Fell in love with this dish while doing a gig with my wedding-photographer-by-weekends, software-consultant-on-weekdays dad. Continue reading
Made the loveliest quiche with my loveliest friend, Jazzy, from study abroad time in France. We didn’t wait one second, couldn’t help our appetites, just dove right into the subject of working women within five minutes of her coming over. Continue reading
Tonight, I made dinner with my favorite francophile friend, Jazzy. Some of you may have read about her in the adventures of my previous life abroad. When France seemed so dismally different from our homeland, we cheered each other on towards grammatical greatness, which seemed as elusive as a sunny day in the Loire Valley. I left that December. She followed suit in April. By some statistically significant stroke of goodness, we not only graduated but then ended up in the same geographical location.
Which is not France…
If your car ever gets squished to smithereens, remember to tell your friends about it.
Because if we find out via rumors of some text from a classmate with this obscure picture of you standing beside your hunk of metal, we’re comin’ after you.
Doesn’t matter if your precious baby car was totaled while you escaped with a few abrasions and edema, we’re comin’ after you.
Some scream for ice cream, others study for it.
I so earned every last speck of Oreo chocolate delight. And that bite of my friend’s caramel truffle swirl… also, those couple of test spoonfuls of fudge dream and chocolate creme. My brain-weary body wanted my one and only dollar to count toward something divine.
And have you ever met the nice folks at Baskin Robbins? They’ve such a heart for the poor, extending kindness to five medical students, granting each and every request for a sample. Maybe we’re picky. Or maybe we hadn’t eaten dinner yet.
The secret to learning the gorgeously intricate and fascinating language of the Middle East lies within its own speakers–i.e. if you make Jordanian friends, you’re bound to learn a word or two.
It may require picking them up from the airport on Labor Day weekend then inviting them over to someone’s house to hang out. And then you may have to get out of your comfort zone by trying an Xbox Kinect dancing sort of game whereby you’re flailing your arms in front of your new friends. But hey, when they’re fourth year medical students with only a month-long rotation at your hospital–you dance in ways you haven’t before.
They’d be a half dozen. One dark chocolate, another peanut butter, a third red velvet, the rest lemon-blueberry–all snapped in plastic, cradled atop both of my arms. I would grip a rainbow of balloons in my right hand, squeezing in my left a raffle prize. Top and center would sit a green T-shirt (a free one at that!) right beside a blue dish of M&Ms, another gift from that evening.
And those cupcakes would have once lined the counters of the attic of the student union on main campus. Like ducks in a row. The smiling kind. They’d witness all sorts of people meeting all different sorts of people. I would make a friend from Nigeria and another from Mexico and another, well, she would be an MPH student. Everyone glancing, contemplating–which flavor would need sampled… again? They’d whisk the cupcakes off to the corner where bowls of M&Ms lined the tables. Across those would sail red crepe streamers under red paper hearts dangling on red strings from the rafters.