Frankincense, Myrrh, and Cookies?

 

I posted this picture yesterday on social media and got lots of laughs and (rightfully so) quite a few follow-up questions. I would like to explain. First, that's my trash can, and my mixer, and an allegedly "easy" cookie dough recipe. Next, the irony is not lost on me that the magazine headline reads "Peace on Earth." I regret nothing, except feeling the pressure to bake to begin with. What was I thinking?

Inexplicably, some people enjoy baking. Despite the mess it makes, the tediousness, and how time consuming it is, there are people who seem otherwise sane who tell me they find baking relaxing. I am not one of those people. I don't mind cooking, but I hate, loathe, despise, and abominate baking. As such, I refuse to spend money on the tools one needs to get the baking job done. For many years now, I have openly scoffed at those expensive KitchenAid mixers everyone has and assured myself that since I only bake on the rarest of occasions, my bottom-of-the-line Sunbeam mixer and some elbow grease can get the job done.

December's Southern Living was chock-full of recipes and pictures of beautiful baked goods. I became convinced that cakes and confections were a cornerstone of the holiday season. Surely my Christmas could not be complete until I baked something! I chose a recipe for something called "Santa's Kitchen Sink Cookies," promising to be fun and easy for even the kids (ha!), although the cynic in me was alerted when the recipe called for two types of flour and a special flake sea salt I had to procure from the internet. Still, Christmas baking would commence. Oh, what fun! Right?

I turned on some carols and lit up the tree, and blew the dust off my trusty mixer. I needed to make that "easy' dough because it required a minimum of an hour chill time before it could be baked. Fun! I measured and scooped and spooned and poured. The brown sugar clumped and refused to mix in; I stirred and whisked and used a pastry cutter. The recipe began by stating "using a mixer fitted with a paddle attachment...." and I swear to you I actually had the hubris to say OUT LOUD " I am the paddle attachment" as I tried to manually use a rubber spatula to make this dough come together. It refused. Fun!

I was sweaty and tired and there were tiny bits of dough all over my previously clean kitchen. The brown sugar was reduced to pieces the size of green garden peas but it did not resemble anything that I would want to bake, much less eat. I surveyed the red and green M&Ms that I had searched three stores to find still waiting to be added and realized we would never reach that step. My special internet sea salt was waiting on the counter for a crowning moment that would never come. And then I had a sort of Christmas epiphany: you know what they had at the first Christmas? I remember reading about gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but I didn't hear jack squat about any homemade cookies That's right, it was a Christmas miracle of miracles and there wasn't a baked good in sight! And I don't need any either.

I grabbed that Sunbeam and that concrete dough ball and marched the whole mess out to the trash, including the blame magazine that started it all. I never felt so free. I came inside and cleaned up my kitchen and restored it to its beautifully clean, decorated Christmas glory and stood over the sink eating a store bought Oreo cookie in defiance. 

Yesterday was a learning day and I walked away with three valuable lessons. First, if you're going to do something, make sure you have the tools for the job. As much as it pains me, I'm going out and buying a KitchenAid mixer today, paddle attachment and all. I may never love to bake, but if the need does arise at least I will be able to do so without destroying my sanity and/or my kitchen. Second, Christmas isn't about cookies. If you get a package of white fudge covered Oreos from me in lieu of homemade goodies this year, you'll know why (and know better than to ask questions). And last: if you see the word "easy" used to describe a recipe, just go ahead and know that it will undoubtedly test your sanity, your Christianity, and your use of profanity. Easy is in the eye of the beholder, y'all.

The Bronze Anniversary

December 1 marked 19 years since Clint and I said I do. When I looked up the traditional gift for a 19-year wedding anniversary, I got a little laugh out of the fact that it is bronze: after all the bronze star is the medal awarded to soldiers for bravery in combat. It seem befitting, right?

Our actual anniversary fell on a Tuesday, and since we are putting in a pool at the present moment and Christmas is right around the corner, we decided against giving gifts, Plus, I couldn't think of too many dazzling bronze options that tickled my fancy. Better to wait until next year for the platinum anniversary and see what we can come up with there. I did vow not to cook, so we ordered pizza and I picked up some very festive-for-the-occasion wedding cake cupcakes from Gigi's Cupcakes for dessert. After dinner, we poured some sparkling cider and trimmed the Christmas tree, which has become a kind of anniversary tradition for us.

Even though we said no gifts, that means small gifts. I gave him some Christmas Vacation socks and a taco Christmas tree ornament and he surprised me with flowers.

Lest you think I am the only creative one in the family, Clint made this and put it inside my anniversary card. He used pictures of us on floats from a vacation a few years ago and Photoshopped them onto the rendering of our pool. And added a lizard, for effect. I laughed so hard I cried.

Wedding cake cupcakes to celebrate 19 years.

