an avocado love affair

we spent the morning looking for glass on the shore. cool october wind ripped across our jeans and the sea grass was high. fort bragg, california. halfway through our once-in-a-lifetime trip down the west coast. we'd heard of the wonders of glass beach. planned on a morning by the ocean, looking into nature's mirror, the ruby of the sunrise bouncing off the clear reflection. 

but it was cloudy that friday. and we slept in. so we had to get on down the highway. we took a quick picture of the beach and headed toward mendocino.

the sleepy town on the coast was breathtaking. as our little rental pulled into the side streets, i took it all in. the art shops. the cafes. the locale, walking around in flip flops, ripped denim and well-loved cowboy hats.

we got a seat on the balcony patio at one of the only open restaurants. our waitress had auburn hair and a sweet, singsong voice. i had to squint across the table to see robert, the golden sun shooting down on my eyes and back. the man eating alone behind us started rubbing butter on his arms. that was the one part of this experience that did not make complete sense.

then my veggie breakfast casserole came out. it included the usual suspects. green and red bell peppers. little sweet corn kernels. soft, stewed tomatoes.

then, all of a sudden, there it was. woven beautifully between the eggs. soft without smushy. creamy and buttery. avocado.

i'd had one before, but never like this. maybe it was california. maybe it was the morning, so different from how i spend my usual mornings. maybe it was the knowledge that only hollywood stood between us and home.

since then, i've discovered a new love for avocados, so my heart leaped when i found this recipe. i made it last night for robert, and i swear it made the whole day better.

bacon avocado cheddar melts

from pillsbury

ingredients

5 refrigerated biscuits

5 tablespoons creamy caesar dressing

5 tablespoons shredded cheddar cheese

2 small avocados, pitted and peeled (or pre-made guacamole)

2 medium tomatoes, sliced

bacon bits

1

heat oven to 375 degrees.

bake biscuits as directed.

place on cooling rack. cool five minutes.

set oven to broil.

2

split each biscuit, and place on cookie sheet.

brush each side with dressing.

sprinkle with cheese.

broil with tops 4-6 inches from heat until cheese melts (about 1 minute)

3

mash avocado to desired consistency.

spoon avocado over cheese.

top with tomato slices.

sprinkle with bacon bits.

 

 

the perfect little bite-sized dose of avocado, with a little bacon surprise. warning: this recipe makes 10 open faced sandwiches. you'll want to eat them all {we did}.

you'll be the first to spin your story

after my shower last night, i looked in the mirror.

the tiny, silver rimmed one cleverly masking the medicine cabinet. with its still damp toothbrush.

and i took a second to examine my eyes. the curve of my lips, the shape of my forehead. the height of my cheekbones and the depths of my pupils. i tried to look subjectively. from an outside perspective. and i almost accomplished it. for a split second, i saw a stranger. past the familiar, the usual and the comfortable. into an alien state of out-of-body consciousness. i forgot my favorites. my likes and dislikes. my preferences and tastes. and just saw a girl. with wet hair in a bun and smudged mascara.

then my glance turned upward. to the tiny crevice emerging just slightly from the top of my left brow. a tiny pock mark no bigger than the head of a pushpin. a light scar from the time i had chickenpox in elementary school. in my impatience and utter agony, i had scratched at the surface of my skin, and everyone knows you don't scratch chickenpox. you just don't.

and i returned. to myself, the evening, the present.

because it was quite possible, that at that very moment, another girl was doing the exact same thing, wet hair and all. maybe in paris. maybe in ecuador. maybe right down the road. there was a chance that her hair was wet, that she had just taken a deliciously hot bath. that her mascara was leaking.

but i knew for certain, beyond any doubt creeping in with the moon, that no one was running her finger across a tiny, circular imprint just above her brow. jaggedly round, with a raised right side.

that was just me. just courtney.

excuse me mrs. busybody

source

it's january. and you know what that means.

nope, not resolutions. or gym memberships. or black eyed peas and collard greens.

something far more exciting and potentially debilitating than that.

a fresh, new desk calendar. with beautiful little blank boxes and 52 free weeks. black font on white stock paper. nothing fancy.

but oh how my heart swells when they are delivered around the office. in fact, i've been hoarding mine in my desk for a few months. peeking at it every now and then, itching to mark it up.

you see, i'm a planner. well, not so much a planner but a look-forward-to-er. nothing thrills me more than seeing a month filled with red ink, black smiley faces scribbled on weekend margins, and pictures representing events (i sometimes draw a legend in the bottom right corner to aid with decrypting.)

