That Perfect Edge and Sweetness

I am encroaching on my old self.  For those of you who know me personally, at least sometime in the past nearly 10 years or so (God, has it been that long?)... you know I am an attorney, that I work in a very tall building, that I am very busy, and that on some days, I am even important, and maybe even in the grand scheme of things... at least sometimes.  But having three days at my disposal this past weekend (even if I was feverish for part of it) has afforded me some precious moments in which I have been privileged and inspired to delve into an old passion.  I sat for about four or five hours yesterday, alone... with a mechanical pencil.  Well, not entirely alone.  I also had an eraser.  And a sketch book.  And some inspiring images on my laptop.  You see,  I am working on some drawings for a project I have been invited to work on, and it delights my senses to be working, in earnest, on an artistic goal of my own.  I have carte blanche authority to make any visual choices I want in this project, which is quietly thrilling.  You see, in this life, I have spent a great deal of time facilitating others' art.  I have spent time as a serigraphy printer - printing other artists' works in precisely-printed editions, as an art teacher working in a variety of settings with children of various ages, and I am only in the past couple of weeks gracefully floating back to Earth after an amazing experience orchestrating an art project and fundraiser for the benefit of others.  But, this time, the art project is mine.  It's all been utterly worth doing, of course, and I have been rewarded with personal and deep-running benefits from all of the the work experiences I have lived and toiled through for the benefit of others, but there is simply nothing quite like creating in solitude, enveloped only by music of my choosing in my squishy, external, massive headphones and sitting and working for hours that feel like mere minutes.  Just creating.  And, by the way, I am only cognizant that I was drawing for about four or five hours based upon my after-the-fact internal count of how many times the album I was listening to resounded and echoed in my mind as I sketched away, entirely in another world yet physically present at my hard and heavy reclaimed wood dining table seated upon a velvety upholstered chair.  When I was invited to work on this project, I was told by my project-partner that my work has a certain "wonderful combination of edge and sweetness that's just perfect."  So I suppose this post is about that perception of my work as possessing that perfect edge and simultaneous sweetness.  I am honored by his comment, and I hope to live up to it as I complete more drawings for our joint effort.  Truth be told, I'd like to embody this description in my own personal being in this world as well as in my artwork (and think sometimes that maybe I do), but I'll take what I can get.  Through all of this, my mind is swirled away on waves of memory reminding me what it was like to "live" my art.  Late night conversations with dear friends about our experiences of the most-important-thing-in-the-world-which-was-expressing-all-this-passion-and-vision-inside and countless hours, at all hours of the day and night, in various UT art studios smelling linseed oil and turpentine and feeling the exquisitely smooth trail of a fan brush on large personally stretched and primed canvases, covered with caked-dry-but-once-wet-clay and not caring and still carving away for hours, or reclining in the unearthly pale light of the print lab darkroom eagerly awaiting the results of the image in the photo emulsion after the appropriately timed exposure on the light table.  Wow, it's been such a long time since those days, and I am a more grounded, and more "accomplished" version of myself now, and yet less... well, less something I don't know quite how to put my finger on... but maybe, just maybe, encroaching on my old self while going forward in my present life will create a sort of perfect harmony, which perfection I can potentially blog about down the road.  Balance, after all, is golden.  In the meantime, when I have the time, I'll scratch my pencil on that soft but solid paper surface and work on crafting those perfect images of edgy sweetness. 

That Perfect Authentic Moment in Time

As I sat this evening with some colleagues over beers at the Old Monk, our conversations traversed many topics that struck a chord somewhere within me.  This prose will never fully be able to recreate for those reading it the precise feeling I have at this moment, but at least it will attempt to articulate a thankful and thoughtful reflection on but a few moments.  At various points in the cool evening over a long deep orange wooden table and some beautifully rich beers (and, as an aside, I was lucky enough to have the bartender drawing hearts with grenadine in my beer foam), a small few of us in the crowd talked among ourselves.  When we began, there was the usual work chatter, the usual commentary and suppositions about the about the economy, the usual banter about politics.  But then things pleasantly turned.  Somehow, our conversation managed to flow effortlessly into how important it is to tell people that mean something to you, that you respond to, that you connect with, that they and those moments with them are meaningful to you, and how it lingers with you throughout life when someone acknowledges such a shared authentic connection with you... how critical it is to keep your own light on no matter how bad it gets and to acknowledge and reconcile with yourself the unimaginable, but real, bad things in life and to live with purpose through and after them... how music can pull you in so deeply you literally cannot process or think of anything else... how philosophy and curiosity about this wide world have fueled what is now known as science... how intuition is a crucial ingredient in success, albeit tempered with personal testing of such intuitively felt conclusions...  and many more personally important yet fluidly evolving thoughts we all considered and shared before they transformed into other and more interesting thoughts... and then we all bonded over our common incessant need to produce, create, or DO something meaningful, nearly all the time.  It runs counter to my very being to waste time.  Time can be wisely used in accomplishing a task or in connecting with a kindred spirit.  But to sit idle without either accomplishment or meaning is something that turns my stomach and contorts my soul.  I find myself wonderfully pleased when I get to have moments like those I had this evening where I and those in my company are able to free ourselves from the mundane sorts of conversations that all too often dominate adult working life and instead explore the larger ideas that dominate my private thinking most of the time.  It's tricky in this world connecting with others, and I am deeply thankful for moments in this life when I do.  Here's to more real moments.        

That Perfect Kind of Good for You Chocolate Fix

I am very pregnant right now. That might explain (a) why I haven't written a post in some time and (b) why this one is about chocolate. It might also explain my excitement over something that is chocolate and good for you at the same time. I have found during this pregnancy that the meal that is most important to me is breakfast. It's the only meal of the day I really crave anything in particular. And, oddly for me, I crave something sweet in the morning every day. Those of you who know me well know that is strange indeed. Be that as it may, I am thrilled to report that I have discovered a wonderful way to satisfy my sweet tooth and still feed my growing baby something good for her. It's my chocolate breakfast smoothie. And, it is sooooooo easy.

Add the following to your blender:

1 C. lowfat milk
1 individual serving sized container of yogurt
1 packet Carnation instant breakfast - milk chocolate flavor
approx. 1 C. crushed ice

Blend. Find a straw and a big cup. Enjoy.

