No reason, just gorgeous.

Over the holidays, my sister-in-law gave me this delightful magazine - more than that, a journal really - called Anthology.  

It's impossibly pretty, all French food and gauzy photographs and yearning travelogues. It's part of a new generation of magazines, Matchbook and Rue among them, spearheaded by young women who strike a fresh-feeling balance between accessibile and aspirational living.  Less Ana Wintour, more Martha; less Gucci, more Anthropologie, less New York, more ... San Francisco.

Anyway.  The video makers above (Tiger in a Jar) were featured in a recent issue of Anthology, and when a client of mine sent me their website today, I thought -- that's it!  They must be blogged.  

Are you drooling?  Don't you want to wear Christmas tree branches in your hair now (even though we've bade goodbye to the holidays)?  I do!  

I also want to dance.  That track is a remix by The Magician, and I say we bring him to Austin.

The creatures of this house.

It's quite domestic around here. 

Do you remember Claudia, Reader?  It's been a while since we really let her have her own post.  Here is a picture of the two of us from back in the day, Claudia totally loving and appreciating my affection.  She and I were at home the other day when a tiny bird flew into our house, and I could not believe it held still while I snapped its picture.  Look at it winking! 

Also.  Ross and I are still faithfully doing Greenling each week.  Now, 80% of the time we know what we have received, because Greenling always provides a helpful list -- with recipes! -- of our box's offerings.  But sometimes, even after we have consulted said list, one item is still a mystery.  Enter the potato ... thing, above.  Are you noticing the face I carved into it?  That is the expression a vegetable makes when it doesn't know what it is.  I asked Ross and our buddy Jason what I should do with it, and they suggest I cut it into slices.  Done. 

Finally, I just wanted to share the most delightful comment from an Eavesdroppper reader: Mary Miller, one of the authors I mentioned a couple of weeks ago.  She wrote me the kindest email, and inspired by Claudia, I thought I'd share part of it with you.  In her note, she described the things this blog makes her want to do ...

 

Food is Free + 24 Diner.

Sanctuary at Amala Foundation

On Saturday night, Ross and I did exactly two things.  One having to do with vegetables, community gardens, virtue; the other, fritters, butter, gluttony.

Our first stop was a huge launch party / meeting of the minds at Amala Foundation's Sanctuary for the Food is Free Project, an inspiring little operation. The idea: To distribute free wicking beds from salvaged materials to anybody interested, with the goal that they plant food in them -- food available to absolutely any passers-by.  Due to the way they are built, these gardens only require once-a-month watering.  The science of which was explained during the meeting ... but, I'm choosing to believe they are magical.

Ross and I signed up.  We live on a corner lot, and there's this section of the property that we sort of let people assume is "City of Austin."  It's on the other side of the fence, un-mowed and unruly.  "Wow, the city should really do a better job of maintaining that," you might say to us, to which we would respond, "I'll say!" shaking our heads disapprovingly.  But now, it will have vegetables on it!  Kids walk by there every day too, since we live near a middle school.  Take that, property.    

Next, we headed to 24 Diner.  Hello there, old friend!  My arteries and I have missed you.

Here's the deal: Food may be free, but Chef's Waffles are not.  Do you know what the Chef's Waffle is?  It is beyond food, it is an event.  And worth every cent you pay.

So each morning, Chef Andrew Curren and company concoct a special using this essential breakfast item.  Waffles, as you may or may not know, are 24 Diner's top-selling dish, and that's because they're not afraid to get scandalous.  Chef's Waffle this evening was topped with caramelized apples, and brown butter sauce that pooled into tiny, sinful lakes.  Somebody call a priest -- this girl's done died and gone to heaven!  Also, did you notice how our waiter thoughtfully brought us a small pitcher of honey, to then pour on top of our waffles?

"You did not," you say.

"We DID," I say.

"Tolly, I just don't know you anymore," you inhale sharply.

That's because I'm crazy.  Like a fox?  Nope.  But crazy like a honey-drenched-caramelized apple-topped-brown-butter-soaked waffle eater. 

Lover, You Should've Come Over.

One thing I definitely do not post about enough on this blog is aerial silks, a.k.a. the love of my life.

It's hard to overstate how I feel about this hobby, a relatively new one.  I started one year ago, and it just changed my whole headspace.  Made me focus.  Hungry.  (Literally and figuratively.)  Made me listen to songs on the radio and think, "ooh!  That would be such a good silks song!" like I did yesterday morning with Jeff Buckley.  

Yesterday was a private class between me, two of my classmates, and our awe-inspiring teacher.

Isn't she just magical?

Here are some more shots of us.

Whee!

We actually started choreographing a piece to "Lover, You Should've Come Over," and I cannot wait to perform it.  Reader, have you ever heard that song?  Every so often, that tune creeps back into my ear, Jeff Buckley whispering softly about a love he just cannot have.  It gets so passionate and sad, a gorgeous howl of a song.