so yesterday morning i pulled it out of hiding, ripped off the unnecessary cover page, and started at january. blankly. with not one event entering my mind. at first, i was stricken with panic. what? no plans? no trips or weekend getaways or heck, deadlines?

then i breathed a sweet, soft sigh, just loud enough to lift the edge of january and reveal the bottom corner of february. because for now, for this brief second, my life is free. next month will see a trip to the coast, a dinnerboat cruise, and a trip to medieval times.

but not january. this blessed month holds no such surprises. yet.

give it a few weeks (or minutes), and i'm sure i can find something to fill the spaces. little happenings to decorate my days. to anticipate. expect. await.

but for now, january sits naked.

and i sit content.

sunset soon forgotten

i got to bed late last night. it wasn't for lack of trying. goodness knows, i tried.

tried to slip under the covers before eleven. to feel the cool of just-washed linens slip over my nightgown. to replace the glow of laptop and lamp light with the deep, infinite darkness of bed. to take down my ponytail  and let my hair fall carelessly over my pillowcase.

but life got in the way. errands. little menial tasks that meant nothing but added up to hours. dishes. playing with pablo. reality television. etsy.

with my sleepy eyes finally closing, and sleep threatening to wash over me and pull me over the brink any minute, i listened for a second. and felt.

i heard robert breathing heavily behind me. this deep, hearty breath. i'm used to it and barely notice it. but last night i made an effort to take it in. to turn and watch his chest rise and sink with the steady rhythm of a midnight pendulum. i heard pablo too. a raspy little puff of air every few seconds. as i looked up at the bedroom ceiling, i let their collective breath pull me to sleep. the sync of it, paired with the sweet melody it created, was intoxicating.

and right before i fell, i thanked the Lord for such a sweet sound. how many times i take for granted the living beings that share my bed. their breath gentle in my ear. the creatures that i have been blessed to love and listen to.

and i do this so often. take things for granted. become so, so used to something that it loses its grandeur.

--like the feel of cool hardwood on my bare toes in the early hours of the morning, when the world is asleep but i'm reaching toward the coffee pot.

--the house i pass on my drive to work every morning, always stuck behind the school bus. the little boy who lives in that clapboard shack. running with unbelievable fervor toward the bus, blowing kisses to his mama, waving from the driveway in her robe and slippers.

--the little basil plant on my windowsill, still reaching its meager leaves toward the sunshine. hanging on even after being stripped of most of its green.

--the sound of robert coming home after work. his muddy boots. yes, even the mud. a sign that he loves me and will do whatever it takes to make a home for me.

--the delicious heat of an evening shower. taken with the bathroom lights off, the adjacent office light bathing the room in a soft glow.

i will take all these things in, and be thankful. because they are all gifts that could be taken in an instant. little, tangible proof that God loves me, i am worthy,

and life is unforgettably beautiful.

california road trip 2010

one resolution only

i sit in a chair all day at my job.

for eight hours, my bones hibernate. locked in place, the only movement being my fingers on the keyboard, littered with crumbs. as a result, i've noticed my body acting differently. aching, physically yearning, for movement.

in the mornings, during that initial roll up in bed, with legs stretched before me and arms above my head, i hear the cracks in my elbows. it's like they're yelling for activity. nudging me, in their not so subtle way, to use them. push them to their limits. engage them.

so last night, i did a little something different.

with the melody of "pocket full of sunshine" blasting in my head, i dropped my pocketbook at the doorway of my home, ran to the nearest mirror, and had a 20-minute dance party.

right there in the living room. in my work clothes, sans heels. in curls and pantyhose. a few minutes later, robert and pablo joined in on the action. we reconvened a few hours later to dance in our pajamas.

and i felt every fiber in my body thank me. applaud me. for the simple sways and makeshift pirouettes that my  amateur feet made on the sisal rug. for the dynamic fluidity of the movements. the opening up of pores of happiness.