 The only variable is the yogurt. For my loyal followers, you already know I'm going to advise using Brown Cow cream top yogurt. It is truly the best. I've tried a few Brown Cow yogurt flavor variations in this smoothie, and the following are great: chocolate (duh), cherry vanilla, vanilla, and strawberry (ranked in that order). I'm guessing I'll still be drinking these long after I am no longer pregnant, too. YUM.

That perfectly timed crescendo

Building... slowly... perfectly... to a resounding, soul-shattering crescendo. Sadly, too few musicians master the timing of the crescendo, which is both a shame in that they are not more easy to come by and also lovely in that when they are found unexpectedly, they arouse that much more delight and charm from their scarcity.

It was love at first listen for me. Some many months ago I discovered Mumford and Sons and their album "Sigh No More." It was, indeed, some happy, fortuitous months ago that I first heard them. Although they are relatively new to the music scene, they have already mastered the art of the perfectly timed crescendo.

Imagine the first leaves of fall, which cause excitement in their scattered state because they signal cooler weather to come. And imagine leaves upon leaves that coat the ground more and more fully with each passing day until finally, the ground is coated completely with a crunchy, brown blanket. Or imagine standing at the water's edge with tentative, tender waves lapping lightly at the tips of your toes. And imagine them washing further over your feet with the passing minutes and hours, and growing, until the tide has enveloped your ankles and shins with warm, lovely bath-like waves. Or imagine just a simple outline of a sketch with pencil or charcoal. A mere gesture drawing, showing action and promise but not yet alive. Then imagine layers of paint lovingly applied. Layer upon layer upon layer, blending, darkening, highlighting, tightening, until finally the true image appears, and you reach the pinnacle of that image and know it is final, it is finished. Well-placed and timed crescendos in life are something to strive for and to be celebrated, and when music manages to get them just right, I simply cannot help but sit up straight and notice.

Mumford and Sons tactfully employs crescendos that move my soul both in individual songs on "Sigh No More" and in the full album as a whole. Individual songs you should absolutely try if you have an deep affinity for perfect crescendos like I do: The Cave, Little Lion Man, and Roll Away Your Stone. But it is an absolute must that you listen to the album in its entirety to appreciate the perfect cadence and appropriate crescendos and decrescendos in the course of the album in its entirety; the album has utterly intimate and quiet moments that are balanced perfectly with the magnificent crescendos that have the capacity to bring tears to my eyes because of their emotion-stirring perfection. Especially moving moments that counterbalance the perfect crescendos are in Timshel, Awake My Soul, and After the Storm.

I have listened to the album probably hundreds of times by now and have even seen the band perform it live, but my favorite experience of the music is probably listening to it while driving, alone, very loudly. The quiet beauty in the nuance of each of the songs as well as their magnificent crescendos can be fully appreciated through crisp speakers that have the power to surround and envelop you in solitude.

And while I am applauding the grand crescendos so expertly mastered by Mumford and Sons, I would be remiss if I failed to also share with you some samples of the stirring, haunting, gentle, and thoughtful lyrics that blend beautifully with the amazing use of crescendos. Here is a small compilation of but a few of them:

.... And you have your choices; and these are what make man great: his ladder to the stars.... The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague, so let the memories be good for those who stay.... And I have filled this void with things unreal, and all the while, my character it steals.... And so I'll be found, with my stake stuck in this ground, marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul.... Weep for yourself my man, you'll never be what is in your heart; weep little lion man, you're not as brave as you were at the start; rate yourself and rake yourself, take all the courage you have left, and waste it on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head.... In these bodies we will live; in these bodies we will die; where you invest your love, you invest your life.... Get over your hill and see what you find there, with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

That Perfect Soup In a Can

Soooooooooup. I am such a soup lover. I get giddy ordering a demitasse or a cup of a chef's soup du jour (especially if it has some cream swirled in it or some sort of peppers). One of my very favorite meals on this planet is a particular tortilla soup that my husband makes (which is derived from the recipe used at a Mexican restaurant in Austin where he worked while in college). And La Madeline's tomato bisque is just heavenly. The cream of shrimp soup at the Cottage in my hometown evokes a craving I wish I could fulfill long distance from Texas. I even gleefully tote soup in a can to work for lunch quite frequently, and I am even happy about it when lunchtime at my desk inevitably rolls around. I keep a pottery bowl I made on the bookshelf in my office to jazz up the canned soup a bit to give it that little something extra on a Tuesday. It fits perfectly and keeps it warm just long enough.

I am a soup girl through and through - always have been. It makes me feel a little warmer when I'm chilly, a little more comfy when I'm stressed, a little more home when I am away, and a little more delicate when I'm just not.

The funny thing about my soup predilection is that I do NOT like to use soup spoons. Sure, the shape is pleasing - round and appealing like the headlights on a VW beetle. But my upper lip happens to be shaped in such a way that I get little spoon-cuts on the edges of it when I eat with a soup spoon (unless I slurp it out of the soup spoon, which just about ruins the experience of eating soup if you ask me - both the aesthetic experience of the soup consumer and of the accompanying meal attendees). Am I the only one with this plight?

As you can imagine, I have tried many soups... and many of the varieties available in cans are not good. Not even worth the $1 or $2 price tag they bear. There are a select few I routinely buy, and I am frequently disappointed with much of what is out there. But, one soup has stood the test of time - the Stonehenge of soups - and my palate has never tired of it. As a child, I remember my family eating it out of mugs with blue daisies on them as the accompaniment to BLT sandwiches. Sometime in my pre-teen or high school days, I began eating this soup on its own and discovered that it doesn't need the BLT accompaniment; in fact, I prefer eating it all by itself. (Not to slight BLTs in the least - I like them very much. They have bacon and mayonnaise, come on.)

That Perfect Soup In a Can is not even one of the fancier-don't-add-water types that seem to fill the supermarket shelves these days. Nope. I've never even seen any kind of advertisement for this soup. This one is old school condensed soup in the small can with a label that comes close to the old Campbell's Tomato soup label Andy Warhol appropriated for his serigraphs (albeit with some recent unfortunate modernization of the styling). And, yes, you definitely have to add water to it before cooking.

Alright already, what kind of soup is it, you ask? The Campbell's soup that apparently no one besides my family seems to know about when I talk about it. The flavor no one else has heard of when they come into the breakroom at my office, smell the lovely scent of it cooking in the microwave, and ask "Ooh, what is that? It smells so good!"



