When I was in college, I had the opportunity to intern for a national news outlet at the Washington, D.C. office.  I was young, impressionable, and generally thought that a career in journalism was glamorous, fast-paced, and well paid.

Kids.  Listen.  To.  Me.  Journalism is an amazing profession that will take you amazing places and (sometimes) let you experience things you never though possible, but it is a wolf den.  You will be eaten alive in your ill fitting pants that you bought on sale because they were the only size left and you can’t even afford to get them tailored unless you make friends with the girls who work in wardrobe.

One of the first assignments I was sent to do was the United States Naval Academy graduation.  I remember thinking “Oh!  How cool!  This will be so much fun!”  Wrong.  Very wrong.  The day had started out with a torrential downpour.  While it was no longer raining, the humidity hung in the air like that white grocery bag in that weird movie from the early 2000s.  In my infinite stupidity, I had worn a dress skirt, shell, cargidan, and sling back shoes with a kitten heel.  Did I, for some delusional reason, think that I would be the one to do the live shot?  I was hauling, stacking, and standing around uncomfortably for a large portion of the day.  The camera guy and sound woman had me standing on milk crates to do the test shots.  Here’s a tip:  milk crate wins against kitten heels any time.

When “the talent” (And, trust me, she is talent.  You’d know her by sight if I could tell you who she was.) showed up, she perched herself on the milk crate in her sensible flats, looked at the playback, and instantly decided whatever she was wearing was “all wrong” for the backdrop.  She then rooted around in her shoulder bag, which, I kid you not, rivaled Mary Poppins’s, and pulled out three full changes of clothing — for the waist up only.  It’s all that really matters in a live shot.

She ripped through all three of those outfits, looked at me, and demanded asked that I take off my cardigan.  I will never forget that it was coral, 3/4 length sleeve, and now had a distinct aroma of Dove deodorant from the aforementioned humidity.  She wore it for the live shot… and then kept it.  Yes, she kept it.  She who traveled around with no fewer than four outfits and two changes of shoes kept one of my few serviceable pieces of professional clothing.  I can guarantee you that she is rarely underdressed.  Ever.

Around about the coral sweater theft and the F-16 flyover, I realized that I still had the entire ceremony to endure without food, or the remainder of my work attire, for that matter.   ((Note:  there is rarely craft service, AKA catering service, at live television shoots.))   So, there I was, in a partial state of undress and on the brink of falling out on this exceedingly humid day.  At that very moment, the cameraman must have seen a glimmer of the last expendable calorie in my eye, because he showed me the snack pouch on his camera bag.  Bless this man whose name I cannot recall — or his wife — or whatever angel of mercy put all of those snacks there.  He had all forms of power bars, dried fruits, and nuts.  A true professional.

At that moment, I vowed never to leave home, even if going only to the grocery store, without some form of snack… and a spare change of clothes in the trunk.

In homage to my snack attacks, I will share with you my ridiculously easy go-to snack.  When I’m living in a dwelling with a pantry (which is, admittedly, rare), you’ll be able to find a bag of these on the shelf.

Baked Almonds with Lemon, Salt, and Olive Oil

INGREDIENTS:

• 2 cups of almonds (or however many you want)
• 1 bag of lemons for juicing
• 1.5 Tablespoons of salt (or more… or less…. your sodium levels are between you and your doc)
• a glug of EVOO

PREP:

