spite of the fact that I didn’t know his last name, I was going to end up with this beautiful stranger forever.

After a cool card trick by a magician and perusing some really eclectic art, we left a decent amount of food on the table in order to get on with the night.  Our next stop was Stomp, a Broadway show that I had of course never heard anything about, but wanted to pretend and play it cool.  In spite of a brief semester in Europe, I had little other exposure to the world of arts and had never been to a performance like this before. It was incredible, and was even more exciting and interesting sitting next to said stranger who we’ve now established I knew was going to be my person.  I was so nervous I was sweating, and praying he didn’t notice.

After the show, it was late, and I remember thinking that we should call it a night…I wanted to stop while we were ahead.  Nicholas had other ideas.  He wanted to go dancing, and said so when we got back in his car; I panicked.  I’m a terrible dancer.  I’m the white girl who only ever learned to line dance and am so bad that people either turn and walk away or come over and try to teach me something.  This was a moment I feared. He’s going to find out that I’m just a simple country girl with no idea about the city, no suave, no moves.

We ended up at Club 1150, a martini bar in downtown Atlanta.  My nerves evaporated when we walked in and started dancing.  I realized that this wasn’t about pretention and showing off, it was about an excuse to spend more time together, and I welcomed the idea.  I sacrificed much needed sleep for a night that was the beginning of my forever.

PS- As the anal-retentive, independent girl that I had become, I estimated the amount of our date and left a check in the dash.  Even thought I really couldn’t afford it, I wanted to feel like I could hold my own. But that’s another story, too.

 

Mumford and Sons came to town last week, and in spite of Nicholas being out of town and unable to use his ticket, I invited a girl friend to hang out on…you guessed it…a school night. 🙂 It was a Tuesday night and in spite of the pending early alarm, we headed to Centennial Park in downtown Atlanta via Uber, ate at the food trucks and swayed to the sultry voices of the boys.  A semi-pro hula hooper was within spitting distance and we admired her tenacity as she twirled and hula-ed a glow-in-the dark hoop until late into the night.  It was perfect weather and I wanted to stay until the end; I remember wishing that I’d been courageous enough to make a career jump at the end of last year, and then maybe I wouldn’t be bound to the early, dark, morning get up.

The week went in a blink and come Saturday, we made even better plans.  It was the Reynoldstown Wheelbarrow Festival (stifle laughter) which is just up the street from us.  We drove a mile, parked at our friends’ place and walked to the street of food trucks.  Another friend lived on the exact street closed down for the festival, and we had front row seats to the food mania.  Mangault Park, across the street, spilled with live music and vendors all day and we laughed, made new friends, and told stories until we decided to move the party more homestyle in order to have a bonfire and home cooked dinner.  It was an amazing day/night and I kept thinking about the incredible chain of events last year that fell into place for us to move back here.  I’m so thankful for the friends with whom we’ve reconnected and the new friends that we have been lucky enough to meet.

Last night, we went to the number one supper club in Atlanta–Push Start Kitchen, on the West side.  It was literally a goat farm with loose chickens out front of an old brick building filled with single family flats; we had dinner Sicilian style in the upstairs flat which was literally someone’s home; we had one of the most amazing dinner’s we’ve ever eaten–we were served a 5 course dinner including drinks to accommodate every portion.  It was so cool to experience something entirely new with a couple who have quickly become our closest friends in Atlanta.

Work has been taxing for both of us lately, and I’m so thankful that home is our haven and our friends and family are our support.  I breathe easier the moment I walk in the door of our townhome, and when I look at our social calendar I can dismiss a bit of the work day stress.

Today it poured the majority of the day, and before making my Target run to collect ingredients for my D’Amico Food Board this week, I put on my galoshes and I stood out in the rain for a little while, just rehydrating in the name of the last seven years of San Antonio draught.  A few folks walked past with their umbrellas and half waved to me, as I think they were concerned about the crazy girl with her face to the falling rain.  As cliché as it sounds, I felt like I was losing the dirt of the week and hydrating for the week ahead. While the days have felt more challenging than I expected, I’m so thankful for the many things that feel fantastic about being back in ‘Atlanta, and even more thankful that I get to spend every day with the one I love, as we creep up on ten years of marriage.