Bean with Bacon (or Bean and Bacon, which I've always called it). Mmmmmmmmmmmmm, mmmmmmmmmmmm, good, as the old Campbell's jingle goes.

That Perfect Out of the Norm Breakfast

I don't particularly like donuts.

Given a choice between a salty breakfast or a sweet one, I nearly always choose salty (enter my favorite: breakfast tacos, for instance). As a child, I even turned up my nose at homemade pancakes and waffles that my Dad so sweetly rose early to make for my brothers and me in our childhood. They're just not my thing. Despite my savory breakfast predilection, to be completely honest, most mornings my breakfast consists of either oatmeal, yogurt, or a banana (yep, eating sensibly as a responsible adult...).

But if I had my druthers... if there were no consequences for a crappy diet, I would have memorable savory breakfasts way more often. Still, every now and then, I am compelled beyond explanation to make an exception from both the sensible good-for-me-routine-breakfast and even the beloved occasional savory breakfast. Today was one of those days. There is but a single brand of flaky, sugary, circular goodness that holds a special place in my heart. My whole life, the only donuts I have cared even one iota about are Shipley's. To be more specific, the only donut I care about whatsoever is a chocolate-filled donut from Shipley's.



Witness the extraordinary, intoxicating power of a chocolate-filled Shipley's donut. I recall staying up through an entire night in high school in my old bedroom at my parents' house just jabbering, gossiping, belly laughing, and probably even crying a little, in the dark with a dear, dear girlfriend (absolutely the norm for a weekend night in high school)... and then being utterly exhausted and delirious sometime in the neighborhood of 5:00 a.m. and realizing that Shipley's would open in about one more hour... and convincing my poor friend to stay up with me just one more hour until it opened so we could go get a donut or two... (nevermind that I was wrong about their opening hour... so we even more deliriously finally collapsed into sleep after making fun of ourselves for staying up all night plus the extra hour for a donut store opening that was definitely a few more hours away yet, quite beyond our sleep-deprived reach). Shipley's, dear readers, is a donut worth losing sleep over. At least at the age of 16 it is. Although I can confidently say I wouldn't stay up all night for it these days, there's not much I'd stay up all night for nowadays, so don't let that discount your impression of the magnificence of a chocolate-filled Shipley's donut.

A few small details: the chocolate tucked inside that donut is the perfect flavor, a little sugary-gritty in texture, and is, pure and simple, oozy, gooey sweet happiness, and the glazing is just the right amount of sticky, flaky sugar that you have to (or get to) lick off of your fingertips. Ah.

That Perfect Stain Remover

Bye bye blueberry dribble... off of a dry clean only Banana Republic top. Whew! I think that feat was the most amazing one I've seen accomplished by a humble little Tide To Go Pen. At some great, old-aged birthday celebration with my grandfather in New Orleans some years ago, I first discovered Tide To Go Pens. My Mom and I had ordered some lip-smacking good blueberry dessert that we were splitting and then I did it. I splorked blueberry dribble all over the front of my blouse. Behold my charm and elegance in that moment - of spilling the ultimate staining ingredient down my front-side. Mom and I made our way to the ladies' room (with me already bidding farewell to any future with this shirt of mine), and lo and behold, Mom whipped out this little orange paint-marker-looking detergent pen, rubbed it on the purply mess, and voila. Stain gone immediately. I.M.M.E.D.I.A.T.E.L.Y. Sounds like fairy tale stain solving, but it truly isn't.

It's purely awesome chemistry in a little orange pen. It is amazing to me how many people haven't yet tried this little maestro of on-the-spot cleaning. I stow one away in my too large purse - always - just in case. When I offer it to folks in the aftermath of a new stain, I find almost no one realizes the awesome power of these little sticks. So here I am singing its praises so maybe some of you out there will be ready when a mess makes its way to your outfit.

I wouldn't go anywhere without one now. Next time you're in the check-out line at the grocery store, and you see it in the register aisle, just toss it in your cart. Go ahead. You won't be sorry you did.

Here's what the Tide To Go Pen website advises:



What is Tide to Go?

Tide to Go is a portable stain removing pen from Tide that instantly removes many fresh food and drink stains.

How does it work?

1. Remove excess residue from the stain.
2. Press the tip onto the stain several times to release some stain remover solution onto the stain. [*like a paint marker*]
3. Rub tip gently across the stain to remove it. When necessary, add more liquid and continue rubbing gently.
4. Important: If treated area will be exposed to direct sunlight, wipe with a damp cloth or napkin to remove excess solution left on fabric.
For tough stains, place a paper towel under the stain while treating or wipe excess liquid or residue away with a damp paper towel, or reapply as necessary.

Does Tide to Go work on all stains?

No. Tide to Go is designed specifically for removing fresh food and drink stains. Stains that Tide to Go works best on include ketchup, BBQ sauce, grape juice, tomato juice, coffee, soda, chocolate syrup, tea, and wine. Tide to Go does not perform as well on non-food and drink stains including ink, grease, blood, and grass stains.


I've never tried it on anything besides food stains, probably because if I'm doing something intentionally messy, I dress for it and couldn't care less if I get stains on what I'm wearing. Food is the eternal unknown. You never know when it will jump off of your spoon into your lap and on to your favorite (and probably most expensive) trousers. Better safe than sorry...

That Perfect Wind Down Your Day With a Laugh Show

Whether you've had a great day, are in a jovial mood, and are letting the excitement of the day go to settle contentedly into bed by the glowing light of a television... or you've had an exasperating day, your feet hurt, you couldn't drink enough wine to wind down, and you're finally getting to lay down after a trying day, which would feel good if only your body didn't hurt so much, and you absent-mindedly turn on your television... that perfect wind down your day with a laugh show is Chelsea Lately. I mean, really. That chick is so very funny. She's cheeky, witty, smart, honest, subtly rude, openly rude... she's a natural comedian. Her show comes on E!, which I only watch to see her show, nothing else. And I don't habitually watch it. Honestly, I don't habitually watch much. But I've never regretted flipping on the television and catching Chelsea Handler in action on her show. Who couldn't use a laugh at the end of a great day, or better yet, a crappy one.

