Heather

So often I’ll see an awful thing on TV, and will feel so badly for whoever it is involved in that tragedy. With certain tragedies, I can relate, and my emotions are amplified. When I hear stories about cancer patients (like the make a wish on 20/20), I feel the pain more acutely because though ten years have passed, I can remember my grandmother’s lost battle against cancer, as if it were only yesterday.

In the past few years, the news has been dominated by mass shootings at schools. I distinctly remember feeling devastation and disgust and sorrow. But I don’t know that I ever comprehended the horror, or how harrowing and traumatizing that experience was for all involved.

On March 14, 2018, the week following my bio midterm, and a week before my final exams, I had an organic chemistry synthesis quiz (they’re tough). I was harried and stressed and afraid that I’d forget one little thing and mess my grade up. I left early for school, thinking I would be taking the exam early in the afternoon, but at the last minute, my professor changed the schedule, and I had to take it at 6 PM. I bought lunch, hated it, but forced myself to eat it, because one of my biggest pet peeves is throwing away food. Many people in this world would beg me for that awful food, and it hurts me to think that I would be wasting something that would nourish them. I finished, then went to the library. No surprise, it was packed. So, I sat at the one table no one would take, a makeshift card table at the front of the library.

My phone never rings. Frequently studying, I leave my phone in DND (do not disturb) mode for the entire day, only allowing my parent’s and sister’s calls to ring through. When I am at the school or the library, they know it, and they don’t bother me. But my mom was calling.

Crying, her first words were “you need to find a place to hide, there’s a shooter.” I remember that moment. Being terrified. Trembling and barely able to hold the phone. I hurriedly collected my stuff. I spoke to the classmate I was with. Barely able to talk or get my voice above a whisper, I said, “we need to go.” He couldn’t understand what I said, but he sensed my fear. “I said, there’s a shooter, we have to hide.” In those few moments, because this exchange and bag-packing took only 20 seconds, if that, I was torn. The university only notified my mom that there was an active shooter, they didn’t say where. Do I desperately run through another building and try to reach the outside parking lot where my car is? Do I hide under a table where I am undoubtedly exposed? Do we stay together, or split and go our separate ways? So many questions. I thank God that my friend was with me. He ran towards the gym, thinking we could attempt to get to his car parked in the lot adjoining the gym. Not more than 30 seconds after we ran, everyone else must have gotten a university notice, because they started freaking out and running too. When we made it to the gym, we were barricaded in. We hid in one of the upper floors, hoping the shooter neither cared nor knew how to access the top stories of the building.

For the first half hour, every sound made me turn wild-eyed, unarmed, vulnerable, expecting to meet the rumored AK-15. When three guys came around the corner, I jumped so violently that all 4 of us stood in shock. I’m so embarrassed by this, but I cried, wept to my friend that I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to see my family again. Through it all, he remained calm, but in a resigned to his fate sort of way; a reaction that I wasn’t in a position to understand. The way I saw it, there had to be something we could do.

After an hour, tensions were settling, but in an eerie way. The university continued to send ambiguous at best updates,  so I was still anxiously checking my texts and Safari for any updates. In retrospect, it’s interesting analyzing the things that went through my head in those “calmer” moments. I couldn’t help but think, so my last meal was so awful that I practically had to choke it down? I couldn’t remember if I said goodbye to my mom, or if I just rushed out the door, ready to end the quiz. I was so lost in school work and studying that I had not picked out a cute outfit or done my hair for a long stretch. In fact, I’d worn the same ball cap for 2 weeks straight. I hadn’t exercised, hadn’t read, practically hadn’t listened to any music for the past month, and hadn’t cooked or baked for nearly 2 months. I certainly hadn’t blogged or learned to meditate, or learned Italian or guitar. All the things that I love doing or aspired, and dreamed of doing, had fallen by the wayside.  All I could think about were the ways I chose not to relax, or decompress, or appreciate life. I hadn’t done any of that, and there I was, crouched in a corner. I’ll tell you what I couldn’t think about though, I tried for 20 minutes to study organic chemistry, and couldn’t recall a thing, even the simplest of concepts.