Nicholas and I wandered aimlessly through DeKalb Farmer’s Market on Ponce yesterday, which is truly a “Chopped Kitchen” paradise. Somewhere between the high gluten flour (for home-made pizza dough) and the burrata di buffala (see appetizer picture here) I realized that I totally missed my calling in life. I don’t think I’m supposed to be analyzing Shakespeare’s sonnets and grading analytical essays on R. K. Narayan’s The Guide. I think I’m supposed to be frequenting trendy organic grocers and farmer’s markets, playing with and creating new recipes, and cooking great food. Or, I’ll transfer my analytical skills to food and take over Guy Fieri’s job; I think I could be pretty fantastic at eating other people’s concoctions and critiquing them. I’d just have to be more diligent about the gym. 🙂

I spent the vast majority of my “free time” this weekend in the kitchen. We made Waffle House waffles and bacon for yesterday’s brunch, burrata di buffalo for a dinner appetizer and two pizzas–barbecue pork with gouda and pancetta with mozzarella. Today I made a sweet potato hash with fried eggs for brunch, pico de gallo and corn salsa for a dinner appetizer and pork lime tacos for dinner. I could spend the entire day in the kitchen, and as long as Nicholas is in my space, I’m perfectly content. I’ve become a total foodie and can’t help but wonder if I could make a career out of my kitchen.

Nicholas and I wandered aimlessly through DeKalb Farmer’s Market on Ponce yesterday, which is truly a “Chopped Kitchen” paradise. Somewhere between the high gluten flour (for home-made pizza dough) and the burrata di buffala (see appetizer picture here) I realized that I totally missed my calling in life. I don’t think I’m supposed to be analyzing Shakespeare’s sonnets and grading analytical essays on R. K. Narayan’s The Guide. I think I’m supposed to be frequenting trendy organic grocers and farmer’s markets, playing with and creating new recipes, and cooking great food. Or, I’ll transfer my analytical skills to food and take over Guy Fieri’s job; I think I could be pretty fantastic at eating other people’s concoctions and critiquing them. I’d just have to be more diligent about the gym. 🙂

I spent the vast majority of my “free time” this weekend in the kitchen. We made Waffle House waffles and bacon for yesterday’s brunch, burrata di buffalo for a dinner appetizer and two pizzas–barbecue pork with gouda and pancetta with mozzarella. Today I made a sweet potato hash with fried eggs for brunch, pico de gallo and corn salsa for a dinner appetizer and pork lime tacos for dinner. I could spend the entire day in the kitchen, and as long as Nicholas is in my space, I’m perfectly content. I’ve become a total foodie and can’t help but wonder if I could make a career out of my kitchen.

I’m trying to re-design my jam label. I initially had a picture of my grandmother in mind, and then I realized it was really my mom who taught me to make jam, even though her mom taught her.  I thought about a picture of my mom and I from Mother’s Day one year, but Nicholas’ suggestion was to use a symbol or representation on my label instead, since there’s hardly space for a clear picture anyway.  Then the dilemma really began.  How do I represent myself in one symbol?  Do I want to go back to my roots and do something country, or is that too cliché?  If I use a city reference, am I neglecting the core of who I am–traitor? I feel like what started as a fun task of creating a label out of an old picture has turned into a reflective life assessment.  I feel like the product of some massive transformation, but am not sure what that looks like as a visual on a jam label, and then I realize that I’m probably over thinking it entirely, as the nerdy English teacher I’ve become.  But somehow, it seems important to have the right image on a product that represents so much of who I am–the jam is such a connection to the organic and wholesome way that I was raised and is a representation of my identity acceptance.  I didn’t always embrace and appreciate homegrown ways of life and now it’s my tag/label.  I’m proud to be the product of an incredibly pure and simple way of life that was never easy, but entirely challenging with a lesson at the end of every experience.  The person I’ve become is quite different from anyone in my family, and entirely different from anything I could have imagined when I used to picture my future.  I’m a blend of experiences, but ultimately have the simple, pure values of jam—mix homegrown fruit with the extraordinary sweetness of sugar cane.  Then be patient.  Don’t walk away. Pay attention and keep stirring.  It’s going to take some effort, but the end result is worth the work and time.  I operate this way at work, in love, in relationships, and always in the kitchen.  Like Kindergarten for Robert Fulghum, jam has taught me about life, and I still don’t know what that may look like in an image.  <sigh>