I'm having trouble finding a clip on youtube that accurately reflects how funny the show is... so just watch it. Funny stuff~

That Perfect Serum

Ah, skin. At different times in my life my skin has been a thing of beauty or a cause of frustration. I've outgrown most of my acne, apart from the minor hormonal blip of a blemish, quite thankfully. But, as I age, I find I am prone to patchy dry skin, like some of my dear immediate family members. In the space of the last 6 to 8 months or so, I've had episodes of strange, patchy, dry skin on my face that was crazy itchy and felt irritated and generally put a damper on my mood. No clue what triggered it either. Luckily, there are plenty of good make up products for covering up such unsightly blemishes, but ouchie.

Even if they weren't in fact screaming in neon letters "Look at me!" they sure felt like they were. Leave it to me to think of these little dry patches of skin as personified, ruthless, punk rascals shouting things at others. I just felt like the world was staring at my glaring, screaming dry spots (though my rational side is certain that (1) there were, of course, no screaming skin cells, and (2) folks have better things to do than that). I went to the doctor and was given topical medicines and a steroid pack... I tried cortisone, lanolin, dandruff shampoo, Vaseline, everything you can think of with some remote chance of working. Alas, nothing did. Nothing. Enter frustration.

And then, one day in November, I think, I was frequenting my local Lush store, perusing the bath bombs and melts as usual when I noticed these facial "serums." Hm. Worth a go. It looked like it would be seriously moisturizing, a bit oily, smelled lovely, and promised help for sensitive and dry skin. MAN, was it worth a go. I tell you this with all sincerity... if you've got any pesky skin issues, rub this magical serum on it and they will vanish. For those of you easily swept to emotion - it is pure magic. Or, for those of you more logically inclined, it is a highly effective balm. Either way, I'm in love and ever so thankful to have the dry skin completely resolved. I just use it as my facial moisturizer each night, and that's it. Easy as that. Plus I think I am becoming addicted to the smell. It's called Full of Grace, and I have captured a little grace back for myself, indeed, since discovering this serum. I was feeling sheepish about my skin a mere three or four months ago, but a woman I don't even know passed me on the way out of my office building a few weeks ago and smiled, kept walking, then stopped, and turned around and then stopped me just so she could tell me she thought my skin was beautiful.

It is such an unexpected delight when things actually make you want to tell the world "wow." I am remembering why I started this blog in the first place.



Here's where you can get your own and read more about it: http://www.lushusa.com/shop/products/face/serums/full-of-grace

That Perfect Love Song Writer

Long story short, I'll try to update the blog more frequently for my loyal readership... but for now, you'll simply have to be sated by the following videos by King Charles, a musician I saw open for Mumford & Sons the other night. What a precious songwriter. He loves deeply, you can tell, and expresses it in such a genuine and quirky way. Absolutely charming. For that, I am crowning him That Perfect Love Song Writer. I hope these links work:

King Charles from Black Cab Sessions on Vimeo.

That Perfect Graffiti

I was just pumping gas into my car a little while ago, and I noticed something etched into the plastic face plate on the pump, hovering over the ever increasing digital tally of gallons and dollars relating to my gas purchase. There were quite a few nonsense-looking tagged etchings in the plastic that looked like they were scrawled messily with a relatively clunky carving instrument (this was no professional etching needle, of which I own 2 or 3 from my intaglio days). Maybe someone used a knife or a sharp key. I almost dismissed it upon cursory first glance but then, scrawled and imperfect as it was with its uneven squarish letters (because, of course, it's hard to carve letters with curves accurately with an awkward instrument), it caught my eye. Scrawled into this foggy, once upon a time fully transparent, plastic were the words "SUTKO HOUT." Without knowing it (I assume), the author of this graffiti, defacer of private property, has elegantly coined a name that would be suitable for an album, a fashion line, or a European diplomat.

While this graffiti gave me pleasant pause, I hesitate to call it "that perfect graffiti." But it was pretty good, you have to admit. It has, however, reminded me of some graffiti I saw a few months back, which I do wish to don with the title of that perfect graffiti.

One beautiful Saturday this past spring, my husband, son, and I were tromping around the grounds surrounding a local lake here in Dallas. As we walked, we came upon a wooden bridge over a large stream where lots of ducks were swimming. We'd brought some old bread with us (hoping to happen upon ducks), so we stopped to feed them. As we tossed our bread chunks over the side of the bridge to the swimming scavengers below, we noticed some Sharpie-written graffiti on the rail of the bridge.

"I love ducks."

Charming. Someone who (1) cared so little about his/her surroundings so as to scrawl on them in the midst of peaceful, clean, nature (2) was so enamored with the ducks that he/she felt the need to prominently declare it in permanent ink on the nearest thing he/she could write on. While I am often annoyed at graffiti (especially when it's not especially artistic, with my distaste being highly variable depending upon where the graffiti has been scrawled), I could not help but be ticked by "I love ducks."

Graffiti, inappropriate as it may be, can sometimes be a little star in the dark.

That Perfect Soap II

One of the things that inspired me to create this blog in the first place was L'Occitane Shea Butter Extra Gentle Milk Soap. Indeed, it was the subject of my very first blog entry (for those of you who don't know the history...). Though I feel a bit sheepish, I am now moved to write a new entry amending that prior one. Do not misunderstand me - I still love the L'Occitane soap. I am just feeling a bit torn. You see, a friend gave me a bar of Aveda Rosemary Mint soap, which I just began using a few days ago... and whoa. This stuff is rich, smooth, exfoliating, and smells heavenly. While I won't elevate either of these luscious soaps to first billing over the other, I do feel the need to at least put the Aveda soap on the same pedestal as the L'Occitane. I've had ultra knotty and achy muscles for a while now, and in addition to the Aveda soap being lovely for cleaning and for luxuriating (odd, my spellcheck did not red-squiggly-underline "luxuriating")... it also works well to create a slick skin surface, making massaging achy muscles easy.

While I am feeling a little unfaithful to the L'Occitane soap, I just could not help but give the Aveda soap its due credit here. And, it's also a striking-looking bar on top of being functionally beautiful:



This soap is about twice the price of the L'Occitane. Even were it not gifted to me, I think I'd buy it myself. I'm sure I'll have to down the road, but luckily the bar is a mega-bar, so it'll thankfully be a while before I have to even think about that.

