Karina's Love + Life Posts: The Remix

Love + Life Posts: The Remix

xox

Screwed

Sticky Notes on an Anniversary

A Love Story. With Cake.

A Turn Toward the New

Our New Apartment: Design by Color

Snow and Chocolate

Ghosts in the Wheel

Santa Fe Farmer's Market

Enchiladas Griegos for Two

How to Leave in 24 Hours

56 Things to Remember

Fifty-Five Things I've learned in 55 Years

Gut Instinct 

Rain in Santa Monica: Wordless Wednesday

 

8 Random Factoids

Update: From Alex

Gluten-Free Turkey Meatloaf with Pecan Crust

Gluten-free turkey meatloaf with sun-dried tomatoes and pecan crust.

A Turn Toward the New

The morning was cool and bright. It was going to be one of those quintessential Cape Cod autumn days. A day tourists swoon over. Worthy of a post card with The weather is sublime- wish you were here scrawled in black gel cursive between sips of a Hot Chocolate Sparrow latte. The sky was a cake bowl of cobalt blue with that particular pink edge to it that only painters notice, the blush that softened the tree line at the north end of the West Barnstable marsh gentling the heavy greens of the pines and oaks into a bluish, almost violet gray.

She brushed her teeth with fennel toothpaste and spit into the low slung sink, pausing to breathe. A long inhale to slow her heart. The cottage was pin drop quiet. The boys had climbed the rubber lined steps into the school bus hours ago, peanut butter and honey sandwiches bagged, milk money in their pockets. She had waved from the street and watched them navigate the bus aisle in shadow, avoiding her maternal gaze, not turning to wave back. Too risky, she understood.

The walk back up the curve of road to the rental she had found last spring felt different this morning. Not because of the air and its September clarity that sharpened the asters and the Queen Anne's Lace with impossible precision- though she felt a kinship with the acute focus the turning of the seasons always brings. That sense of realignment, a perennial return to purpose. Ironically, she always felt as if fall was the season of new beginnings. Not spring.

Fall was the season she woke up, as if from a dream.

Today was the first day of a plein air painting workshop. A post-divorce return to premarital roots, when she painted for the love of it- not the pragmatic bill-paying need of it. Painting for an income (however necessary it may be) is dangerous business. Courting the marketplace changes your work. A self consciousness slithers in and infiltrates your choices. The observer becomes observed. Judged. Rewarded for meeting expectations.

She had always been more than willing to please. To notice the cues and needs of others. It was more than habit. It was ingrained in her bones. She had an uncanny knack for it. And she hated it about herself. She hated her automatic willingness to anticipate and acquiesce. Sometimes she would hear her own words hang in the air and for a quantum, split second wonder who had just spoken. There were entire days lost to living outside herself, hovering above her left shoulder, just beyond reach.

Stepping into the tiny sunlit kitchen she stood still for a moment, tempted by the cluttered breakfast table. The sticky bowls and spoons. The allure of distraction. The comfort of routine. But it didn't take. She snatched her car keys off a hook and grabbed a canvas bag of painting gear by the door, turned the knob with her free hand and opened it wide. Three minutes later she made a right at the empty bus stop, and accelerated east down Old King's Highway.

To be continued...


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56 Things To Remember

 What She Said

On the eve of my last birthday I wrote a post- Fifty-five Things I've Learned in 55 Years. Well, Babycakes. June is here again. There's another candle on the gluten-free cake. And fifty-six things I want to talk about. Or more accurately, remember. To remind myself. Because at my age? Remembering is an art not a science. So write this down. It's important.

You know what they say.

Here today, gone mañana.

56 Things To Remember:

1. Make a To Do List. That way, when you find it in the bottom of your purse next month, you'll have something to read while you're standing in line buying tube socks. Which by the way, was never on your list.

2. What's done is done.

3. Breathe. I'm serious. Take a deep breath now. You don't want to get schpilkis.

4. You are not what you eat. And you are not what you don't eat, either.

5. Some people are velvet hammers. They slipcover their will with flattery and soft persuasion. And some people are just hammers. Both strategies leave a mark. Back away slowly.

6. You'll feel better after taking a walk.

7. Momentum is not a reason to get married.

8. It's not the thought that counts. Whoever said that was one cheap bastard.

9. There is no self. So whose schpilkis is this? (See thing 3.)

10. Opinions are only sometimes interesting.

11. The truth is out there. But sometimes the truth hurts.

12. It's really not about you. Seriously.

13. Give up soda. You'll lose six pounds in a year.

14. There are certain people who bring out the best in you. Just being around them raises your game, makes you a better version of yourself. Stick close to them.