A month past the incident, those tense moments made me reconsider how I studied. I make more time for the things that matter, like learning Italian, and which countries make up Europe. I spend more time appreciating what I almost no longer had, like taking the time to tell my mom I love her as I walk out the door. I’ll remember the people crouching, the students packing the stairwell, huddled together for support. I won’t forget looking at those students and thinking, “What does the shooter see?”, only to have a sinking feeling in my stomach as I realized that 30 students were just sitting there in the open. I will remember looking at every other crevice saying, “Would he look here? Would he see me? Where should I hide and how?”. Most of all, I’ll remember not loving enough, not living enough.

How did the incident end? It was a hoax. Some sicko thought it was a great prank to play. It wasn’t a school shooting, but it seemed like one. I won’t forget how it made me feel. How it taught me to take more time for myself and my personal health. I won’t forget that as my mind calmed down, and as I stopped crying, my first thought, was now I get it. A month later, I’m a little closer to understanding that horror and my heart breaks so much more. It breaks for all the people who don’t get to hear, “It’s just a hoax.”

This is another blog post written before the inaugural “It turned out perfectly” post. This was written over my spring break, on March 23, 2017.

As an undergrad, I worked weekends as a Blackjack dealer in Las Vegas. It was a fantastic experience and something I am very grateful for. It goes without saying that my favorite part was the interaction I could have with my players. The dealer-player dynamic must be one of the most interesting. As a dealer, I knew the majority of my players would leave losers. As a consumer, at say a restaurant, I figure the service is almost as important as the meal itself. When I buy anything, I want something to show for it, and if it isn’t a stack of purple (high denomination) cheques, I hope it’d be in the way I was made to feel. I realized that if I wanted to enjoy my job, I had to make the experience worthwhile for the losers. (In hindsight, I imagine this is how my Trigonometry teacher felt about his career too.) Sure there were days when I questioned the state of the human condition, but for the most part, the job allowed me to see just how singular people are. I was given about 45 minutes at a time to talk with people from all walks of life. From the really young to the really old, from the student to the teacher, from the man who architected the Olympic Village for the Moscow Olympics to the man who is one of only three people that knows how to plate the astronaut’s helmets in gold.

I met and talked with and came to know a variety of people. I called the players my 45-minute friends because though I typically chatted with them for only 45 minutes, they still taught me a great deal, as friends would. Through them I learned about: different cultures, cities, upbringings, childhood experiences, friendships (said the one cowboy of his drunk friend who took a minute at a time to decide to hit or stay, “Excuse him, Honey, we had to close-down the schoolhouse to get him out of the third grade”), and even perspectives. Perspectives which at times could be starkly different from my own (said the bull-rider: “no I’ve never been concussed, just blacked out a few times. Concussions are for sissys”). Most importantly, they taught me new ways to think about the world and accept the eccentricities of others

All said if I’ve seen anything, it’s how quickly one more hand turns into ten more. There comes a time in your life when you have to say, ok, I will learn restraint. This recipe does NOT create one of those “I need to show some restraint” moments.

Sincerely, I love these cookies. I love how genuine their chocolate taste is, but what I love, even more, is that I don’t have to feel bad about eating them. At only 45 calories a cookie, if I went overboard and ate (hypothetically of course) 10, their calories would make up 1 meal rather than 3 days’ worth of meals.

Like dealing blackjack, this cookie taught me to never cease to be amazed, because yes, there are people who double-down on their blackjacks and hit on my 6, and yes there are cookies that taste AND feel this good.

This recipe comes from, one of my favorite cookbook authors, Alice Medrich.