That Perfect Cheese Enchilada

I almost always order cheese enchiladas whenever I visit a Mexican restaurant for the first time. If those are good, then I may just frequent the place. Indeed, good salsa and good cheese enchiladas are far and away the most important factors in determining whether I'll be a fan of a Mexican restaurant. And, those who know me well know I am always up for trying a new Mexican place. My poor family was subjected to Mexican food every (and I mean every) time the restaurant selection was up to me as a child.

The most important thing about cheese enchiladas is that the cheese has to be just right. What does that mean? It's got to be that perfect uber-orangey cheese that melts everywhere. While typically I am an advocate of eating real food and not processed what-the-hell-is-it-food... I make an almost sacred exception when it comes to cheese enchiladas. We've all got our demons, and I freely admit that this is one of mine. They also have to get the flavors in the sauce just right - I usually go for a good chili con carne, but I am a little flexible on the sauce.

As you can tell, I've sampled many a cheese enchilada in my thirty-something years, many of which have been lived in Texas, so I am quite the connoisseur. I will be having Those Perfect Cheese Enchiladas for dinner this very night. It's time to crown the winner of the best cheese enchiladas: Matt's Rancho Martinez, which, very happily, is a mere 5 minutes from my house in Dallas.

www.mattsranchomartinez.com

Here they are:

That Perfect Dichotomy

Cold, hard, glass, steel, granite, stop lights, cars, power lines, concrete, busy, work ethic, drive, fifty emails and I just got here. A hug, warmth, a hand-written letter, an old photograph, a long evening of talking about nothing and everything, telephone calls, airplane rides, overdue visits, there's simply never enough time with the ones you love.

Seems a bit of a mish mosh doesn't it? Well, it's exactly the dichotomy that pops in my head every weekday morning, at least for now.

There is this billboard; well, maybe that isn't the right word for it since it takes up the side of a whole skyscraper. This billboard strikes me and moves me every weekday morning on my commute to the office. Amidst the towers that compose the Dallas skyline, this highly personal statement is boldly proclaimed and daily confronts those of us plodding to work in our ritualized commutes. I am moved by the irony of this simple yet touching statement hovering over and becoming part of a place dominated by business and busyness. It gives me pause to remember those who I miss.

And somehow I also like that there's a little distance between my building and this touching adage. I work in the one all the way on the right in the photo below, while the sign is a bit over to the left. In light of the sentiment, it seems fitting to me that it is situated that way.



And here's a closeup:

That Perfect Most Beautiful Place

I am not sure why my mind wandered today to this place where I wandered about, oh, twelve years ago. I took a solo backpacking trip to Ireland after I graduated from undergrad, and it was an amazing trip in so many ways. Being alone and independently traversing another continent was exhilarating. And beautiful. I filled journals, drank many, many a Guinness, and met the most fantastic people. Six weeks of bliss. While the whole of Ireland has a very special place in my heart and holds many joyful memories for me, the most beautiful place I have ever traveled was Dun Aengus, a ring fort sitting atop these grand cliffs off the western coast of Ireland. It was misty and raining a little the day I was there, and everything looked and felt very grayish warmish blue. I passed a cute little man sitting under a striking red umbrella playing an accordion on the way up. The grass along the path on the way was so green, as is everything in Ireland. You couldn't see the cliffs until you were upon them. And they were glorious. I fantasized about building a small house somewhere near them just so I could keep returning to them. There was something that called me to them. I can't quite place it, but the peace, the beauty, the calm, and the coolness there was just incredible.

I wikipedia'd Dun Aengus just now and found something I find quite charming that I didn't remember about Dun Aengus as well - that it is not known precisely when this fort was built. There is something charming and ironic indeed about the ancient lacking its history.

Dun Aengus is on the largest of the Aran Islands off of the western coast of Ireland - Inishmoor. When I went, I stayed in a quaint and lovely hostel there, and a friend and I hiked the entirety of the island in one day (it's that small). The only poor showing of this part of my trip was that to get to Inishmoor, you have to take a ferry from Galway. Galway is quite lovely, but the ferry and I did not get along. You see, if you're me, apparently riding a small ferry over large waves to a tiny island leads inevitably to becoming overwhelmingly sea sick. But, even with that, it was so worth it for the moments of staring into the ocean over the rocky, craggy edge of those cliffs. And, I am remembering some music I had in my headphones while I was there... Clandestine (very sadly, a lovely band that is no longer together), their album The Haunting. Dunlavy's Castle is sticking out in my head. It felt kind of like that. Beautiful. Beauty full. Full.

That Perfect Bread

I am not a baker. But, lucky me, I don't have to be. I have found the PERFECT bread - That Perfect Bread, to be exact. It's Rustic Italian bread from Whole Foods. When I first moved to Austin, I could have mentioned Whole Foods to an audience as wide as my blog readership and most of you would have said Whole What? Nowadays, Whole Foods stores are all over the place, so you can all go get your own Rustic Italian, and I highly recommend you do so. I have two ways I especially love to eat this bread.

(1) In a grilled cheese. Instead of delaying your gratification, I'll go ahead and tell you how to do that while I'm here. (a) Heat pan. (b) Rub the end of a stick of butter in the pan until there's a thin, sizzling butter puddle about the size of the slice of bread. (c) Plop the bread down on the butter sizzle. (d) Add your favorite cheese - grated works best, and I usually use cheddar or something similar (or slices work well, too). (e) Add the top piece of bread. (f) When the bottom piece is getting there but not done, lift the sandwich up with a large spatula. (g) Repeat step (b). (h) Carefully turn sandwich over and plop it on the butter sizzle. (i) Grate fresh Parmesan (Reggiano is the best) over the top piece of bread. (j) When the now-bottom piece is getting there but not done, lift the sandwich up with your large spatula. (k) Flip the sandwich over, Parmesan side down. (l) Grate more fresh Parmesan on the side that is now face up. (m) When bottom side is done (browned sufficiently), flip the sandwich and finish the remaining side. (m) Enjoy your tastes-like-you-got-it-at-a-bistro-in-Europe-grilled-cheese. YUM.

(2) Grilled, as an accompaniment to other grilled items, with no butter, oil, or anything else smeared on it. Pure and simple. Grill slices until there are gentle grill lines on it. Once it's got a crispy texture to it, it's done. As a finishing touch, take one raw clove of garlic and rub it over one side of the bread. The bread will have a sandpaper effect and will get a fabulous garlic infusion simply from rubbing it with the clove. The best garlic bread ever, and still healthy to boot.