1.  Heat oven to 350 degrees F.  Put it on convection, if you’re fancy.
2.  Slice and squeeze lemon juice into a shallow dish.  I use a pie pan.
3.  Once the lemon juice has helped you discover how dry and cracked your skin is, go ahead and add the almonds.   Soak the almonds in the juice for at least 30 minutes.  NOTE:  I like to make sure I have enough juice to cover all of the almonds.  If you don’t have that many lemons, just make sure you turn the almonds every couple of minutes to get equal citrus soak time for the almonds.  Yes.  The lemon juice will turn brown from the almonds.  This is normal.
4. Once the citrus bath is over, strain almonds and place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper.  DO NOT skip the parchment paper.  You will hate yourself later.
5. Bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes.  Bake a little shorter if you’ve got that fancy convection thing going on.
6.  After about 12-15 minutes, take the almonds out of the oven and dump them into a glass/metal bowl.  Toss them with as much salt and EVOO as you want.   Don’t skip the EVOO or else the salt won’t stick. I like the coarse sea salt, but I also don’t have a heart condition.
7.  Once satisfied with the oil/salt ratio, bake for another 7-9 minutes, or until they are golden-y brown.
8.  I tend to remove them immediately from the baking sheet and just let them cool in a bowl.  Once cool, I usually store in a glass container w/lid, or a re-sealable bag.
9. Remove parchment paper from baking sheet and throw away.  Voila.  See?  Told you that you’d hate yourself if you had to scrub those little bits off the cookie sheet.

Enjoy!

A few weeks ago, I lost my grandmother.  She lived a very beautiful and a very full 93 years.   Her funeral was far more of a celebration of life than a sad event.   The day was full of good memories, family, and, of course, wonderful food.

My grandmother is the person who originally gave me my love of all things food.  She was born in 1922, which means she lived through the Great Depression, the rationing of World War II, the microwave TV dinner craze, and the advent of the Food Network.  I spent each summer with my grandmother as a child, and she, in turn, would spend a large majority of every day in the kitchen working on meal prep.  From mid-morning until dinner was served she had spent the day doing something she loved:  cooking for people who loved to eat.   A lot of the recipes that you will read on this blog will be based in something she likely taught me to cook.

The one thing I did not inherit, however, was her ability to ALWAYS have the right thing to wear.  Her favorite color was purple, and she wore it with abandon in any color or print she could get her hands on.  She was immaculately dressed every time she left the house — even down to the accessories she would expertly select to match what she was wearing.  The photos of her from the 1940s were always stunning, and she maintained a keen eye for what was “in” well into her final years.   In fact, a few months ago my grandmother made the transition into an assisted living facility with a physical therapy element.  She quickly noticed that the other ladies regularly work jogging suits, so she insisted that my mother go out an buy her a few outfits so that she fit in.  Fashionable until the very end.

So, if you will bear with me on this long blog post, I will tell you why I was, once again, underdressed at the occasion where I would have wanted nothing more than to be dressed to perfection.

My grandmother passed away while I was on vacation in Bratislava.  You can sense where I’m going with this:   I have nothing to wear.  With about 36 hours until I had to drive to Vienna to board a plane to go back to Pittsburgh, full panic mode took over.  While I’m no stranger to shopping a foreign land, I am a little bit of a novice at finding formal wear in a foreign land.   Knowing that I would give a eulogy at the funeral, I needed something basic, black, and classic.

Bratislava, for those of you not familiar, is the capital of the Slovak Republic, which was formed when the former Czechoslovakia broke up in 1993.  It’s a European capital so there is an abundance of fashionable choice.  Those choices (fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) are for women who did not grow up in Middle America eating a corn and beef based diet from a woman who valued butter because it had been rationed when she was a child.  I think I walked into no less than 50 stores that day.  NOTHING. FIT.

In a complete state of exasperation, I wandered into what I will lovingly describe as the post-Soviet version of Macy’s. Honestly, I have no idea what the store was called, but housewares were on the bottom level, women’s wear on the middle level, and children’s/men’s clothing upstairs.  Arriving at the top of the escalator was akin to arriving into an oasis of black, basic, and reasonably priced clothing.