Sparkling apple cider and tree trimming time! Cheers to wedded bliss!

Charlie was happy to help decorate the tree, too. In his special puppy way.

Having an anniversary that falls at the beginning of the holiday season means it usually gets a little lost in the busyness of the season, but this year we decided we really wanted to take a moment and get away, even if it was just for a night. We booked ourselves a reservation at the Grand Bohemian Hotel in Asheville and drove up Friday morning for a quick celebratory mountain getaway. 

Our first stop was lunch at The Gourmet Chip Company and some shopping and browsing around downtown Asheville, until the rain started to fall. Then we gladly took refuge in the coziness of the Grove Park Inn. Even though their gingerbread house competition wasn't on pubic display this year, there were still lots of beautifully decorated Christmas trees to enjoy. After wandering and enjoying that wonder, we settled in front of the fire with a cocktail for the afternoon.

Feeling festive (face masks and all) at the beautifully decorated Grove Park Inn.

We left the historic Grove Park and headed to our hotel to check in. The Grand Bohemian Hotel is eclectic--think luxury European hunting lodge--with a lobby full of leather furniture and a massive stone fireplace surrounded by rustic finishes, antiques, and art.  

This is Fritz, the stuffed boar who lives in the Grand Bohemian's lobby.
Guests are invited to bring pins from Austria and Germany for Fritz's hat whenever they visit, but since I don't have have any pins from those places, I might get him a Dollywood pin the next time we go.

We got dressed and went out for a delicious dinner at a nearby restaurant called Chestnut (broiled oysters for Clint and crab fettuccine for myself; something about the mountain air made us crave seafood, apparently) and then we retreated back to that beautiful hotel lobby for a nightcap. We even met another couple celebrating their first anniversary and enjoyed sharing some married people war stories with those newlyweds! 

Saturday morning we got to sleep late, something our new puppy never lets us do, which was blissful. We bundled up and headed out for brunch, then stopped off at (but of course) a local pet supply store we love to buy a souvenir for the fur boss waiting for us back home. Pandemic restrictions made it a low-key trip, but it was nice to get a change of scenery and enjoy the Christmas decorations, the city of Asheville, and of course, each other. 

Happy anniversary to us!

My Good Side

Saturday was not a good day for me. In fact, last week was not a very good week for me. While we're at it, and I'm sure a chorus of hallelujahs will reign in from the back, this year has not been a very good year for me. I digress.

We were scheduled to take our Christmas card pictures Saturday morning. I say morning, but the truth is the time had been scheduled and rescheduled to the point of madness even up to the night before and we had finally settled on 8:45 a.m. bright and early on Saturday morning. I am not a morning person, I rarely feel like a human much less a smiling, card-worthy version of a human before noon, but photographers always say things about sunlight and scheduling and I have a puppy who loathes sleeping anytime past dawn anyway, so why not?

I had asked an acquaintance of ours who just happens to be a pet photographer if she would take our photos. She hesitated, and explained that while she loves taking pictures of animals, she is rarely pleased with the way her people pictures turn out and therefore, rarely does photoshoots with anything not four-legged. However, I can be charming when I need to be, and I managed to guilt this poor woman into coming to our backyard to snap a few quick shots of the three of us. I knew that the ten month old puppy would, after all, be the hardest thing to capture on film--most of the pictures I try to snap of him are a white blur as he whizzes by--and even though sweet Deb the pet photographer had a jam-packed schedule, she agreed. 

I had a hard time waking up Saturday morning. I wasted time making up the bed (why I deemed fluffing my throw pillows before the sun came up important, I'm not sure, but in my defense, I was not yet caffeinated and cannot be held responsible for my decisions). The puppy has bigger hair than I do and needed to be both fed and brushed, and our house smelled like garlic bread from dinner the night before and the Southerner in me could not allow a visitor in my home until I lit a pleasantly fragrant candle to mask the smell...I was, in a word, distracted. I was running late. I never run late.

I had a sample picture I found on Pinterest for our card that I planned to show the photographer, just as a sort of idea for our pose, etc. As I hurriedly dressed, I consoled myself with this sensibility: the couple in my demo photo weren't facing the camera straight on; in fact, only one side of their bodies were showing. I noticed that, per the Pinterest photo, only my left side would actually be visible in the card. Eureka! No need for full body perfection here. I took a deep breath and saved time and sanity by only coiffing one side of my hair. I focused all my effort on getting those left eyelashes perfect, and my left brow. Oh yeah, it's a shame we can't live our lives with just one side of ourselves made up. What a clever plan. I finished getting dressed and strutted my ingenious self to the door, just as the photographer arrived. Not a minute to spare. 