15. Diet is a four letter word.

16. Estrogen is a mind altering drug. Ovaries should come with a warning label.

17. You probably need to drink more water. Right?

18. Introversion is not a pathology. We simply value content. And the time and space to think about it. Quiet time feeds us.

19. Toss out dried herbs and spices after a year. If you've had 'em that long, Babycakes, they're a pale imitation of their original selves.

20. Control strangles love.

21. Possible side effects include stomach pain, headache, flatulence, sudden drops in IQ, and the proclivity to insert one's foot in one's mouth.

22. If your gluten-free bread collapses, you've used too much liquid. Or not baked it long enough. Or your oven is wonky.

23. Crow's feet are sexy.

24. Eat more dark chocolate. I said so.

25. Posing for pics, don't face front forward. Turn your shoulders and hips to one side. Unless you've just eaten a big bowl of guacamole.

26. Use the slow cooker year round- not just in winter. In summer it helps keep the kitchen cool.

27. The most potent sexual organ is your heart.

28. Baking bread makes a house feel like a home.

29. Don't believe the Hype.

30. Just be yourself. You'll save us all time.

31. Moisturize your ear lobes. When you're sixty, you'll thank me.

32. Limit your exposure to haters. Hate is contagious.

33. Buy yourself flowers. You're allowed.

34. Leave room for improvisation.

35. Changing your mind demonstrates you use your brain.

36. Be a person not a brand.

37. Let go of those who whittle you down, little by little, to fit you into their smaller experience of the world.

38. If you haven't worn something in a year, donate it.

39. With each new blog post, painting, photograph, song, book, movie or poem, you'll run the risk of losing half your audience. See thing #12.

40. Some days it's hard to be a human being.

41. Simmer cinnamon sticks, orange peel and cloves to clear the air.

42. Trying to fit in rarely works out. You can try it on for size, but the chafing will leave a mark.

43. Yesterday's solution is today's problem.

44. Don't bother matching accessories. No one cares.

45. Putting a box of baking soda in the fridge does nothing but take up space. And cost you $1.69.

46. Don't ask. Just don't.

47. We all have our quirks and foibles.

48. Every vice has its virtue.

49. If you're attracted to a Bad Boy it's likely a sign you're too dutiful and diligent in your life.

50. Toast and tea can save you.

51. Ridicule is easy. Creating is hard.

52. Air fresheners don't freshen the air. They make your house smell like the dryer sheet aisle at Ralph's.

53. Know thyself. So someone else can see you.

54. Taste the edible flowers, scattered in the salad days. Neil Finn said that.

55. Be here now. Unless you're planning on bi-locating.

56. In the end? It's the blink of an eye.

56 Things To Remember is ©2010-2014 Karina Allrich All rights reserved.

Gut Instinct

Gut Instinct

Nine days in the hospital. This is what a monkey gut can do. Nagging, for years, with its hot little protests and complaints. You blame gluten, or milk, or a parade of assorted culprits, from chili peppers to chai. And while these offenders may indeed play a part in the long burning dance of your life with food, a new realization begins to poke its way into existence. 

Your brain has a twin.

And it lives in your gut. The Second Brain.

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Quinoa Mushroom Pilaf

Quinoa pilaf with mushrooms, scallions and bell peppers.

New Queen on the Block

In between bouts of rain and nostalgia (I prickle using the word nostalgia, to be honest; it smacks of sentimentality, not a trait I cultivate or suffer gladly, but I'll get to that later) I've been craving quinoa like there's no tomorrow, as if I'm living in my own post-apocalyptic genre movie, foraging for nuts and berries on a desert highway in my fashionably shredded mud spattered get-up complete with goggles and chain link bracelets, wishing I had the taut burnished thighs of Tina Turner instead of my own wobbly, pale set of limbs.

Yeah. I'm talking voracious.

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Fifty Five Things I've Learned in 55 Years

Last December, my blogging amiga Kalyn posted a list for her birthday: Sixty Things I've Learned in Sixty Years. Like so many readers, friends and fellow food bloggers, I was inspired by her post. So as birthday number fifty-five (fifty-five? how is that possible?) sat on the horizon as opaque and huge as June Gloom in Los Angeles, I was inspired to write my own list of hard won wisdom. Just to cheer myself up. And shake some cobwebs loose. Fifty-five just scares the pants off me, I gotta confess.

Fifty Five Things I've Learned
in 55 Years

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Gluten-Free Sweet Potato Coffee Cake- and a love story

Winter in Northern New Mexico- my view.