After ferreting through a few racks, I found something that would be suitable.  A basic black shift with a belt.  Easy.   Cue the inner monologue:  “Hm. Size.  Let’s see.  I’m a 32/24 in jeans in America.  Let’s start with that.”  I pull a 32 off the rack.  It would not have fit Nadia Comeneci on a good day.  “OK.  So, I’m definitely not a 32.  Let’s try a 40.  Surely I can’t be bigger than 40.”  I would say the 40 fits a healthy Kate Hudson.  Kate, I am not.   “For the love of all things sacred, what is the biggest size on this rack?!”  I pull a 48 off the rounder.  I quickly accept the reality that I am a size 48 in Bratislava.   I snatch all remaining size 48’s off every rack in every style.

It’s at this point that I start to feel just a small bit woozy.  I consult a clock.  I haven’t eaten in 12 hours. As you come to know me, you will learn this is blasphemy.  Before I fall out in the middle of the store, I figure I should make my way back to that cafe I saw on the bottom floor.  Since this is a department store, items can be carried between floors, right?  Wrong.  Very, very wrong.  In my attempt to wrestle an arm full of dresses down the escalator, the security guard notices me.  He clearly thinks I’m about to abscond with the store’s entire plus size dress collection.

We finally come to the agreement that I will leave my preciouses in a pile near an empty table at the top of the escalator.  ((It’s still unclear to me why this table was entirely empty, but I didn’t have time to carefully consider this.))  My Slovak is not good, so in broken Croatian, I said something to the effect of “I need all of these.”  In my low blood sugar state, I couldn’t remember the verb for “to try on.”  Whatever.  Juice.  I need juice, fine sir.

After slamming an OJ in the cafe downstairs, I conquered my pile of size 48’s.  Three dresses out of about 20.  Total cost:  120 EUR.  That’s #winning in my book.

While giving my eulogy a day later, I knew my Grandmother would have been proud:  a dress purchased in Slovakia, shoes procured from Amazon (with one day shipping), and a fresh set of panty hose reclaimed from my Mom’s spare stash in the hall closet.  I wore her high school ring from 1940 as one of my only accessories.

It’s hard to pick what recipe to attach to this (admittedly long) post.  You’ll see many Grandma inspired recipes in the weeks to come, but I decided to leave you with this pecan pie.  It was one of her favorites, and I’ll even let you in on her secret of adding some vinegar to cut the sugar.

Ingredients

• Pie Crust (No judgement from me if you use pre-made from the store. My Grandmother will judge you, but I won’t.)
• 1 stick of butter
• 3 T flour
• 1 C dark brown sugar
• 1 C light brown sugar (If you want to shake this up a bit, you could use 1/2 c light brown sugar and 1/2 c corn syrup)
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
• 1/2 C whole milk (I take no responsibility if you use skim milk.  It’s already got a stick of butter. Go big.)
• 3 eggs
• 2 t white vinegar
• 1.5-2 c of pecans (You can used the crushed ones from the store, or crush some at home while leaving some whole)

 

A while back, I was invited to a get together at a colleague’s home. These functions were held about once per month with the intent to be casual gatherings to get to know each other outside of the office. It’s a very basic concept: last names A-K bring a snack, last name L-Z bring a beverage of choice. Easy. In fact, the last one of these was hosted by yours truly. Festivities wrapped up somewhere in the neighborhood of 3AM, and I had long before that changed into my yoga pants to appropriately (and comfortably) enjoy the evening.

This particular evening’s event was being held at the home of one of the more senior personnel on the team. I decided to leave the yoga pants at home, and opted for a pair of fitted jeans, sweater, statement necklace, and cute flats. Bottle of wine in hand, I hailed a cab and was on my way.

Upon arrival, my catastrophic mistake began to unfold. If I’d taken two seconds to consider the host, I would have known that there would be a higher end, well-heeled clientele at this party. So, here I am. Flats and a $10 bottle of wine. Here we go.

I walked into the main area and also realized that not only was no one in jeans, but there was a hired caterer, serving staff, and passed appetizer trays. Um, I’m sorry. What group of last names is responsible for hiring the bartender? What’s a girl to do? Obviously, turn on those flats and make back towards the street hoping that the cab hasn’t yet pulled away. Alas, in the six inches between me and the door, my hostess has somehow appeared, and now I’m here for good. Feeling nothing short of Jennifer Grey in the infamous “I carried a watermelon” scene, I said hello, and a member of the wait staff graciously relieved my sweaty palms of the offending bottle.