I hope by now you know me well enough to see where this is going. We walked outside to the spot in front of a beautiful holly tree filled with bright red berries that I had scouted for our pictures. I turned my carefully arranged left side toward the camera and flashed my most dazzling smile, clean fluffy puppy and freshly showered and pressed hubby gathered 'round. And then the photographer said: "Susie, I'm actually thinking this will look much better if you guys switch sides. Can you turn to your right instead?"

I SO should have seen that coming. What could I do? I turned my barely brushed right side with the sad, hurried lashes toward the camera and gave what I hope was a smile, although inside I was wailing. Well, I'm sure the puppy will look great, anyway. All I can say is that when you get our card this year, my 2020 side is definitely showing!

HalloWhirlwind

I hope you all had half as much fun as I did over Halloween weekend, and if so, you are probably chock full of candy and smiles at this point. I love a holiday (or any reason to celebrate, really) and the last few days were jam packed full of just that. From the beach to the "boos, we had ourselves a Hallowhirlwind!

We kicked off our frenzied festivities early Friday morning when we headed to beautiful Isle of Palms to celebrate our friend Jason's 40th birthday. We had just enough time for some seafood, sun, cocktails by the pool, a fabulous Halloween themed birthday party and a Saturday morning brunch on Sullivan's Island. It was time well spent. 

Our Isle of Palms accommodations. Not a bad place for a birthday bash!

Friday night's beach house party, celebrating Jason's milestone birthday with a Halloween theme
(our cocktails are in IV bags!).

A festive 40th pinata, filled with mini bottles and 1980s candy and toys.
It was a hit...pun intended.

As much as we hated to leave, we had promised to be back in Charlotte in time for our neighborhood Halloween fun. After Saturday brunch, we got home in time to get our candy-filled goody bags ready for the trick-or-treaters, grab the puppy's pumpkin harness just for the occasion, and head out to join all the holiday action in the street. Even a pandemic didn't dampen the Halloween spirit in our 'hood and there was quite an impressive display of decorated tables in each driveway, along with bonfires, cocktails for the adults, and costumes for any and every creature. We had a hilariously good time seeing everyone dressed up and enjoying all the scary-good decorations, and then made it home to collapse on the couch with some well-earned junk food and scary movies. Nothing makes me happier than a plate full of Bagel Bites and the original Halloween movie with Michael Myers. 

All dressed up and ready for the neighborhood Halloween haunting to begin.

Charlie wasn't officially in the costume parade, but don't tell him that....

Manning the treat table and ready for action.

Apple cider Moscow mules, charcuterie, and some festive desserts for our Halloween dinner.

I love this time of year. It was a crazy, hectic, fun and frenzied weekend and we were lucky to be surrounded by celebrations. I hope yours was full of tricks and treats and spooky things and sweets as well! 

Couch Season Tailgate Party

The pool company was slated to start digging almost a month ago, but like most things this year, they have been delayed by COVID-19. I realize a setback in the ground-breaking for a backyard pool is not a real, actual problem, but it is another frustration in a line of frustrations. When we found out it would be November before anyone was ready to begin working on our concrete pond, Clint (brilliantly) suggested we dust off all of our tailgate gear and have a backyard football party. We figured that since we can't be in Clemson this season for any of our usual game day fun, we might as well get out the tent and just recreate a game day right here at home. Sounds like a plan, right?

Some of you already know that we have a minor history with hurricanes. Hurricane Irma crashed our Bahamas vacation in 2017 and forced us onto the last emergency evacuation flight out of Nassau. The very next year, Florence caused just enough rain in the Charlotte area to create widespread power outages, cancelling Clint's birthday dinner and melting his ice cream cake as it languished in our freezer. This time, it was Hurricane Delta who found us too irresistible to pass by. If I had a nickel for every time I checked the weather last week, I probably could have bribed old Delta to find herself another party to attend. I think you see where this is headed. Let me just say we fought a good fight.

When we initially planned our backyard Clemson tailgate party, the weather forecast called for a mostly sunny, gorgeous fall day. Clemson kickoff time wasn't until 7:30 p.m., but we invited our friends and neighbors to stop by any time that afternoon for appetizers and cocktails to watch the other college football games being played at earlier times. We set up card tables and decorated the yard and patio with inflatables, pennants, and every Clemson-related piece of paraphernalia I could find. Clint hooked up two TVs outside for the ultimate viewing party. The forecast turned ominous. We set up the tailgate tent. We fretted. We bought two more inexpensive tents in the camping section at our local Walmart. The forecast got worse. Then it got better. Then, on Saturday morning, it started sprinkling rain. Our little tent city looked as if it might hold. In an effort to provide maximum comfort, Clint ran to Home Depot and bought a large swath of turf and put it down over the increasingly muddy ground in the yard. Game on.

A friend asked, "Is your patio covered?" I replied, "It is now."
Welcome to Tailgate Tent City.