I’ve always loved fall, and all that the season entails–the changing colors, football, bonfires, camping, hayrack rides, apple orchards…you get the idea. Imagine my disappointment the last seven years in Texas, as 6 of those 7 details of fall are non existent, and that’s me giving San Antonio credit for at least having football on TV, even though we didn’t even have our own NFL team. This is all to say that yet another excitement of Atlanta is the return of fall, in spite of the fact that it will probably not include hayrack rides.

The first NFL game of the season airs tonight, and while it isn’t technically fall and it’s still 90+ degrees outside, Nicholas and I happy danced at the onset of fall. We dressed in our coordinating Falcons football t-shirts (even thought I’m rooting for the Ravens tonight) and cooked up our version of a fall feast–8 hour ribs, truffle macaroni and cheese, bacon green beans, and corn on the cob. I love being excited about simple things like a savory dinner and a good game on television. That said, it’s an ordinary night–dinner and football. It doesn’t seem important and certainly isn’t life changing, and yet it’s worth celebrating. Nicholas made a toast this past weekend for his birthday–he articulated the importance of ordinary moments and the happiness that they can bring. Tonight is such a night, and I’m thankful to live it.

Vickery’s Restaurant and Bar across the street from our house has pretty decent food, and one excellent item– Mac ‘n’ Cheese Balls served atop a bit of marinara sauce.  Nicholas and I are definitely Macaroni and Cheese connoisseurs by now, hence the growing dress sizes–but I like to think that my expanding waist line is just reminiscent of my burgeoning cooking abilities.  I think the food board boasts some version of mac ‘n’ cheese at least twice a week.  That said, I broke out the deep fryer today and attempted our own version of Vickery’s masterpiece, beginning with the recipe from The Food Network: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/behind-the-bash/fried-mac-and-cheese-balls-recipe/index.html.  I followed the recipe pretty closely, except that I added some Edam cheese for creaminess, and served it atop a marinara and goat cheese blend.  This is a great recipe to make and keep in small batches in the freezer, as you can egg wash, bread, and fry on a whim.  I’m going to make large batches to freeze in balls around the holidays, so that we’ll have an easy and delicious appetizer on hand to serve to friends with cocktails.

Amid the chaos of last week, a friend of mine mentioned that she had two extra tickets to see Bruno Mars at Philips Arena.  Normally, I’d freak out at the idea of night plans on a “school night,” but I’m trying to be a bit less square these days, so against my better sleep judgment, we went on Thursday night.  It’s such an incredible life change to be in the city where the entertainment is abundant and dangerously close by.  The concert was only 4 miles away, and I felt ridiculous for even considering turning down the night.  Mid-dance move to “Treasure,” Nicholas leaned over and whispered, “we’re home, baby.”  He was grinning ear to ear, and for the millionth time since we moved back, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief.  I’m already finding myself getting lost in the stacks of essays and lesson planning that takes longer than it should, and Thursday night was a breath of fresh air and another reminder about the bigger picture.  I don’t have to have the perfect school year, and I certainly don’t need to stay in on a school night for fear of being tired when the alarm goes off at 5–it’s 5am–I’m going to be tired regardless.  With this in mind, we rode the Ferris Wheel after the concert ended and then cabbed it home.  I didn’t get to bed until well after midnight, and was slightly under prepared for one particular lesson on Friday; but in the big scheme of things, I’ll look back and remember the satisfaction of listening to great music beside Nicholas and the look on his face when he reminded me that “we’re home.”