Let us give thanks…
For generous friends with hearts and smiles as bright as their blossoms;
For feisty friends as tart as apples;
For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers, keep reminding us we had them;
For crotchety friends, as sour as rhubarb and as indestructible;
For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants and as elegant as a row of corn — and the others — as plain as potatoes, and so good for you.
I’m not done being thankful yet
Many of us have been commenting, crankily or otherwise, that Christmas decorations are coming out earlier and earlier. Commercialized holidays aside, the real issue for me is that Thanksgiving doesn’t get its fair share. It’s not a sexy retail holiday, so it’s ignored.
I was a pretty strong-willed child, if you could imagine, and can recall perpetually complaining about this to my mother for years. We’re not a family with longstanding traditions — we don’t even put up a Christmas tree — but mother eventually came up with something to pass as a Thanksgiving tradition.
Do Tell …
The next time you are looking for a brunch place in Pittsburgh, go to Stagioni. No questions asked. Just walk on in, and order anything from their creative and fresh menu. I don’t have any pictures because I was too busy ogling the wonderful french pressed coffee and dipping my fig tart into a mass of gorgonzola drizzled with the sweetest balsamic reduction I’ve ever tasted. And prosciutto, but that goes without saying.
Oh, and dessert? At noon? Don’t mind if I do. Especially if that includes lemon curd on a pistachio crust with big, juicy raspberries tumbling around. Sweet mother of lord, I just drooled.
Things I considered, but did not order: EVERYTHING ELSE.
Just go, would you? And take me with you.
Stagioni
(412) 687-5775
Using Not Martha as my inspiration, I made these tonight:
Yeah the picture sucks and the lighting in my house is low at best, but they are super cute in person. And easy!
Thinking about making a few sets for upcoming gift opportunities, but that might just be the glue talking.
Long story short, I have been invited to an upcoming holiday event to chat with an Italian woman in her native language. She’s been in Pittsburgh a while, I’d imagine, and wants the chance to speak and hear the beautiful language that she grew up with.
Of course I said yes, while silently worrying that I’d forgotten most of the Italian I learned while living in Rome (almost two years ago!! Holy crap).
I’ve been practicing in my head here and there, but I know it won’t come back out until I hear a native tongue.
Enter: Internet.
I remembered one of my favorite songs that was overplayed on MTV while I was there, and lamented that I never was able to secure a CD of the music. Not in Rome; not on Amazon; nowhere.
Um, duh. iTunes, baby.
That’s right. I’m listening to Italian rap to bone up for my meeting with la nonna.
Che strano, no? Sono io che sono io.
As you probably know, I got my knees shot up with rooster acid this summer. (Technically hyaluronic acid, but my way is funnier.)
As you may have read, my tarot card reader recently told me I should start dancing.
Two things here:
- I used to dance. Started when I was about three. Stopped when I was 20. I’m not saying I danced very well, but I took classes and performed consistently for many years.
- The rooster shots didn’t work. I’ve been avoiding going back to the surgeon because I don’t want to find out that the next step is either a) live in pain or b) convince someone to replace my kneecap. Both options suck.
So, what do I do?
Whine on, sister friend.
Today, for your nablopom-y pleasure, I’m gonna stop rambling about crap, and give you a nice little song.
Find “Light at the End of the Tunnel” by The Bloodsugars somewhere here-ish*.
Jami and I saw these guys recently, in the company of Andrea and Andybot, when they opened for Good Night, States at the Brillobox. I’m not much of a concert-goer, especially one during which I have to stand, but I’m superglad I went.
The place was cool, the company was fun and the music made me smile and do that random sway/shoulder shake/foot tap/head bop sort of thing you do at a small indie type hipster “venue.”
Plus, adding to my music collection is always a good thing. Now I’m the girl who listens to country, rap and The Bloodsugars.
* The lyrics they have posted don’t seem to be accurate, but click on the song title to stream the mp3.
Yesterday’s post was probably not very interesting for you to read, and I’m sorry for that, but writing it helped me clean up some thoughts that had been tossing around in my head for – if I’m really being honest with myself – about a month now. Your support of me when I never really said much of anything about this “sitch” means a lot. So thanks, and I hope we don’t have to visit any more ugly posts any time soon.
That being said, I totally know my future now. Well, sort of. Ish.
Tell me what happens, dammit!
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so boldly betrayed. It’s happened before, I’m sorry to report, and I’ve been ignoring the fact that I’m stuck in this place again. Cause it feels ugly.
(The details of what and who are irrelevant, and frankly, I’m still trying to put the pieces of the story together myself. It’s none of you, I’m certain of that.)
“Ugly” is the word I use when I can’t really pin down my specific feeling, but I know it’s not good. It’s sort of a muddled combination of anxiety, anger and exhaustion. I borrowed this from my aunt, who uses the expression when her kid is being a brat, although I’d guess her definition varies slightly from mine.
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Every week should begin like mine did yesterday.
Sundays, in the movie version of single twentysomethings, are for fighting off last night’s hangover, watching football (or equivalent) and getting some last-minute laundry done. I still have those once in a while, but they aren’t nearly as satisfying as waking up at a normal hour without feeling like you’ve been steamrolled. Yesterday, I got a breakfast invitation at 8:30 a.m.
Lazy self: Are you kidding me? It’s SUNDAY!
Adult self: Well that sounds like a nice thing that people do.
Friend self: Awesome!
Luckily I was able to tell my lazy self to shut up, and was ready by the time my ride came.
We went to the Quiet Storm, which is only my favorite Sunday breakfast place ever. [How did he know??] Their vegetarian menu has a wealth of divine options – this isn’t even the half of it. I got the East Ender, again, and plan to try and replicate the fantastic vegan curry dressing and eat it on everything from here on out.
As good as all that is, the best part was getting three uninterrupted hours of face time with one of my best friends. I’m saying best friend not in the “we talk every day, know each other’s darkest secrets and made a scrapbook together” sort of way, but in the “I always look forward to seeing him and we totally ‘get’ each other” sort of way. The rare friendship where you can go years without seeing each other (we have) and find yourself together again talking about everything from politics, holidays and family, to Pittsburgh’s Jewish history and solving existential crises (we have) … er, talked about them, not solved them. Yet, anyway.
I could weave this into a postulation of why I don’t have more friends like this, but instead I’m just going to enjoy the ones I do have. I may have gotten an hour or two less sleep than I would have otherwise planned on, but what I got in return was priceless: a dynamic and fun conversation that made me think, stretched my imagination and touched on my hopes and dreams. Seriously.
That’s a Sunday morning I wouldn’t mind getting up for again.