First, the love part.

It's been snowy, windy, cold- you name it. From all the tweets I've been reading over on Twitter lately, I'm not alone. Far from it. This has been one crazy snowy month. So what does a gluten-free goddess do when she gets stuck in the middle of the desert with no buckwheat flour, no sorghum, and no four-wheel drive? (Note to self- if you're going to live in rural Northern New Mexico, Darling, a cute and thrifty little Honda Fit won't cut it.)

Snowed in and hungry she does the only sensible thing.

She scans the pantry and pulls out a Whole Foods gluten-free cake mix and starts stirring things up. She starts imagining dirt bombs. And bakes up a coffee cake worthy of the winter holidays.

The love part of the story?

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Sticky Notes (on an anniversary)

Mist on the mesa- toward Abiquiu.

Sticky Notes (on an anniversary)

 

We choose our partners with a secret eye seeking the twin. Not the twin in the mirror, but the lost twin in shadow. The discarded, smothered twin we poked and twisted and kicked under the bed of childhood. The Other. The Everything We Are Not. The Abandoned One.

Forgotten in order to please.

If the stars are kind and align just right, you choose well. And The Chosen shimmers with your own potential, reflecting not what you have found but what you seek. And basking in their soul mate glow you grow- just a little. You stretch and you risk- just a little. With time and fledgling self awareness you notice a glint sparking back at you and you reach to claim it, knowing, This belongs to me. I am this, too.

And you take it back.

This unburdens your partner, piece by shining piece- who is, by design, if you have not done the work of reclaiming, either bored or chafing beneath the yoke of your golden-hued projection. Or worse- wandering off in search of eyes that see something new, or more authentic.

When people ask, What is the secret of a good marriage? I usually answer, Chemistry. And good manners. Especially when it comes to the toilet seat. And then I laugh. Because it's true. But only a slice of the truth. The more complicated truth (and one you don't share at dinner parties) is a messy, juggling, wrestling wrangle with the aspects of two separate selves discovering two mysterious twins in the marriage bed.

You see, it's not always safe to integrate.

The squelched and sore parts of you can knock apart your coupled equilibrium. Don't kid yourself. It's not ever easy to bid for wholeness. To grow. Growth means change. And change is challenging. Even in the best of circumstances. So some days it's frighteningly tempting to believe that the dust balled fragments skulking in the shadows are not worth the effort of excavation.

Denial and distraction can smell pretty good at first.

But one cloudy day when your mending hip is aching and your desert skin is itching, you glance up from the kitchen counter cluttered with sticky spoons and banana peels, and you meet a clear gaze that sees you for who you really are- not some projected angel in the house, not some idealized muse, or nurturing mother stand-in. But who you really are in all your unadorned, quirky, burnished glory.

And you thank not the stars, or luck, or even fate. You know better. You've done your homework. So has he. So you smile a slow smile and crack, What are you looking at?

The love of my life, he says.

Screwed! But Sparky and Esteban Save the Day

Meet Sparky.

He's my new bed and blanket companion. Looking at him makes me smile. After the fall- there's an awful lot of imagery, sensation and emotion refracting inside this more-than-slightly addled post hip surgery brain of mine (this is a thinly veiled mea culpa for any bad writing that follows) but I wanted to send out a heartfelt thanks- lickity split!- to all of you, for your kind notes and sweet messages. I cherish every one.

My world has been whittled down to a queen size bed and some 800 square feet of floor space. I must keep- totally- off my left leg for a minimum of eight weeks to give my fractured femoral neck (screwed back together with three titanium screws) a fighting chance.

If you're a betting soul, here are the odds of me keeping my own hip: 50/50.

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How to Leave in 24 Hours

Packing for L.A.

Itinerary

On the way to Santa Fe you get a phone call. It's for your husband. You overhear snippets and wait patiently. There is interest in another script. Real interest. 

Driving talk turns on a dime from the grocery list (where you just added butternut squash in bumpy cursive) to the wisdom vs. craziness of dropping the day's plans and booking a flight to LAX. 

You sit quietly in the hot car, squinting at the blur of sunbaked sage along the highway while your husband thinks it over (and inside you are jumping like a kindergarten inmate, yelling, Why not? Let's go! This is everything you've dreamed of- script meetings, casting conversations- but, really, it's his call).

You do your best to embody Zen detachment.

What do you think? he turns and asks. 

You just smile. He knows what you think. You've been bitching about being under-stimulated for weeks, getting all gloomy again. There are more phone calls. Then suddenly it's a go.