How the world misses you, Jeff Buckley.  Especially this girl.

Things'll be great when you're Downton!

Oh, Downton Abbey. Where to begin. Where to even begin?

In the last few weeks, it seems as if the Internet has exploded with rapture over Downton Abbey. When I asked on Austin Eavesdropper's Facebook page if anyone was watching, tons of people wrote in to say yes.  A THOUSAND TIMES YES!  That was last Wednesday.  I had never seen the show before.

Now, I'm on season two.

Reader, there is just too much to love about this show. Let's start with the fact that it is Masterpiece Theater. Can you remember a time in your life outside of high school English when you sat down to watch some Masterpiece Theater?  Neither can I.  Almost makes you want to pick up the phone and dial your nearest PBS telethon, doesn't it?

The setting is early 1900's England in Downton Abbey, with gloves, corsets, and gowns losing their froth, shrinking into slimmer, 20s-style silhouettes.  And hats!  Man do the Brits love their hats. I now believe that Dame Maggie Smith's head is magical, and defies the laws of natural physics. You could place a live waterfowl on Maggie Smith's head, and not only would she not drop it, she would wear it with dignity.

Also.  A huge portion of the show takes place in the kitchen, as Downton Abbey is at its heart a domestic drama evenly divided between a titled family and its staff. And what is prepared in that kitchen? Why, crumpets and scones, of course! None of those boiled vegetable, bad English cooking stereotypes. Heavens no. The Grantham Family eats nothing but luscious tarts and aged wine.

Which brings me to the most important point of this blog post. Alamo Drafthouse: Let's schedule a Downton Abbey night.  What do you say? Macaroons and port on the menu, we all dress up in period garb?  Perhaps you could invite a certain Matthew Crawley to debut a screening ... ?  (Or Maggie Smith.  I'd be equally enthusiastic to witness a withering British backhand live, from the most honorable mouth of Maggie Smith.) 

I just think it would be pretty brilliant.

But back to Matthew Crawley, and the other characters on the show.  Downton Abbey is set during a period when time-honored Victorian conventions are slipping away, and things are beginning to seem more modern.  Sometimes frighteningly so, depending on who you are.  

In the titled Grantham family, there are three daughters and no sons, so the main conflict driving the plot is: Who will be the heir to Downton? The oldest daughter, or the oldest male cousin -- even if he's only distantly related?  That's where Matthew Crawley, the male cousin, comes in.  He's smart and good-looking and gentlemanly, but a little controversial to the staid Grantham family seeing as how he, among other things, pours his OWN tea!  In other words, he has little use for butlers and service people. Which modern viewers appreciate ... until you see how scared those service people are that they aren't needed by this individual. That his progressive self-reliance just might put them out of a job.

I won't even go into the love stories in Downton Abbey. Suffice it to say that Matthew Crawley enters into one of them with the eldest Grantham daughter Mary, whom you hate at first because she's icy cold and bitchy, and then you realize she's just conflicted. Lady Mary is the first victim of England's changing times: A girl raised to believe in "the way things are," until things begin to evolve, and she longs to evolve with them. 

There are also yearning, unrequited love plots happening among the staff, too: Stolen glances in the kitchen, whispers in the servants' quarters.  You want so badly for their romances to work out!  But everyone has a secret at Downton Abbey, and those secrets always get in the way of their union.

Every critic is basically saying the same thing about Downton Abbey: That it's the pitch perfect combination of soap and sophistication. On the one hand, there's dishy gossip, stolen kisses, and scandal.  On the other hand, you are being educated: About England's class system, WWI, property economics.  One magazine, I can't remember which, called it "pleasure without guilt."

You really must see it.

If you are already, then LET'S TALK.  And petition the Drafthouse for a Downton Abbey night.

Just being.

I was telling Ross this morning that I think Claudia and I can really relate to each other.  Claudia, as you may or may not know, is our cat.

"We're both anxious, impatient, and only children!" I said.  

He looked at me with the sudden realization that he had, in fact, married a crazy cat lady.

But the funny thing is, I told him this while Claudia was curled up on my lap, getting her tiny forehead scratched.  She was utterly at peace, resting her chin on my arm, and even peeked one eye open at me for a few blissful seconds.  Her little face said, "this is exactly what I want."

***

It was funny because, just a few moments earlier, Claudia was skittering around in her nervous morning way: Meowing urgently, scratching things she's not supposed to scratch, biting us with just enough pressure to indicate, "I'm kind of playing, but I also kind of want MORE WET CAT FOOD DAMMIT." 

I could tell she didn't know what she wanted, because she actually had everything -- food, water, our attention -- but that frenetic cat energy kept jerking through her.  It reminded me of myself.

***

On Saturday night, I went to see an energy work healer.  I had heard about her through a friend, who wrote me a few days ago to ask if I would ever be interested in a session.

"YES," I wrote.