Around 3:30, we began taking all of the game day goodies I had made for us to munch on outside to set up the buffet. The weather app on my phone declared an afternoon of "drizzly rain" and we thought that, while it wasn't ideal, it would still work. Believe me when I tell you that as soon as we set the very last platter of food on the table and arranged the last bottle on the drink table, the drizzle turned to downpour. We huddled under the safety of those highly-rated Walmart tents, which lasted for about four minutes before they began to leak. The puppy made eye contact with me, threw a longing glance at the rain coming down in sideways sheets, and dashed out into the storm to run around in the wet yard.

This was a fun minute or two, I have to say.

Our food buffet, which apparently served as a very effective rain dance.

The bar setup, with apple cider Fireball sangria and just a hint of tropical storm.

Sometimes, you have no choice but to admit that your best laid plans have failed. Our friends, who had just arrived, kindly helped grab all the goodies and rush them inside. We were drenched but not defeated. I rearranged all the snacks and libations, we toweled ourselves off, and we continued that tailgate party from the dry security of the great indoors. 

Well, at least one of our decorations survived the weather.

"Tiger Rag" is Clemson's fight song. I had these hand towels made for the powder room.
They were great for mopping up after getting caught in a torrential downpour.

Charlie in his Clemson jersey is always a good pick-me-up.

Around kickoff, we set up a build-your-own nachos bar. Clemson won against (ironically enough) the Miami Hurricanes 42-17, and even though the party didn't quite go as planned, I have to say a good time was still had by all. I'm still recovering from the exhaustion of setting up not one, but two parties--one outdoor and another indoors--but several of our friends have already said it was so much fun we should do it again. I told them just to let me know when we need more rain and we will plan the next party!

Pace Yourselves

 I noticed something a bit odd while we were walking the dog this weekend: about a third of the houses in our neighborhood already have Halloween decorations in their yards. Oh, I'm not talking about fall decor in the form of pumpkins or scarecrows, either. It's officially fall and by all means, stack your gourds to the Lord and enjoy that pot of mums on your front porch. I mean ghouls and graveyards and gore. It seems a bit strange to me, given that it's not even October yet, and I commented as such to my husband, who told me (as he typically does) to calm down.

Don't get me wrong, you know I love a holiday. My bins of Halloween decorations are down from the attic and at the ready for Thursday, because according to my trusty calendar, that is October 1st (I can't help myself, I'm a consummate rule follower). October has thirty-one whole days in it, and I would argue that is more than enough time to enjoy all the all-hallows spookery your heart would desire without getting a September jump start. At this rate, y'all are going to be sick and tired of those fake spider webs in your shrubbery by the middle of the month and your plastic Santas and Christmas lights will be up by October 15th. I guess we'd better go ahead and carve the Thanksgiving turkey tonight for dinner and hang the stockings up after dessert. Pace yourselves. There is fun to be had, but we don't have to rush it.

It's not that I don't love it. It's just that I love it more in October.

It's been a rough year and we are all desperate for any kind of fun and distraction any way we can get it. I just want to point out that the Halloween decorations look fantastic during their appropriated Halloween month, but any other time of the year it kind of looks like your home is the site of some kind of Satanic cult ritual. I know it takes a lot of time and planning to plug in that eight foot tall red inflatable winged demon with the hissing sounds, but maybe he can wait until trick-or-treat month to make his hell-hath-no-fury appearance in the cul-de-sac? Just a thought. All these faux graveyards and severed limbs and fake rodents certainly add curb appeal, I wanted to maybe hold off a smidgen longer on festooning my house with them. Maybe a few more days? No?

I read that Reese Witherspoon threw a New Year's Eve party last week, because "we're ready for this year to be over." Reese, honey, we are all right there with you, and if that would work, I would had the confetti and streamers and champagne out about three months ago, ready to usher in a whole brand new year that is anything but this one. I think we are going to have to muddle through this 2020 thing just a little while longer, so we might as well not do it at some kind of strange breakneck holiday speed pace. Now, I'm sure some of you have Valentine cards to make and Easter eggs to die, and I've said my piece. Happy Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year!

Reese's New Year's party last week. If only it were that easy.

Restitution

As I type, a discussion about conduit is happening via Zoom (of course) behind me at my breakfast room table. I am not in the market for conduit at the moment, nor is conduit or the elaborate planning of electrical rooms a particular hobby of mine. No, this is 2020 and our lives have all been dismantled disrupted, and so here I sit, listening to another of my husband's conference calls. He's been working from home since mid-March, and while most of the time it's tolerable, there are days when I long for what used to be my normal life. There was less conduit talk then. 