You're leaving in twenty-four hours.

You start picking through dirty jeans and shirts. Distracted by the early morning slant of sun warming the tumbleweeds, you leave the laundry to grab a camera. Five minutes later you notice the bowl of ripe tomatoes on the blue tiled counter. You can't just leave those. So you wash them gently, slice and toss them into a roasting pan with olive oil, herbs and cloves of garlic. You add a splash of balsamic vinegar.

You slide the pan into a low-heat oven.

Tomatoes ready for roasting.

The house starts to smell like an Italian villa. You fold and iron and fold. You plug in your iPod Shuffle and choose 250 songs (no Sting). You think about Santa Monica and the last time you saw your son, Colin. You add some of his songs to your mix. Then you notice the roses you photographed this week (they have seen better days). You empty the pitcher. You get distracted by the beauty of the dead petals and dried leaves against the white garbage bag. You grab your camera.

Still life with garbage.

You air out the luggage that has been in storage since May- sliding it into the bright afternoon sun (you'll have to tip it sideways later to scoot a frantic lizard back to his usual vertical perch on the adobe wall). You wonder if the tomatoes are done. It's been two hours. Or more. You peek into the oven and inhale the slow roasted garlicky dense tomato scent.

You try not to panic about what the heck you'll eat for the next week (staying at the one hotel where you could get a last minute reservation in your price range- there's no kitchenette, no microwave). You imagine bags of chips and jarred salsa dinners. You hope Real Food Daily will have choices that are gluten, onion, bean- blah blah blah- free.

But you don't really care.

Somehow it will all work out. Or maybe you're just deep in denial, you think to yourself. You breathe.

Then there's the last bit of autumn roasted green chile to think about. And half a bag of small gold potatoes. One big mother of a sweet potato. And one lonely uncooked organic burger. Might as well make a green chile stew before you hit the road.

So you heat some olive oil in a pot, toss in some chopped onion, garlic, and crumbled beef, and sprinkle said ingredients with cumin and chili powder and stir until browned, humming a K T Tunstall tune. You throw in cut up gold and sweet potatoes and the last of the chopped roasted green chile. You stir up some organic beef broth and pour it in. A dash of agave. You let the stew do its stew-y thing while you contemplate which pair of sneakers to wear on the plane- Rocket Dogs or Skechers? Tough call.

You'll decide later.

There are toothbrushes and socks to be packed. But first, a glass of white table wine. Then a bowl of green chile stew.

This is the part of the movie, you think, when she looks at her husband sitting by the window, back lit by sweet light, and your chest aches in recognition. You see, the thing is, you always knew it. In your heart you just knew. Those movies everyone told you were fantasy? The on-screen or off-screen marriages that crackled with mutual admiration and no bullshit and you pined for that while those closest to you clucked in favor of sticking with your marital misery because - and I quote- No relationship is perfect and every marriage takes work?

Then why, Dear Reader- this time around, after twelve easy years- does it just keep getting easier? And life just gets more interesting? It's all about the risk.

And trusting your gut.

Whether it's making up a soup or reevaluating your career choice, or facing down familial opposition and sexual inertia because you actually believe in true love- it comes down to this. 

You have this minute. 

This second.

So. 

What are you going to do with it?

Vegetarian Enchiladas Griegos with Spinach + Feta

Rain clouds above the mesa, toward Abiquiu.

Today is our anniversary. 

It is raining here in the high desert. Cloud cover blankets the mesa in a soft dove gray that is flirting with lavender. We married in this weather twelve years ago, sprinting through Cape Cod wind and mist to reach the antique door of our local Justice of the Peace without getting wet, the four of us stepping over the threshold to become a family.

Me and my three men- my love and my two sons.

I look at the photographs taken by the Justice's husband, our single witness. We are so young, all of us. Arms linking. There is palpable tenderness.

The boys are now men. They stand taller than my five-foot-eight. My husband and I, well. We are wiser. And weathered. And we remain expectant. This has been a year of enormous change.

We have sold most of our belongings (keeping our favorite books and paintings) and moved west. From the eastern shore to the high desert. From what was predictable and safe to what is unknown. What is possible. What might be.

After thirteen years together we are still exploring, still traveling, still on our way to somewhere. We are painting less and writing more. We are listening to each other with deeper affection, having shed many old expectations. We have come through a lot this year, on many levels. And so have our sons. Their own lives have not stood still. They too have faced changes and embraced risk.

I look out the window of my studio and exhale. I say a silent prayer for twelve more years. And twelve more years.

And twelve more years.

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