I am sure there are plenty of other fabulous uses for Rustic Italian - find your own, it won't be hard.

Here's how it looks in the store - there are two versions, well three, really. First is a pre-sliced sandwich loaf. Second is a mini boule, which, as you can see, is ONLY 99 cents. Third is a large boule. If you buy the boule kind, they'll slice it freshly for you upon request. We happen to have both the sandwich kind and a small boule at the same time simply because hubby and I went to Whole Foods separately and redundantly each bought versions of Rustic Italian.

That Perfect Song for This Imperfect State

So this one is a personal one, so if you're looking for a tip on that perfect hot spot in Dallas, or that perfect thing to prepare for your guests at the party you're planning, this post isn't it. Try back next week, and I'll probably be in the mood to oblige. What can I say, That Perfect gets personal sometimes. You've been warned.

So I've been listening to this album in my car to and from work lately, and there's this one song that keeps just resonating with me. It's speaking to my two greatest conflicts lately, and so I just keep listening to it, allowing it to justify my feelings, almost.

There are two things that are bothering me in the most incessant way. Yep. I'm a little disappointed to be writing this post because when I set out to create this blog, I intended it to focus on positive things, in large part to help distract me from the first frustration I'm about to discuss. But it is what it is, and I am who I am.

Okay, so frustration number 1 is this insanity called thoracic outlet syndrome with which I've been recently diagnosed. To summarize, nerve pain, burning, weird coldness/numbness/strangeness, and insane muscle tension, which all varies in intensity, all through my left side from my ear on down, with the most troublesome spots in my neck, jaw, ribs, and shoulder. I am not sure what caused it - how I sleep, how I sit at a computer, how I snuggle my son when I rock-cuddle with him, how I do who-knows-what... or maybe it's a result of a number of mechanical imperfections in my posture... or maybe I was just doomed to it because of how my body decided to form itself. Who knows. What I do know is that for the last year, I've been fighting it, trying my damnedest to conquer it, or at least name it. I guess I have a name for it now (after thoroughly determining that I'm in quite lovely health otherwise). The worst of it is the nerve pain that no pain killer touches. Sometimes I can function through it, and sometimes it is the most painful trial to just be. When there's days I literally told my husband I could not take it anymore, guess what my choice was... take it some more or take it some more. So I did. I have. I am. I am trying to be normal, to be myself through it, but I liked the version of me better before this problem crept up on me. Nevertheless, I push through it all day everyday, which is the hardest when I'm at my job, in a suit, smiling, thinking intently, typing quickly, carefully deciding all matter of things. I thoroughly enjoy using my mind, stretching it, but I hate when my body interrupts that. So I continue to try to elevate mind over body. I was advised that surgery would probably be the best option at this point, but I simply cannot fathom nor accept losing body parts that would be required as part of that (a rib and some muscles)... cannot evict those parts of me. But, honestly, my first reaction to being told (a) there's a surgery for this and (b) that the doc recommended it was: GOOD. Finally. I'll feel okay one day. But, after sleeping on it (well, on the other side from it) a few nights, I resolved that I just cannot comfortably settle into the idea of surgery. I want relief, but not at that price. Not yet. Simply, I am trying everything else first before I go that far.

Frustration number 2 is that my son is now just over 2 years old, and I wanted him to have another sibling at least on the way by now. I do still intend to give him that, to grow our family by another little miracle, but I need to get frustration number 1 under control before I can do that. It's logical and responsible to wait until all the tests that need to be run have been run, all the xrays that need to be taken have been taken, all the medicines that need to be tried have been tried, before I decide to grow another little person. I loved being pregnant with my son. I mean, loved it. It was the most incredible, intimate, awe-inspiring experience in the world. The best thing I have ever done, hands down. I'm mentally and emotionally ready to do it again, but my body, failing me as described in frustration number 1, is making me hesitate. And I am approaching that mommy deadline - the point at which it becomes more dangerous to create new lives. I know people do it all the time, but I wanted... I planned... to do it before now to do it with as many odds on our side as I could.

So, you're probably wondering what in the world is perfect about any of this. Me too, in a way. Sometimes perfection strikes in the imperfect. Well, it does me, anyway. It's That Perfect Song for This Imperfect State.

My whole life I have related to song lyrics in a deep, resonating way. I tend to tie my experiences to songs and let them capture personal moments and tunefully personify the narrative I am living. It just happens, when I am not even looking for it. If the two frustrations didn't especially connect with you, maybe that act of bonding with a song will.

So this song that I've been soaking in, that hits those frustrations perfectly, is Have You Got It In You by Imogen Heap.

It takes a lot...to be always on form...
It takes a lot.
I may be not - all the time - all I've got...
Maybe not.

Been one of those days...
Safety first, don't push...what's the hurry?
One nerve remaining, waiting on one look....have you got it?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?

All at once, not a whisper, no word.
Then all at once...
Let me have it all, let me have it, battle on,
Easy target,
Look can we just...just get it over with.
It's getting worse, against all the odds...
It's getting worse.
Guard down, floor's yours, last man standing can we, just get it over with.

Been one of those days...
Safety first, don't push...don't push me...what's the hurry?
Cause there's one nerve remaining, waiting on one look,
One look now...have you got it?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?

Blue blue day make me blue...
Head down, quick! Take cover, big girl in a mood.
Blue you, make me anymore blue?
Long spin shout power clean right out of your suit.

One more, one more, one more, one more

Been one of those days...
Safety first, don't push...what's the hurry?
One nerve remaining, waiting on one look...have you got it?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?

Who knows how long this link will be good, but here is the song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=voAt8ysjrXE

That Perfect Night Light

Stubbing toes. Forgetting which doors were closed. Stepping on a Hot Wheels. Kicking the cat (causing the inevitable screetching cat yelp for which you feel so terribly guilty). Tripping on a laptop power cord. We've all been there... treading gently, slowly in the dark, trying to save our toes and moving along, ever so gingerly, in a thick blackened room so as not to wake anyone else up (especially the baby, if you have one - man, don't wake up the baby)... and boom. In the dark. In the middle of the night. Or maybe it hasn't even been a mere 15 minutes since you've first laid down. You've caused something to be either loud or painful. Or worse: both. And all you wanted to do was go pee. Or get something to drink. Or make sure the back door was locked.

