Remember the scene from Benny & Joon when Johnny Depp’s character makes grilled cheese sandwiches on an ironing board? Call this the antique makeover.
Sit down and pour yourself a refreshing beverage. I have some news. Our family is growing. And no, I don’t mean we’re getting a pygmy goat. Baby Githens arrives in mid-September! Today we found out that he’s a boy, something I’ve suspected for months now, yet suddenly it all seems so much more real.
Eight hundred miles away from San Francisco and six miles from my parent’s house there is a place called Tiger Mountain. It’s my happy place.
I go home to see family, of course, but running the trails behind Issaquah High School has become my homecoming ritual. When I lace up my sneakers and trace the familiar loops in the forested hillside, it’s like touching home when my shoes touch the dirt.
I have a confession that is unlikely to surprise you: I haven’t been cooking much lately. Mike has been working long hours, and cooking for one gets dull. And frankly, I’ve been tired. And uninspired. And perfectly content to eat Trader Joe’s Indian food from a cardboard box and aluminum pouch. (It’s like backpacking food—at home!)
Sometimes I have mornings when the world feels so daunting it takes courage just to swing one leg out of bed. These are the days when my to-do list starts unfurling, like some unwanted tickertape parade, before I even open my eyes. They’re after nights spent dreaming about work projects gone awry. Or friends I didn’t call back in time. Or laundry.
Inspiration is complicated.
Have you ever had a vision for a project—seen it every time you close your eyes, every time you glance at a junk pile or unfinished corner of the house? On the one hand, the vision is incredibly motivating. You can see your handiwork in all its glory, feel its texture, envision its usefulness. On the other hand, the vision is tormenting. The unfinished product taunts you, haunts you with the specter of its awesomeness until you get off your bum and get to work. There’s no easy way around it.
It’s funny how condiments can reflect a culture. The Aussies have their Veggiemite. The Brits their Colman’s mustard. The Japanese their soy sauce. We Americans our peanut butter. There’s so much patriotism wrapped up in a screw-top jar.
Allow me to divert your attention elsewhere as I wrestle with a recipe that needs more fine-tuning. This fall I again answered the siren call of Stanford Continuing Studies, this time a portraiture photography course taught by Neal Menschel.
Given that it’s Friday at 11 p.m., I suspect we both have better places to be than sitting cross-legged, staring down a laptop. But a deal is a deal, which means I owe you another dip before the day is done.
If you have ever dined Chez Githens, then you know that one appetizer reigns above them all in our kitchen: King Hummus.
Our hummus habit developed in those early post-college years when cooking dinner for friends still felt like playing house. I quickly discovered the problem with hospitality is that it requires another habit—advance planning.