I am a housewife, and so, I was already working from home before the pandemic. My home is my work, and as a creature of habit, I had a comfortable routine and a relatively quiet and happy existence before COVID-19 came and crashed the party. I suddenly found myself quarantined with a new puppy and my beloved spouse, which has not left me with much time for quiet (and I'm taking the happy any way I can get it). At any point during the day, one of the living creatures in my house is looking for me and curious about whatever it is I am doing and how and why I am doing it.

So here's the deal, 2020: I want restitution. I'm going to need something to pay back these months of masks and distancing and general the-whole-world-has-lost-its-mindness. Time is something we can never get back, so I'm not going to bother asking for that; in fact, let's just rush full speed ahead and get this whole plague situation over with, shall we? I heard our infectious disease fearless leader Dr. Anthony Fauci say last week that this coronavirus situation could quite possibly last through 2021. A headline today--and I will clarify that I blatantly refused to read the article with the details--warned that we could be wearing masks and social distancing for two or three more years. Well, if that's the case, I will probably go stark raving mad. I would rather drink a 32-ounce Thirstbuster of Diet Pepsi than continue this COVID confinement any longer...and if you know me and my feelings about Pepsi, you know that is a bold statement.

Until this mess is resolved and we can all quit having nightmares about the toilet paper shortage we lived through, we've earned a few things from this ridiculous year. 2020 has taken away so much, here is what I'm thinking it can give us back:

For starters, no one is getting older this year (with the exception of those who were eagerly awaiting milestone birthdays to drive cars or buy booze). We can barely find ways to celebrate since we can't go out or come within six feet of each other, so these birthdays clearly don't count. I think most of us feel like we have aged ten years since March anyway, but the least 2020 can do it give us a mulligan on aging.

In much the same way, calories don't count right now. The grocery store has become a Hunger Games-style gauntlet of angry people and empty shelves. If I'm going to endure that experience, the odds are pretty high that I'm going to come out with some tasty comfort food. Week after week I have attempted to buy rabbit food, only to see the long lines, the directional arrows creating a maze I have to navigate, the out-of-stock signage and just gone and bought kettle chips instead. Crunching is great stress relief, and a release not provided by protein shakes and steamed vegetables. While I'm at it, a serving of ice cream is now one pint. No need to measure, you're quite welcome. I'm sure that calcium staves off coronavirus--hey, it's as reliable as any of the other virus information we've been given, am I right?

In related news, pants are now optional. I mean, you do need to cover your, er, assets when you venture out and about, but I think it's time that we adjust our tolerance for leggings. Judge not, lest ye be forced to button a tight pair of jeans just go to stand in line with your upper lip sweating under your face mask as you wait to buy the last Clorox wipes in the entire universe while standing six feet apart, separated from mankind by plexiglass dividers. 2020 owes us a more relaxed dress code. It's the least she can do.

Do you remember when that organization guru, Marie Kondo, was all the rage? She said if an object does not spark joy, you should get rid of it. Well, this is 2020 and I say it's time to Kondo your life. The world around us is not sparking joy, so fill it with anything good and fun and joyful that your little heart desires. Want to go ahead and put up the Christmas tree? Go for it. Buy matching pajamas for you and your dog? You deserve it. Bake that bread, buy those shoes, read a book that's way below your IQ level, watch some trash TV. I've got 2020 on my calendar, and I'm trying to, as the vacation bible school song always said, get that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart. When all else fails, I recommend tacos.

I hate when people say "this is the new normal." Bless their hearts, there is nothing normal about these times we are living in. I say it's high time we started turning the tables on 2020 and demanding a little something back in exchange for our troubles. Get off your computers and go get yourself a little restitution. And if that includes dog pajamas and kettle chips, I promise I won't judge.

This woman has clearly found ways for 2020 to bring her joy. Well done!

Life's A Beach

Life's a beach. Well, it was for a few days last week, anyway.

I've had the words "Hilton Head!" written in big, bold letters on my calendar for a couple of months now. Counting down until our little vacation gave me something to look forward to as a break in the monotony of this current virus life we are living in, a much needed hiatus from reality and a chance to get away and relax. Sometimes you just need a breather: not a fancy, sightseeing trip to a far flung location, but a good old beach trip where you throw your trusty lounge chairs and cooler in the car and head down the highway for salt marshes and sandy bluffs.

Our trip was probably much like many of your vacations: filled with sunshine, downtime, and lots of relaxation. We spent three days laying on the beach reading and people watching, enjoying cold drinks from our cooler and afternoon snacks from the comfort of our chairs. Our exercise came in the form of walks to and from the beach bar, dips in the ocean, and strolls around the Harbour Town Marina in the evening reading the names of boats and their home ports as we ambled.