-----------------------------------------------------

i don't have a list of new year's resolutions. no set of goals or ambitions.

but i do want one thing for 2011.

more dancing. 

and i'm convinced, everything else i need this year will fall into place.

stop this train

my little brother texted me today. this is common. we talk, and usually see each other, every day.


but this time was different. he was texting me from a little diner two hours away. with his girlfriend of two years. that afternoon, they were going to tour chapel hill and look at colleges.


and i thought to myself, since when did he become old enough to drive two hours away from home? or have a girlfriend of two years? or what's bigger--tour colleges?


the transient nature of time was manifested for me in that simple text message. the same little brother i watched play t-ball, then middle school basketball, then join the high school golf team, will forever be just that--my little brother. just like my sister, who just finished her first semester in college, will always be the girl i shared a bedroom with. who aped my every action and trusted me enough to cut her bangs for the first time. the fact that these tiny souls are morphing into adults--and beautiful, stable, smart, kind adults at that--baffles and humbles me.


so i was sitting there last night. black high heels still halfway on my tired toes, dangling mere inches above the wood floor. robert and pablo were still on their way home and for the moment, it was just me. in my own little house. with soup boiling on the stove and laundry spinning loudly in the wash. i had the blinds cracked and every few minutes, a car would come rolling down our country road. i was home. i was 23. i was married. and i was wearing work clothes.


i went to go see mama and dad last night and i'm sure they wondered the same thing about me. when did this happen? when did our little girl start dating? graduate college? get married? 


sometimes the cycle of life scares me to the bone. i create a bubble of routine to force it away. but it creeps in. it has to. 


i'm reminded when i look at my sister. her bangs have been replaced by face-framing layers. she went through an oversized t-shirt phase in elementary school (who didn't?). now, she's all glamor and beauty in her black tights and scarf.


and i'm reminded when i get texts from my brother miles away. traveling through space and time.


but maybe most of all, i'm reminded when i look down at my hands typing this post.


my wedding ring.


my little reminder that yes, people i love will grow up.


but i'm still growing too.


and as long as i've got these folks around,

my sweet sister and brother

i wouldn't for a minute change the place i'm in.

everything i ever really needed to know

when i was growing up, a pink, laminated piece of paper was displayed on our refrigerator. a relic of my days in pigtails and ribbons, the paper was titled “everything i ever really needed to know, i learned in kindergarten.” the basis was that all of life’s key skills, such as compassion, sharing and kindness are learned alongside nap time and finger painting.

and i agree. to an extent. that many integral, vital traits and lessons in that classroom. that as we ride with training wheels, we are traveling at the speed of light. toward realization. maturity. heartaches and exultations. and kingergarten is the place that prepares us.

but last night, as i entered our little cottage and heard little paws on the wood floor and felt the soft impact of fur on my skirt, i realized something else.

everything i ever needed to know in adulthood, i learned from my dog. 

being loyal means being there. plain and simple. even when what you see or know is ugly. pablo  whimpers outside my bathroom door when i’m inside, scratches at the covers when i’m in bed and he’s on the floor, and serves as my shadow no matter where i go. i leave the room for one second, he’s behind me on my heels, lightning fast. if you want someone to love you, the first thing you’ve got to do is be loyal to them. gain their trust and ensure them—there’s nowhere that you can go that you will lose me. i swear.

you only get what you give. for every belly rub, extra dollop of peanut butter, and game of fetch i give to pablo, he gives me slobbery kisses, nose nudges under the covers, and smiles as wide as his face in return. because he knows a concept that is so difficult for humans to grasp. you can’t hug someone with your arms crossed. only when you open them up, wide as the sky, are you in the position to embrace and feel love.

when it’s time to rest, rest. don’t try to do a little play/rest juggle. just lay down, cross your hands under your chin, and let out a deep sigh from the bellows of your gut. because it’s beautiful and normal. and you’ll be ready to play with ten times the fervor when you’re done.

trust. even if it means you might get hurt or lost. just trust in people. every day, i hook on pablo’s leash and gently tug him outside, to a world that is new each morning. i lift him up, spin him around and even sometimes tie his ears in loose bows. and he can’t do anything about it. so he trusts. as humans, we have more of a choice. so choose trust.

God sends rain on the just and the unjust. no one is immune to sad times, hard feelings or even, bad hair days.

celebrate the little things. every little achievement, victory or half birthday. because life’s too short, yes, but also because that’s what life is. life is not work. life is not play. life is those little moments and celebrations that happen in the middle of those two extremes. it’s a gorgeous thing, too.

when you’re scared, don’t be afraid to show it.

no matter how unbeautiful or unworthy you feel right now, you are. you are special. there is no such thing as a lost cause. we picked pablo up looking like this.

never be afraid to add a little flair to your wardrobe. it’s what keeps life interesting, colorful and playful.

love your mama. she’s the only one you’ve got.

i have a college degree and i'm getting ready to start graduate school this spring, but the best education i’ve ever received came from a bichon with four paws and a tail.