Three stems of lilies from the farmer's market last week have produced too-many-to-count flowers. A real beauty.
I have a strong belief that every mug has a purpose. Every mug has a tea it was designed for. And Sundays are for designed for enjoying the best teas in the best mugs.
I accidentally weened myself off of coffee at the worst possible time - the midst of the holiday season. I'll still enjoy a latte once or twice a week, but generally speaking, I've backed off the high caff, indulging in the serenity and ease of the low caff.
There is something quite magical about brewing a cup of hot tea. It's a process. It takes time. It isn't instant, and it takes care. Some of my favorite cups of tea are chai with cardamom + cinnamon / earl grey with lavender / chamomile with honey. Details, small details, make all the difference in these daily little indulgences. And all the perfection.
Sundays are the best days to whip up little projects. Something always hanging around our apartment are little glass cups + jars filled with viney little plants wading in water, waiting to sprout new roots. I love spreading these green heart leaves around our home. They're dramatic; they're sculptural; they're whimsical; and they're resilient. My favorite little plants.
These plants thrive in light, need little to no water, and grow in such mysterious ways. This cutting is from a plant that has lived with me for at least eight years. It wasn't always my favorite, but it has found a special delicate place in my heart. Maybe you can see why.
My grandfather and aunt are masters at raising jasmine plants. They have big blooming ones and I don't understand their secret. My grandfather got me a jasmine plant earlier this Summer and I almost completely killed it within a month. I called him and asked what I could possibly be doing wrong. "Just water it when it's dry," they said. "It's easyyy to keep jasmine alive, Amina" they said.
So I sighed. I moved this beauty around my apartment to find just the right spot. I watered. I waited. I watered. I waited. I watered. I waited. And as suddenly as this baby died on me, it magically came back with one little flower. I'm calling it a win for now.
I'm no poet but on National Croissant Day, a religious holiday for me, I'll try for you.
Croissants are my jam.
Golden, crispy, buttery goodness
Flakes in my hair all day
My favorite breakfast; my only faith; my one expertise:
Croissants with jam.
Croissants with ham.
Croissants on the floor.
Croissants as soon as I walk through the door.
Plain and sweet,
Hot and neat
But I'll never use a fake french accent to emphasize the roi
I'm not that authentic.
All last week I found myself in denial of what would inevitably come. On Thursday, I went downtown to absorb the good vibes of witnessing an Obama White House one last time, but was greeted instead by a sea of red caps, which left me feeling a little empty inside. I hope it isn't, but I suspect that was probably the last time I am going to see a minority in the White House for a while.
On Friday, I woke up late. I rolled around in bed. I had a sinking feeling in my gut. I took Rosie out and fed her. I turned on a live stream. I couldn't sit long in front of it. I got up and made a second cup of tea. Tried to endure a little more. I got back up and rolled out some phyllo dough for guava pastries.
My hands shook a little bit as I listened to the speech and cut little pieces of guava up. But I refused to turn it off. I want to know what is said. I want to make my own decisions with my own ears and my own gut before those feelings are decided for me by articles, tweets and tv crews. I don't want to turn a blind eye to what is happening around us, but it was hard to physically watch.
I am very nervous about the future of America. The future of my family. But I'm focusing on what I can do. What I can control. How I can help myself get through this. In my own future, I'm going to be seeing lots of pastries, hand stands and warm baths. As Audre Lorde said, self care is preservation, not indulgence.
Cooking is therapeutic. For me, at least. I get to be creative. I get to do something with my hands, and I get to reap the rewards of all the work immediately. I've never been much of a cook in my life, but there's nothing like rolling out dough like mom used to to feel immediately comforted and at home. Preservation.
Meet our nondenominational real holiday tree. It's a fig plant (I think) and it makes me feel much better about holiday celebrations than real trees do.Read More
Scenes from my bed on a windy Fall morning. I'm a chronic sleeper-inner. I don't mean to, but I do, basically every day. Unless there is a meeting. I'm queen of waking up, doing my daily insta-post, and going back to bed for hours. You should try it. It's amazing.
My bed nest is amazing. So comfortable. Impossible to leave. I wonder so much why I ever do. I love the mornings with my boos all snuggled up, especially in the cold. It's this warm bubble we have before we have to venture out into the cold, harsh world filled with responsibilities and obligations and workloads and everything. The days we spend together all snuggled up while the world whips itself into a frenzy outside of us are my favorite. Because all that out there doesn't even matter. Just us in the warmth.
Home is my happy place. Home is my center. Home is my safe haven.
Brad and I had a discussion last night about how important that is to both of us. We are both homebodies. Nesters. I don't often make plans, and when I do, I dread it all day. I always have a great time when I'm out, but by default I like to be home drinking tea, tending to my plants and chillin' with my boos.Read More
Magnolias are definitely in the running for my favorite Springtime flower. They always bloom right around my mom's birthday and at our old house, she had a beautiful magnolia tree planted right outside our family room window so we could always see and admire it. It was next to a weeping cherry tree- the second most beautiful tree in our yard. The thing about magnolias is that since they often bloom right around the cherry blossoms, people are ALWAYS confusing the two.
LET ME GET ON MY SOAPBOX: TAG YOUR TREES RIGHT ON INSTAGRAM, FOLKS. MAGNOLIAS ARE MAGNOLIAS. CHERRY BLOSSOMS ARE CHERRY BLOSSOMSZ. YOU CAN'T BE PART OF THE FLOWER CLUB ONLINE IF YOU AREN'T PART OF THE FLOWER CLUB IN REAL LIFE. [ANGER EMOJI]
I've lived in my neighborhood for aboutttt four-ish years now and I have figured out which houses renters call home and which houses homeowners call home. I would never dare to steal a magnolia branch off of a home owner's tree, but a renter's... that's a whole different story. In my flower poaching exploits, I've learned which branches last and which don't. Magnolias, it turns out, last pretty well! Not as long as they do on the tree, but it'll give you a few days of happiness in your kitchen window. Never before have I ever stolen magnolia flowers before, since my mom always had STRICT rules about not touching that tree. My mother-in-law also had strict rules about it, and she claims her boys stunted its growth, which is probably true. This year though, I found a renter's magnolia tree in the yard of one of the dozens of homes in my neighborhood that has been carved up into two to four rental units. One little flower or two (or three) would never be missed.
Now that it's warm again, Brad has started getting his Springtime smoothie game tight. Strawberry-Banana, Oaty, Almond Milk bliss.