We enjoyed every kind of seafood prepared every possible kind of way: fried, broiled, steamed, stuffed, chilled (no raw oysters for us on this trip, however; they aren't in season and this did not seem like the year to try our luck with something like oyster poisoning). We ate crab, shrimp, scallops, clams, mussels, oysters, fish, a few more handfuls of shrimp, and made sure to include that all-important vacation food group at every possible meal: hushpuppies! There were daiquiris and mojitos and a couple of rounds of dark and stormys, too.

Clint got a little sunburned and the humidity destroyed my hair once or twice. We had sand in our bathing suits and shoes and in the car and we could not have cared less. We never set an alarm clock and we never thought about getting in a hurry or running late. Aside from one half-hour semi-emergency conference call, Clint was able to leave work behind and our puppy was, from all the pictures and videos his pet sitter sent, having the time of his life while we were out of town. All in all, it was a low-key, laidback, much needed, restful respite. Now, let me share a few pictures from our getaway that I hope you'll enjoy (if you don't enjoy them, please let me know and we will venture back to the beach to try again...I aim to please).

Our patio overlooked the Sea Pines Harbour Town Marina and famous Lighthouse.

Hudson's Seafood is one of our favorite restaurants in Hilton Head.
Please stay six feet away from my hushpuppies.

No trip to Hilton Head is complete without listening to live music
out on the deck of the Salty Dog Cafe.

And speaking of dogs, Charlie was back in Charlotte having the most fun
with his pals Oliver and Fresca. He seriously barely noticed us when we came back to get him.

We made sure to get a picture with our masks on, for posterity. What a weird time.

For those of you wondering what life with me is like, it's clearly very relaxing.

The shrimp nachos at the beach club had been on my mind since the last time I ate them, 
two years ago. I wonder if they had been thinking about me, too?

Here we are at Shelter Cove Harbour and Marina, all cleaned up for a nice dinner.

We tried Ela's On the Water for the first time and it will not be our last.
We started with the crab stack appetizer (jumbo lump crab, avocado, mango and cucumber) and then feasted on seafood scampi and scallops with crab risotto. 

All smiles for our last night in Hilton Head.

You know Clint is rested and refreshed when he starts agreeably posing for pictures.

Or maybe he was just giddy because he was on his way to eat this crab boil at the Crazy Crab?

The time went by too fast, as vacation time tends to do. We always think the hallmark of a perfect trip is when you leave wishing for just one more day. We may have wished for just one or two!

Ahh. I needed that.

Sweet Emotion

A few years ago, I made the mistake of going to a big, beefy bodybuilder for diet advice. BBB, let's call him for the sake of anonymity, swore to develop a customized plan that was not a body builder plan, but rather a science-based approach to burning fat, building muscle, stoking metabolism--all the things we all want desperately but rarely achieve. To my dismay, my allegedly custom plan made me feel like I was training for the Mr. Olympia competition. After finishing an hour of fasted cardio each morning, I enjoyed a breakfast of egg whites before moving on to strength training. When I was done with my weight lifting, I could reward myself with some oatmeal or half a sweet potato, and then look forward to scarfing down some whey protein in shake form around lunch. It. Was. Not. For. Me.

Some call this a diet plan. I call it a recipe for misery.

When I tried explaining this, BBB said I was thinking about it all wrong. I lamented that the biggest problem was that I didn't particularly like any of the foods I was being forced to consume on a daily basis and that every meal and snack felt like torment. Food was becoming drudgery. This super buff, chiseled man then uttered that phrase we've heard so many times from health and fitness zealots, "Food is simply fuel."

To that, I have but one (emphatic) response: phooey. Yes, food is fuel for our bodies, but to most normal or semi-normal human beings, food is a little more than that. It is virtually impossible to remove the emotional component from eating, and truth be told, I'm not sure I want to. Robotically consuming steamed broccoli and baked chicken may make you look amazing, but I'm almost certain it will also kill your soul. There is emotion attached to our food, sweet emotion.

When I was growing up, any time we passed through the kitchen and saw my mother slicing overripe bananas and a box of Nilla wafers on the counter, we would gasp and ask, "Mama, who died?!" You see, banana pudding is for the bereaved. It tastes like comfort. The pudding helps mend broken hearts, I'm sure of it. The Nilla wafers will soak up your tears. We make it for other occasions besides funerals--picnics, family reunions and the like--because it is delicious, but when you have lost someone you love, banana pudding and the love of your community will fill the void.

Banana pudding, for the bereaved, the hungry, or both.

Years ago, a book which outlined the five love languages became a bestseller. I've never read the book, although I've certainly heard a lot about it, but I can tell you that I believe there is one universal love language and it is this: carbs. When in doubt, carbohydrates. Macaroni and cheese is a hug, tacos speak to my soul, and if chicken and dumplings aren't what love tastes like, I don't know want to know about it. A college friend of mine once cornered my mother and whispered that she needed her peanut butter pie recipe to help turn her boyfriend into her husband. They broke up a year later, but I think the reason the relationship lasted another twelve months was that pie. It's hard to walk away when you're well-fed.