One thing I've debated about several times before is just how open I should be about my spiritual leanings on this blog.  That's mostly because: 

A) They're a little all over the place.  Back in high school I was a very serious Christian for a couple of years, and while I'm not so much anymore, one thing that always stuck with me was "not picking and choosing parts of scripture that you like."  Isn't that funny?  I still have this hang-up about only getting into Buddhism for the meditation and attachment doctrines, for example.  I feel "bad" that these are my two genuinely favorite parts about Buddhism, and I totally picked them out from Buddhist scripture.  I'm slowly learning to realize that it is OK to study a variety of different spiritualities and faiths, to choose practices that really work for you, and just ... live your life.

B) I'm worried it will scare people off.  You, for example.  Maybe you're atheist.  Maybe you're Christian.  Either way, I imagine you thinking: "Energy work? Freak," and x-ing right out of this blog. But I think that's alright, too. There are some parts of my life I'll always keep private and sacred, others that I am moved to share.

And Saturday night was one of them.

So: back to my friend's message. I texted the energy healer soon after, and set up our session.  After we sat down, I started telling her about my New Years Words.

"Well last year, it was openness," I said, feeling that was definitely an energy healer-approved kind of word, "and this year, it is evolve," thinking I had probably just blown her mind.

She just nodded then, smiling wisely.  

"I should also tell you too that I'm a very easy cryer, so ... just ... FYI."

She explained to me that people express all kinds of things during energy work and that tears weren't good or bad, just a different form of energy. Which immediately put me at ease. Because tears can make things really weird, and I didn't want to muck up our work together by obliging her to feel sorry for me. With that out of the way, I relaxed, and sank down into things a bit more.

It's hard to describe what happened for the next hour, so I'll just tell you the two things that struck me the most:

One. She immediately went to my stomach. Part of this woman's energy work is identifying "blockages" in your body and then helping you release them. (If you're into yoga at all you may be familiar with the concept of chakras; this is totally similar, if not identical.)

I mention this because I have had stomach issues for a REALLY long time. They became more frequent in grad school, but the problem may have even started earlier than that.  As you can imagine, energy work sessions are not so much "hmm, I see you have a gastro-intestinal disorder!" as a more mind-body-spirit thing.  The latter perspective is frequently written off in the West as super hippie (I know because I used to do the writing off), but in Chinese medicine, Indian medicine, and in many other parts of the world it's not as bizarre to consider that maybe - maybe? - the reason you feel so bad could have something to do with forces not strictly corporeal.  

Two. She told me my feminine energy was very depleted.

Now my mind was blown.  I wanted to say, "girl, did you not see the mascara I blotted all over this Kleenex?" but held my tongue, suspecting she might be referring to a deeper feminine something.  And indeed she was.

"When you told me about your word, 'openness,' it made me wonder if a lot - I mean a lot - of things had come into your life lately, and if it sometimes wasn't a little overwhelming," she said. I told her that was a zillion percent true.

I told her I couldn't believe all of the good things I have in my life, and that also, I feel totally ungrateful when I'm not experiencing them to their fullest. I told her I felt tired all the time, and asked why is that, when I've got so many zingy projects, side jobs, hobbies, relationships, etc. to fill my day?

She gave me that same wise smile from earlier.

"You can keep your words, Tolly, but I want to give you a couple of new ones. They are: 'just be.'"

"Just be?"

"'Just. Be.'"

I am a doer by nature, so you can imagine how foreign a concept this is.  Just be?  Won't I get bored?

Maybe.  But perhaps boredom isn't so bad.

***

There's one thing I've noticed in certain types of spiritual people: They are very good at "just being," and also, they have lots of energy.

My cat Claudia and I are examples of the opposite: We are anxious doers, and we tend to drain ourselves very quickly.  She scratches furniture, I pull out hairs on the back of my neck, and neither activity satisfies us. 

So I'm going to take my energy healer's advice.  I'm going to keep "evolve," but maybe not be so forceful about it.  Do I still have goals?  Yes.  Lots of them.  But I think now I can meet my goals in the middle, by letting them take their time, and helping them along when they need me. 

(By the way.  The reason I didn't go into extreme detail with the energy work itself is because as I understand it, it's very tailored to each person.  I can tell you that mine involved meditation, and lots of smells ... good smells!  It was exciting, and I'll just be frank here, I totally loved it.  If you are into this kind of thing and if you live here in Austin, please feel free to contact me if you want more info about my gal.)

Source.

Saturday.

My friends Mai, Rose and I had a food trailer lunch date on Saturday, and while we did, we read parts of Rose's old diary.  A diary that she has kept - stunningly! - from age 8 to 18.

Have you ever dug up your old diaries?  I highly recommend it.  There's this one entry I wrote in my diary when I was like eight years old, and in it, I describe a day filled with drama. It ends with the line, "what is this, crying season??"  

I always giggle about that.  Both in its Jewish grandmothery rhetorical questioning, and in how applicable a phrase that really is.  Sometimes, it just feels like crying season.

(But not, fortunately, on Saturday.)