Having realized that I’m underdressed (shocking!) and very much in need of a drink, I make my way towards the bar area — where I quickly spend the remainder of the evening clutched to a high table with a mercifully long table cloth. Denim be damned, those little baby souffles were delicious.

In honor of my Jennifer Grey moment, I’m sharing my watermelon sangria recipe. Best enjoyed in equally underdressed company.

Ingredients:

10 cups seedless watermelon (no shame if you want to put on your lazy pants and buy the stuff that’s already cubed at the front of the store)
1 bottle white wine (no preference here, except I think Chardonnay is disgusting in all things — especially sangria)
1 cup of sparkling water (just for the fizz)
1 lime, juiced

Instructions

• Place about half of the watermelon into a blender and blend on high until you’re left with a puree/juice.
• Place the puree, remaining cubed watermelon, wine, sparkling water, and lime juice in a large container.
• Let all of this chill together for a least an hour or two in the fridge (the longer, the better), and serve cold!

I lead a rather nomadic life.  Roughly every 12-36 months, I uproot myself (willingly), throw all of my belongings in some state of luggage/long term storage/air freight/sea container, and then decide what ends up where, and how long will transpire prior to finding any of those items again.

Imagine… everything you own spread over several international locations.  Have a wedding to attend and want to wear that absolutely perfect black dress with the killer heels and the antique statement piece necklace?  Box 125, Lot 8, long term storage.  Drats.  On vacation and wishing you could find that cobalt blue maxi dress with the wedge sandals?  Sea container 2763, floating somewhere near Newfoundland.  Why didn’t I just carry all of these items with me, you ask?  It’s nearly impossible to plan for every single permutation of life when you only have a checked bag allowance of 46 kilos plus one carry on that can fit safely in the overhead bin.

This brings me to the blog:  my [underdressed] life.  While undoubtedly I have something to wear, it is never with me, and, invariably, I will end up underdressed at any event I am destined to attend.  This crazy life, however, has led me to some hilarious stories and some downright amazing food — both of which I will share with you here.

Enjoy!

Nothing strikes more simultaneous fear or joy in my heart than the following two words: happy hour.

The joy: A reason to bag on work a little early? Check.  Trying that new, exotic drink that has things you can’t even pronounce, but you would also never order when at full price?  Check.  A chance to see your co-workers get ever so slightly sauced before they have to go
home to their children and spouses?  Double check.

The fear:  I have absolutely nothing to wear. Not one single thing. In this mass of cotton, silk, spandex, rayon, and cashmere exists not one single article of clothing that will allow me sit around at my desk all day without itching, and also allow me to imbibe in that stylish
half priced cocktail.  Not to mention the shoes.

What do I do?  What any rational woman does, of course.  I pack an entire change of clothes for happy hour.  Oh, you wanted to just roll downstairs and across the street at 5PM?  Sure!  No problem!  Just let me do this phone booth change in the handicap stall while I pray that
none of my accessories precariously perched on that little purse ledge fall into the toilet.

Voila!  Ready for happy hour!  Now that you’ve arrived, after your male counterparts have only loosened their ties, you can sink your taste buds into that deliciously half priced cocktail. Enjoy, friend. You’ve earned this one.

Here is one of my favorite exotic cocktail recipes straight from Thailand.  Give this one a whirl at home, and the only happy hour outfit you’ll need is your jammies.

This is a loose adaptation of a cocktail while I had in Phuket a few years back:

• mix equal parts gin, vodka, chilled black tea, and sweetened condensed milk, shake with ice and strain
• float a shot of mango juice on top, and squeeze some lime juice to taste
• if you are fancy, add a star anise on top prior to serving