I am long-winded, and I love telling stories. So I am sorry if this post is a bit lengthy, but I think it is a story worth being told. But may the record show, I apologized in advance ;P.

When I was a kid, I LOVED baseball. I could rattle off names, jersey numbers, stats, stadiums, match-ups, teams, you name it. Through middle school, most boys were afraid to talk with me about it… because I knew more than they did. The only boy who did speak with me egged me on by cheering for the Dodgers and taping the box score for blowout games on my desk… malo. It wasn’t just my classmates though, some parents thought it was strange that two young girls loved a boys game so much, and not only liked it but dedicated their summers to something that (as my mother was told) “your girls can’t even participate in.” But those parents were wrong. Those years were formative, and the experiences my sister, Haley, and I had helped make us the individuals that we are today.

On the surface, it may not seem to be the most critical aspect, but our best baseball years were as die-hard SF Giants fans from ’03-’08. Oddly enough, our affiliation was important, because when we were fans, the Giants were just okay. Haley and I learned fast that not every game would be a win, but that there was something to be said for losing gracefully, and for being resilient. For picking yourself up, and bringing the same energy and excitement to the next day. For caring even when the night before, your favorite team had been creamed DESPITE all your cheering and pleas for a turnaround. In the grand scheme of things, baseball is just a game, and there are significant issues in the world that make baseball look, like what it is, insignificant. But as children, you have to learn somewhere that you won’t always get your way, and that most of the time, life goes the absolute OTHER way. Baseball taught us that. It also taught us to be respectful. Oftentimes, we cheered against the home team. But, we did so in a manner that did not offend others. We learned that when we respected others’ point of view, oftentimes, they respected ours. Those are things you can’t tell a child, you show them.

As important as those lessons were, the places and people that we were exposed to were just as important. I could go on and on talking about the two, profoundly humble and kind baseball players (Ray and Jay) that made the game everything to Haley and I. Or I could talk about the fans, like the 78-year Bostonian who cheered for the Tigers because as a boy his mother bought him the only baseball item she could afford (i.e. find on sale), a Detroit Tigers jacket. That man became, and remained for over 70 years, a Tigers fan so that his mother wouldn’t feel so bad about being a poor, single mom. Or I could talk about the St. Louis Cardinal-loving Texans who taught us that though we come from exceedingly different backgrounds, we still experience the same emotions, like amazement while watching Albert Pujols hit a towering home-run. Perhaps those are posts for another day, but lately there is one group in particular that I have given some thought to.

As a teen, no older than 15, my mom, sister and I took a trip to watch the Giants play the St. Louis Cardinals. As my mom was checking into the hotel, Haley and I sat (within my mom’s eyesight and earshot) in the check-in lounge. Waiting there, we were joined by four very intimidating, bandana-and-leather-clad men. They were very nice, and greeted us, but young as we were, we were FREAKED out. When our mom came over, they introduced themselves to her and proceeded to talk with the three of us, sharing their story. They were in a “biker gang”… but for good. They were Bikers Against Child Abuse. The bikers work with local and federal authorities to help abused children feel safe and unafraid of the world they live in. Whether the child is abused at home, or bullied at school, each child gets the names and numbers of two bikers who can come to their side when they need them. So yes, motorcycle gangs are scary, but they can be beautiful too.

Even as a teenager, I sensed the importance of what they did, so much so, that 10 years later, I still remember their organization. 10 years later, as an adult, I find their work immensely honorable. However, their organization and their mission were not the only things that stuck with me that day, rather, it was one of the biker’s words for me. As we were parting, the one biker looked at me, and pointed to my sweatshirt, and asked, “What does that mean?” I was surprised, it was just my Giant’s sweatshirt. Sensing my surprise he read off, “Property of the San Francisco Giants”. Sensing that I still did not understand (I didn’t), he looked me in the eye and told me, “Remember you are not and will never be the property of any team, any organization, or any person, including a man.” I did not know what to say, I was embarrassed and shocked. In my head I thought, “I think you’re silly, of course that isn’t what the sweater means”, but I was certainly NOT about to give voice to that thought. So I just said, “ok, I get it” (I still didn’t).