We bought a whole slew of these cute little LED night lights, which come to life only in the dark, at Ikea some time ago. I just love them. They're subtle enough that you hardly notice them in the room generally, but they're just bright enough in the dark so as not to feel like a real light is on yet they guide your way like little whispering spotlights on the floor in the night. I forget how much they cost, but it's minimal -- something like 2 or 3 dollars. They look clean and shiny - almost like little robots - and they'll last forever since they're LED. Love em. Really, imagine a light whispering a clean little guiding whisper in the dark, and that's what these do.

That Perfect Margarita

I know you've been waiting for it: That Perfect Margarita. Honestly, not much explanation is necessary. Hubby makes these. They're perfect.

Step by step instructions:

(1) Start with a container that can be shaken.
(2) Add 2 oz. tequila (good tequila such as Sauza Hornitos or Patron Silver)
(3) Add 1 1/4 oz. Triple Sec
(4) Add a healthy splash of orange juice
(5) Add 6 oz. of Dr. Swami & Bone Daddy's Margarita Mix
(6) Add juice of 1/2 lime
(7) Shake vigorously.
(8) Rub Triple Sec on the rims of 2 glasses
(9) Roll edges of glasses in Kosher salt
(10) Fill glasses with crushed ice
(11) Pour frothy shaken margaritas into glasses and thoroughly enjoy.

Here's the one I had yesterday.

That Perfect Colored Pencil

I know most of my readers don't draw, but surely this post will stick in your head when one day (a) you're inspired to draw something (whether you show anyone else or not doesn't matter), (b) your child is so inspired (or at least has to color a map for a social studies project and then may decide to experiment with his or her drawing supplies after the homework is done), or (c) not sure... but this is worth writing about anyway.

That perfect Colored Pencil is unquestionably Prismacolor. These are awesome little colorful sticks of wonder. A beloved art professor of mine at UT creates the most detailed, amazing large-scale drawings with Prismacolors, and a visit to his home in my undergraduate years for a party introduced me to them and is what inspired me to buy my first Prismacolors. And now, I wouldn't use any others.

They are brilliant, true colors. And their blender pencil (which has a semi-opaque yet clear "lead") allows for awesome blending. I have learned over the years that if you buy cheap art supplies, they feel cheap: the colors are all wrong and the textures they have or create are flimsy, runny, or have some other negative quality you just can't work with. Another example is when I used to frequently buy oil paints. If you have any familiarity with oil paints, it's like the difference between napthol red and cadmium red medium. Or ultramarine versus cobalt blue. Or lemon yellow versus cadmium yellow light. (In each case, the latter is the really real color, and the former is the imposter.) Or, for those with slightly more basic art supply knowledge, it's like comparing the dime store crayons (or the freebie restaurant crayons) to Crayolas. I am certainly not an advocate of spending money where unnecessary; however, I will shout all day with all the enthusiasm in my bones about the merits of spending your money well - on quality things, on quality experiences. If you have any inclination to draw, the experience and the end result with Prismacolors will certainly provide the most quality for the time and money. Now, if only I had the time these days...

http://www.prismacolor.com/products/colored-pencils

Here's a quick sample of a drawing of mine done exclusively with Prismacolors just to show you what you can do with colored pencils (they're not just for coloring maps in jr. high anymore)...

That Perfect Hour

That Perfect Hour. Right about now: Around 10 or 11 among the evening hours. I can spin and focus and whirl and posit all day long. I can be so accomplished, I can achieve so much during the daylight hours. Or, I can waste the day not knowing what to do or not even considering such a thing - just letting the day pass me by. Regardless of how tired, annoyed, productive, independent, chained, or useless I've been all the live long day, by early evening, say 6 or 7, I feel worn and weary, having been at the mercy of things external to my soul. But, then as the hours grow later and darker, somehow at least some of the energy I'd lost, I'd released, I'd burned along the daily way... returns to me. No matter how tired I am from the trials of the day, I find myself contemplative, quiet, and yet so very awake at this hour. It's at this time of day I believe I am my best, my most true, my most - in general. Ideas lap over me like waves, colors and sounds inspire me, language strikes a chord within me. A night owl, some would say. Even though the day is nearly at its close, there is something large and yet quiet in the personal, real time. It is precarious, though; alas, the world, as usual, imposes its schedule on me, so this eveningtime-springtime is inevitably shortened, inescapably limiting the heights I can reach, at least for today. Tomorrow beckons, and lest I be all too useless to face it, I must go to bed in the coming hours before my mind is fully ready. Maybe that is why I always have such vivid dreams.

"And it's time, time, time that you love. And it's time, time, time." Tom Waits, "Time."

That Perfect Sleepy Sad Day Album

That Perfect Sleepy Sad Day Album. I am more often that not drawn to this kind of music, so it's incredibly hard for me to narrow this down. Exceedingly difficult. I figure, though, if I use specific adjectives that describe this album but do not limit my future naming of That Perfect ___ ___ Album(s) (which may also strike certain emotional chords on some other days), then I'm safe enough.

When you've had a rough day, and you really want to sleep, but you can't sleep so well... when your muscles just won't let go, and your eyes are meaninglessly open. When your heart feels a little sad, but you aren't sure why. When you long for something, but you aren't sure what. When you vividly remember things and forget some others. When you feel less than perfect. When you want to be moved. Listen to That Perfect Sleepy Sad Day Album. 9 by Damien Rice. In some ways it isn't as strong or as striking as O, Damien's first album (which made me cry time and time again when I first heard it), but 9 seriously grows on you. Where O ought to be on some best album of all time list, 9 is the one I want to write about today. Nine Crimes, Sleep Don't Weep, Elephant, and Accidental Babies are especially moving. Amazing songs. And Rootless Tree is great turned up loud, yet it still feels sad. Sometimes sadness is worth celebrating. It's part of life, after all.

I originally had a link to Amazon so you could listen to short snippets of songs from the album, but I decided that the snippets simply did not do the sublime songs on this album justice. Go buy it.

