AfricanKelli

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I have this delightful thrift store by my house; it has to be one of the best little shops I’ve ever found. The other day I needed a pie plate. I also left with a pewter serving dish, a glass butter dish, and a handful of vintage linens. I have long said I don’t collect things. And apparently I’ve long been a liar. Vintage embroidered linens? I don’t care if I already have boxes full. I love them. Setting a table with old handmade tablecloths and cloth napkins makes me dizzy with happiness. Even better if I know I’ve rescued someone’s handiwork (my GOD the time it must take to create some of those embroidered pieces) to display in my home. Recycling at it’s very best.

Or, apparently — to turn into a dog blanket. Some friends in Phoenix recently adopted a new pup. I know one of the issues I continue to deal with after adopting Willie Nelson Mandela is his separation anxiety. I’ve read pound pups in particular suffer from the panic of being left for good again. And again. And oh look, I’m just stepping outside for a second and yet Nelson is again making that weird yippy noise like he’s never going to see me again.

What does this have to do with old rescued linens? I found this cute vintage handtowel at the thrift store this weekend. It was in a stack of other pieces of fabric I picked up. Knowing I wanted to put together a small care package for my friends’ dog, I pulled out this piece for the backing of a puppy blanket. The idea is the dog sleeps with this, or has it on his/her bed when you are home. But if you are preparing for a trip, the owners sleep with it for a couple days. The blanket then stays with the dog when they are away, but their smell stays with the dog — providing a bit of comfort to our otherwise anxious pups.

No idea if it works, but I do know that a bit of handmade blanket love, with a splash of super soft fleece, never hurt anyone.

~K

Sometimes when I am preparing for a dinner party, I let myself get lost in a pretend land where I have a reality cooking show. Wearing a frilly apron and pearls, I whip through the fridge, pulling out ingredients and humming along to Miles Davis on the radio. I rattle off the recipes to the audience (Nelson.) I laugh at my mistakes and spills and blush bashful when something comes out of the oven that makes me proud.

Yesterday my La-La Land looked a bit like this:

With a dozen friends coming over after work for a meal I marketed as “a casual happy hour,” the menu got a wee bit carried away, as it goes when I receive an issue of Bon Appetit mid-week. My friend David wanted to bring black eyed peas and make his famous cast iron skillet cornbread. Sarah wanted to make kale chips. Everyone else wanted a warm meal and a cold drink. And so, I added roasted Brussels sprouts, baked barbeque chicken, and lots of dessert. Lots and lots of dessert.

Baking apple pie reminds me of my Grandmother Maxine — known for her crust prowess. These beauties would make her smile. The coconut cake, made with coconut oil and milk and topped with toasted flakes over a buttercream cream cheese frosting, went over well too. (It was a take on a recipe in this month’s BA, and a nod to the southern theme.)

The sponsors of my pretend cooking show would be Kitchen-Aid, Tory Burch and Bare Minerals. The eggs would be fresh from the chicken coop. The sprouts would have come from my garden. The guest would sit together around a great kitchen table, rather than folding chairs with plates in their laps like last night. We would play cards after dinner and sip French press coffee, relaxed and happy.

That said, I’ve got the bones of this daydream right: an incredibly sweet group of friends, great food and lovely Mr. Davis on the radio. A delightful start to the weekend, indeed.

Watch your back Martha,

K

A new friend, who has been staying with me for a few months, is a professional runner. Yes, I realize I’m setting myself up for a very odd pattern of having professional athletes live with me. But, then again, it is nice to have company and someone else to take Nelson for walks.

Fine. Sarah takes him for distance runs. I take him for easy walks.

Having someone in my home who monitors every single bite that goes in her mouth as part of her job has been, well…. let’s say interesting. It’s made me take a much closer look at my fridge, plate, and scale.

I once dreamed of swimming collegiately after spending the majority of my childhood in a Speedo, but it didn’t pan out. Come to find out I am not fast. I’m not a quick swimmer, runner, cyclist, tooth brusher, etc. I can, however, go the distance. The mile was always my event swimming. The half marathon became my event as an adult runner. I loved the one half Ironman I completed. These events take as much mental discipline as they do strength; I love the dual challenge.

Thankfully, I’ve got exercise-loving genes. My parents were both incredibly active when I was growing up and continue to exercise today. My brother was on the  path to being a world class swimmer once upon a time, and today can climb mountains like a monkey. Our family vacations were planned around beach time, where we’d swim and run and goof off with the paddle ball set until we’d barely be able to lift fish tacos to our tired mouths.

Living with a professional female runner has stirred up emotion I didn’t anticipate, nor considered once when hosting Matty for three years. Come to find out, I deeply wish I’d made strides athletically then, and could run more than 3 miles today without my body failing today. This buried emotion emerged recently at the end of yoga classes, bubbling up unexpectedly. It’s strange to recognize a disappointment that lay dormant for 15 years, waiting for just the inopportune time to be mined into daylight.

What can you do? I wish I’d been fast. I’m not. Boo-freaking-hoo. That doesn’t mean I can’t be a great athlete (yogi, hiker, cyclist, bowler, driving range golf ball destroyer) today.

Cooking with Sarah has been an education in dietary diversity and odd supplements. I now regularly eat brewer’s yeast. There is fish oil in my fridge. There are hemp hearts in a canister on the counter. I’m eating a ridiculous, Costco-amount of spinach each week and have started carrying a water bottle wherever I go. Sometimes an old dog can learn new tricks.

Frankly, it is more fun to be challenged to those things I can change — headstands in yoga, a healthy diet, cycling up Lookout Mountain — than spending any more time pouting about the history I cannot. I thank a regular yoga practice for both digging up what I didn’t want to address, and for learning to let it go.

Namaste, y’all.

~K