I went on to wear that sweater over the course of many years. And each time I saw that sweater, I would flash back to that biker’s words, and think about what he meant. As I grew older, and wore the sweater less and less, I thought about his words more and more. I realize now, that as a young girl, that biker was empowering me, and to this day he still is. I wish I knew his name and I wish I could say thank you, because now I get it.

 

I feel like with every holiday/major event you get there and ask yourself… where did all the time go?… I swear it feels like last [insert holiday here] was just yesterday. Or in my case for this event, Superbowl, it sounds more like “wasn’t it yesterday that I  freaked out,  had a meltdown and totally embarrassed myself because the Tom Brady pulled out yet another win.” Where’s Eli Manning and the Giants when you need them? Anyway, I deserved 2017’s Pats vs. Falcons Super Bowl, and perhaps I deserve this one too, because here we are again. New Superbowl, and only one team changed. So we see the Patriots at it again.

(If you are not a sports fan, skip the next paragraph and just know that my at-that-point-in-time-arch-nemesis made a spectacular comeback win… and I was really, really mad about that!)

I conned my (super huge Patriots fan) friend into coming over to watch the 2017 game on our big screen TV. I used the argument that since Peyton (Manning) retired I was indifferent towards any of this “football nonsense” Really I knew from the get-go that I would be cheering for the Falcons, and I was selfish because all I wanted was someone to help me make (and EAT) chocolate cake. When it looked like the game was “pretty much” over, and that the Falcons had won, I was smug and totally apathetic to my friends’ football letdown…. and then I, along with the Falcons and their fans, was stunned and suddenly on the losing end. I try my best to control myself, and rarely do I feel the need to apologize, but you probably could’ve flagged me for “unsportsmanlike conduct” three times over.

Knowing I had this chocolate cake made me feel better though. I try not to make sweets, but that’s tough when you are a person who loves to bake. I have countless cookbooks, at least a 1/4 of them for baking, but I will never turn to another chocolate bundt recipe again, because this was the best!

For those of you who love football or amazing musicians or moments when we come together as a nation, I can’t help but share this (it’s quite a bit longer of a video than the commercial below). I don’t remember seeing this performance, or even hearing the story behind it.  I guess when it blows your mind to hear ” 2nd -year quarterback Tom Brady” because you aren’t old enough to remember watching football then, its understandable. I find that moments like this speak strongly of the power when we come together as one nation against evil. It’s a much needed reminder.

Also, as I get older and crankier with football (read this and you might get there too) I drift more and more towards watching for the sake of commercials (says the girl who HATES commercials). The 2017 choices were slim, even when they did “feature” Adam Driver, but when I saw this commercial, I choked up a bit. Even a year later, it still feels powerful. I (apparently unlike the rest of the internet) loved this. Hope you do too!

I have been mulling this post over… for quite a while. Well actually, for a long while. My confession: I bought this blog last March. I have had many ideas and I have written out the posts, but nothing seemed right. I have cooked endlessly. I have found recipes I wanted to share. I have read, watched, listened and listened some more. I found the books, and movies and shows, and articles, and songs and albums that I wanted to share, but never did. Was the wording right, were the pictures ok*, is this recipe or content relevant, will anyone care? Then I realized, two things. Namely that I care, and I should be confident in that and hope that my passion for the content helps foster some of that in you. To the second point, I need to share an short anecdote.