That Perfect Stroller

I am not sure how many of you in my readership have kiddos, especially kiddos who are stroller-age, but I just can't help myself. When I was pregnant with my son, we researched strollers (along with every other baby necessity... looking for That Perfect everything...), and we were seeking a stroller that would (1) allow for the car seat to snap into it so as not to disturb our little one if possible, (2) be sturdy, and (3) be easily foldable/packable into the car. Oh, and cute also entered into my calculations. We ended up with this:



It's the Peg Perego Revi in orange with cute little polka dots. We also had the matching car seat that snapped into it. The trouble was, figuring out which lever or button did what was utterly confusing. It was actually overwhelming. When we took it for strolls, which a stroller is supposedly built for, it would catch on sidewalk cracks, sticks, and practically leaves, breezes, and small anthills. Really, the thing cost a lot of money, and I was just annoyed that we'd wasted our money on it. It was cute, but that was not enough. Additionally, getting the car seat snapped safely into it would inevitably wake up the baby, and was more of a pain to do than to just carry the car seat by its handle. Plus, turning around, and even simple turning, even on the smooth concrete floor of a mall, were clumsy endeavors. So, this very expensive but cute stroller sat in the back of our car gathering dust.

We finally wised up and bought a new stroller: That Perfect Stroller. What is That Perfect Stroller you ask? Well, a Bob, of course! It is a stroller of which all other strollers should be jealous. Seriously, this thing is amazing. It turns on a dime and glides over any surface (including the bumpiest of sidewalks, stairs, grassy hills... you name it). I can also fold it up and get it in the car in about 5 seconds - literally (it barely weighs more than 20 pounds, and it folds in half - that's it). All the key parts you need to (1) buckle the child in and (2) fold it up are red so you can't miss the important little pieces when you need to find them. The tires are like bike tires -- smooth and agile and can be aired up to perfection. It's also got large storage spots, so we can always have plenty of books, toys, and snacks at our disposal to keep our little boy entertained, and there's still room for my shopping bags and drinks for Mom & Dad, too. I've even seen someone in my neighborhood taking a stroll with her Bob with a car seat sitting in it -- we didn't have ours when our son was too young to be buckled in, but from the looks of it, they're pretty adaptable for even the smallest kiddos, too, who prefer to stay in their car seats outside of the car. Our Bob has a front wheel that locks in place if you want it to (for jogging), or it can be mobile for more agility and ease of turning. I really love this stroller. If you're in the market, it's a purchase you will absolutely not regret. In my neighborhood, which is overflowing with trees, kids, dogs, and a great park, you see more Bobs than any other strollers around here. And, I can honestly say, they're the most popular stroller for very good reasons. Others just don't compare. Here's ours - it's the Bob Revolution.



And here's the website for That Perfect Stroller:
http://www.bobgear.com/strollers/stroller_accessories.php?product_id=4

That Perfect ____

What's this? Two posts in one day? Well, I was inspired a little while ago to go digging in my plan file drawers -- these monstrous thin flat drawers made of oak (stacked about a foot taller and three times wider than I am) for storing artwork, which I was fortunate enough to inherit from G.P. (see earlier That Perfect Rum post) -- and I ran across many many many old drawings from when I was in art school. These date from 1995 to 1997 or so, when I was taking life drawing classes. For the elucidation those of you who had "normal" majors in college or didn't attend at all, life drawing classes (and all studio art classes, for that matter) at UT Austin (and elsewhere, I'd assume) consist of 4-hour class sessions twice a week (usually MW or TTh from 8-12 or 2-6) for three hours of class credit (yep -- so if you had a 12 hour semester, that amounted to 32 hours of class time, not counting outside work that was required, especially in the advanced classes). We'd spend the entire four hours drawing nude models. Oddly, you forget they're nude while you're drawing -- honest -- and just focus on the folds, wrinkles, lines, shapes, textures, and expressions. I snapped a few digital photos just now of some of the old drawings I did in my undergrad studies -- they're below. I'm not sure what That Perfect ___ this post is about, but there was a feeling of something perfect that swept over me -- either in the drawings or in my reflections upon them. Don't know what to call it, but something was perfect in that moment of my looking back at these sketches. I'm not including any of my "sophisticated" later work here... just some charcoal and pencil sketches. Some finished, some not, most done in life drawing classes, a few done just messing around at home. There's a million billion trillion miles between who I am today and who I was when I drew these, but I've been trying to narrow that gap as of late. I just dusted off my old prismacolor pencils, and it turns out that going through law school, being a lawyer, and being a pretty demanding toddler's mom hasn't made me forget how to draw after all. And so, since I don't know what That Perfect this post is about, it's up to you to fill in the blank this time....

That Perfect Summer Drink

Remember how I said it gets hot in Texas?? Sweltering even? Well, such cruel temperatures always start the resourceful wheels in my mind turning toward figuring out how to stay cool and clean. Cool and clean. Cool and clean. Even just typing those words together feels good. Those simple words also happen to describe That Perfect Summer Drink, which I made for the first time last summer. One day last summer, I purchased some fancy schmancy 16 oz fruit essence water at the local gourmet market -- no sugar, just fruit essence infused into the water. I tried the one with cucumber essence and fell in love with how clean, light, and refreshing it was. I was not, however, so enamored with the high price -- maybe it was two or three bucks. Too much for a single serving of water, to be sure. I won't be paying that again. Especially when water is free (or at least already paid for via my monthly payment to the city of Dallas for my running water), and fruit is also readily available fairly inexpensively any local supermarket. And it's so very simple to make That Perfect Summer Drink. (1) Fill a pitcher with tap or filtered water - whichever you prefer; (2) Slice up a whole cucumber; (3) Put the cucumber slices in the pitcher; (4) Refrigerate; (5) Once cold, drink lovingly (leaving the cucumber slices themselves in the pitcher). I tell you, this is the stuff you want on a really hot day. After I have made it through about 1/2 of the pitcher (which I leave in the fridge), I add more water. Depending on how quickly you down it, the same cucumber slices can be used multiple times. Keep adding water to be infused until you think the cucumber has surpassed its potential. Cheap. Easy. Most importantly -- cool and clean.



The plastic tupperware pitcher I use is not terribly photogenic, so I googled cucumber water just now to find a photo to use here, and, not shockingly, I'm not the first to come up with this idea. Here's a photo of some pretty grand looking cucumber water. Yours will taste as good as this looks, even if it's concocted in a cheap plastic pitcher like mine.