Sure, food is fuel, but it can also be medicinal. When is the last time you didn't feel better after a bowl of chicken soup? My mother and I have both been brought back from the brink many times over the years by egg drop soup as well. The answer to my problems does not lie at the bottom of a basket of chips and salsa, but I always feel much better after I go there looking for it. In the years that I have known my husband, I have found that a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream goes a long way towards making him forget about whatever care is weighing him down (and I'm happy to imbibe along with him, as a loving, supportive spouse). 

The answer may not lie at the bottom of the tortilla chip bowl. But I should at least check.

Food is love, it is comfort, it is nostalgia and celebration. What would happen to our seasons without the food we crave to mark the occasion? Can you fathom a summer without vine ripe tomatoes or watermelon? A Thanksgiving without turkey and dressing? Birthday cake, Christmas cookies, anniversary dinners...our emotions are all wrapped up in what we eat, so we might as well admit it. It's the reason we bake, mix, assemble, and devour. My granddaddy used to have a saying that you should eat to live, not live to eat. He was right in the perfunctory sense, and I really do want to agree with him...it's just that my neighbor brought over some warm banana bread this morning, and it tastes like life itself.

Still Got It: Pandemic Edition

Well, I'm just going to come right out and say it: 2020 is no one's friend. She's mean-spirited, hateful, spiteful, rude, and tacky. Every single time I think there is a light at the end of the tunnel, 2020 comes along and snuffs it out. I'm pretty sure I read months ago that COVID-19 didn't like the heat, however, it's a balmy 92-degrees in Charlotte this week and our daily number of cases continues to rise. Face masks are the (literal) hot summer accessory--because in my state, they are required if you're out in public. Concerts and events are cancelled, and we've spent the first half of the year being "safer at home."

But all of that is okay. It's completely out of our control, so it's time to put on a happy face (under your properly fitted face covering, of course) and focus on what we do have going for us. There are just some things that even COVID can't kill. Some of our most beloved things about good old summertime are eternal, pandemic or no. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present just a short list of things we've still got, fabulous as they be:

The lake, the pool, and the ocean are all ready and waiting. You may have to stay further apart from your fellow sunbathers than usual, but is that even a bad thing? Maybe now I can enjoy the breeze from the water and my toes in the sand without being downwind from some idiot haphazardly spraying aerosol sunscreen (it happens every summer--people spray that stuff around like they're throwing confetti on New Year's and it winds up in my face, my eyes, my throat). The water is still cool, the days are still long, and I still love working on my tan. Come on in, the water's fine. We've still got it.

Six feet away with the sunscreen, too, people. 

Summer food is still delicious. This pandemic hasn't ruined the watermelon or tomato crop, thank heavens, so fill up the salt shaker and get the party started. We had our first tomato sandwiches of the summer last weekend--white bread, Duke's mayo, farmer's market tomatoes--and it was even better than I thought I remembered. Yesterday, I took the lazy way out and bought some pre-cut watermelon at the grocery store and the package didn't have a bar code...so the cashier gave it to me for free. Watermelon sprinkled with a little salt is the unofficial taste of summer. Yep, still got it.

A summer still life.

Last I checked, an icy cold Coca Cola in a glass bottle remains a delicious way to quench the July heat, hot dogs off the grill were still one of the finest meals around, lightning bugs dancing in the yard still remind me of catching them in Mason jars as a child, and coming into the wonderfully chilly air-conditioning after a walk still revives my hot, weary, Southern soul. Sorry to tell you this, 2020, but we've still got it.

Some things are just eternal; like running through a sprinkler in the summertime. 

Hammocks still swing, socks and shoes are not part of the dress code, and our porches and patios are still open. Ice cream is still melty and delicious, water balloon fights are highly encouraged, and there's no need to change out of your t-shirt or fix your hair. Sure, some things are different this year, but so many of the things that we love about this season will always remain. So throw on your flip flops, fire up the sprinkler, and enjoy a Popsicle out on the porch. Tell that hussy 2020 to stick her finger in the Bug Zapper or take long walk off a short pier, because summer is here, and we've still got it.

Happy summer!

Myrtle Beach or Bust

The world seems to have gotten awfully chaotic and complicated lately, doesn't it? It feels like all the news is bad news, and collectively, there is an awful lot of frustration and irritation. Last week, I was busy avoiding any and all news for fear of hearing more horrible/terrible/upsetting things (and who needs to know about even more of those kind of things? Personally, I have reached my quota), when I heard a commercial for Myrtle Beach--the one with that jingle, "Let go and unwind, on Myrtle Beach time." It put a huge smile on my face. Not because I have plans to visit Myrtle Beach any time soon--I haven't been in at least two decades--but because of all the childhood memories I made there on our family vacations over the years. Before we traveled to more far flung locales like the Caribbean, the Myrtle Beach Grand Strand was our annual summer trip. And for a small town Georgia kid in the 1980s and 90s, it was absolute heaven.