In first grade, my mother bought me the the first Harry Potter book. I loved it! Harry and I were always in the same grade. Each year, I would wait for the next book to see how Harry fared in our year. Around third grade, the market (and my Christmas tree) was flooded with Potter/Hogwarts merchandise. You grow up and realize that most of that stuff is over-hyped, overpriced, cheap junk. There was one gift though, that survived the last 16 years, my Harry Potter snow globe. When I received the gift, I was horrified at my mother’s choice, Snape and Harry standing opposite a cauldron. My response was not ungrateful, but rather surprised at what she failed to realize, “Mom, why would you give me something with Snape in it, he’s…mean.” Today, as I stood at my bookshelf, I looked up at that snow globe, and smiled to myself. Once I read through ALL of the books (and I won’t spoil the end for you), Snape became my favorite character. And as I stood there, grateful for my good sense to both keep the globe and to display it, I said to myself, well it turned out perfectly, didn’t it?

It took me at least 8 years to appreciate that snow globe. Maybe, it will take me 8 years to appreciate my posts, but in the end, there is no point in waiting for perfect. That small snow globe reminded me, you just have to run with things and wait to see how they turn out. With that, I want to share my first recipe 🙂

*Another early disclosure: I am an AWFUL photographer. This has been a major kink holding up the whole process. I wanted nice pictures, but I have come to the point where I stopped letting the less important details hold me back. I will either go ahead with adding the awful pictures in the hope that I a) get the point across and that b) with the practice, I eventually get better OR as is the case today, I will share a random, but pretty picture that I find in my personal archives or online. Today, when I opened Google Chrome, Momentum shared the above, as today’s quote. Given the circumstances, it was perfect! P.S. I am an unabashed quote lover [insert cringe here]

Thomas Keller’s Beets

Lately, I have been trying to eat and pre-prepare more fulfilling meals. My focus has been on making squash, quinoa salad, anything that can be tossed in a mason jar and easily grabbed as I run out the door. In addition to roasted squash, I love having roasted beets around. You can jazz up so many different plates, like salads, just by cubing some beets and throwing them in.

Early Disclosure: Thomas Keller is probably my favorite chef… ever. His Ad Hoc cookbook is high on my list of cookbooks that I wouldn’t want to live without. As I perused through his book, I found this recipe or, more appropriately, technique. It is so simple, but amazing!

Also, in his sidebar, he mentions that he combines white vinegar and maple syrup to make a dressing for his beets. This sounds gross, or at the very least un-excitable, but it is SO EXCITING! This simple combo amps up the flavor of the beets and makes the “earthy” beet taste more than manageable. I apply this to many other veggies too. I drizzle it on my sweet potato, I dip beet cubes into it, and I drown my butternut squash in it. The trick is simple, made with everyday household ingredients, and can be made in such small portions that I HIGHLY recommend you try this trick, even if you choose not to make the beets.

Maple Dressing/ Dip/ Drizzle

Bits (otherwise known as Ingredients)
2 parts Maple Syrup
1 part White Vinegar

Pieces (otherwise known as Procedure)
Whisk to combine syrup and vinegar.

The Beets

Bits

• 4 beets (any color/kind)
• 1 Tbsp of safflower oil (or other vegetable oil, like canola, but NOT olive)
• 1 Tbsp butter
• Aluminum foil sheet (enough to make a packet that encloses the beets)
• Salt and Pepper
• Baking Sheet Pan
• Paper Towel (Don’t miss the easiest trick for peeling beets!)

Pieces

1. Preheat oven to 350ºF convection or 375ºF if using standard oven
2. Cut off stems and/or leaves.
3. Scrub/wash beets well.
4. In a large bowl, toss the beets with oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper.
5. Take aluminum foil sheet and slightly fold up the edges (to prevent juices from running off)
6. Dump beets and their oil out onto the middle of the sheet.
7. Place the pat of butter between the four beets.
8. Fold aluminum foil over the beets and crimp the sides to make a packet.
9. Put in oven ~40-45 minutes or until beets are fork tender
10. Take pan out of oven, let rest. When cool, cut the top off the beet.
11. You can then remove the skin easily by lightly rubbing the beet with a paper towel from cut end toward the bottom.