Depending on the level of holiday traffic, the car ride to Myrtle would usually take us somewhere around six hours. To keep us occupied and happy, my mother would take a grocery sack filled with candy bars and kid-adored snacks and put it between my brother and me in the back seat of the car. We giddily sang along to songs on the radio, played the alphabet game and I Spy, and munched our way to our most wonderful, blissful destination. As I got older, it became more fun to make signs for passersby as an added form of entertainment: "Myrtle Beach or BUST" was a natural choice, and one year "Honk if OJ's Guilty" created quite a timely flurry of activity along our drive. 

Here we are in the back seat of the car, all smiles on our way to Myrtle Beach!

We stayed in hotels that seemed like palaces to my ten-year old self, resorts with names like Coral Reef and The Captain's Quarters. I remember the first time I ever saw a lazy river, with all those inner tubes being self-propelled along in a wondrous, chlorine-scented loop. Mind blown. Our Myrtle Beach vacations were days filled with riding waves on a red and blue canvas raft, making sand castles on the beach, and swimming in my t-shirt after inevitably getting a sunburn on day one. Planes would buzz overhead flying banner ads for Wings, the one-stop-all-your-beach-needs store with glamourous and exotic merchandise like shark's tooth necklaces, tiny bottles filled with real beach sand to buy and take home, seashell wind chimes, and all those magnificent t-shirt choices. I would stare at that wall of decals for what seemed like forever before carefully choosing the number for the design I wanted heat stamped onto a shirt. 

Myrtle Beach was a place filled with endless possibilities. This was the place where I first tasted a dill pickle flavored potato chip,--clearly, a land where any good thing could happen! Along the strip, I saw bikers on motorcycles sporting black leather and arms full of tattoos. I was frightened and fascinated all at once. We ate salt water taffy because we thought it was made with actual ocean salt water. You could see oddities like the world's tallest man at the Ripley's Believe It or Not! museum, or wander off the hot and sunny sidewalk into a cool, dark room to see alligators and sharks on display right before your eyes (well, swimming slowly in three feet of very murky water as you walked above them on a strange, fenced-in catwalk, but still). Yes, magical, mystical Myrtle Beach was a wonder of the world to us.

My brother's shirt said "My First Myrtle Beach T-shirt."
And believe me, it was the first of many.

Those Myrtle Beach summers were as good as it gets.

That's me, dressed to the nines in (undoubtedly) a new shirt.
I had to laugh at the two coolers behind me in our hotel room: we have always been a family that believe in having a bevy of snacks on hand.  

Souvenir heaven.

I miss those simpler times, when we hopped in my mom's car to cruise the strip and pick up a dozen fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts for the next morning's breakfast (doughnuts for breakfast! The vacation diet was everything a kid dreamed of). I loved going to the boardwalk for a foot-long hot dog, watching the Klig's Kites employees fly their wares down by the shore, and nervously waiting in line for the Scrambler ride at the Pavilion Amusement Park. We had days filled with surf and sand, seafood dinners, and then carnival rides, souvenir shopping, and wildly competitive games of putt-putt (some may refer to it as miniature golf, but we as a family have always prided ourselves on being fun, not fancy, so we play putt-putt).

Taking in the thrills at the Pavilion Amusement Park.

I have no idea what arcade game this is, but look at our faces. 
New technology can't even compete with that.
(Also, yes, my hair is a work of kinky, curly banana clip art. It was the style...I'm sticking to that story.)

Another favorite vacation past time,
putt-putt at some place I'm reasonably sure had a pirate theme (didn't they all?)

I'm not sure which Myrtle Beach restaurant this was,
but I bet there was a sign outside promising "Calabash Seafood."

Even before the days of smartphones and social media,
I never missed the chance for a photo op.

That annual trip to Myrtle Beach was something we dreamed about all year long. Our beach vacations meant the biggest worry was what to eat, ride, or see next. Tough decisions were choosing between the ocean and the pool, or what color golf ball to use for the evening round of putt-putt. Things got complicated trying to pick between fried popcorn shrimp or fried clam strips, and nerves got frayed watching the Flying Dutchman ride zoom higher and higher while waiting our turn to get on board. So during these summer days when the talk turns to pandemic or politics and the topics of conversation get heavy, I'm going to let go and unwind, back to those good old Myrtle Beach times. From the Bowery to the boardwalk, and the Magic Attic to the Gay Dolphin, those were the days.

I'm not sure we knew how good we had it back then, but we sure know now.