Stuffed Figs

I'm gonna say the school year is in full swing.

That's gonna mean that I've gone to classes for 2 days now.

I'm already neck deep in annual market reports and

tear-outs of magazine ads.

I have more internet tabs open than members at a Gatsby party. 

...and I'm loving it. 

But a life of intellect cannot be supported by stale Chex Mix and 

sleepless nights of Adventure Time marathons.

We gotta fire up the intellectual lifestyle furnace right quick. 

Glasses. We are gonna wear glasses. 

We are gonna complete the New York Times crossword puzzle. 

Tea? Of course.

Figs. Cheese plates. Cured meats that aren't bacon. 

All present. 

Snatch up some beautiful Black Mission figs that have managed to escape 

being stuffed into Newton cookies.

Honor their victorious escape by slicing them in half 

and stuffing them with a mixture of

chopped fresh thyme leaves, honey, coarsely cracked black pepper

and goat cheese. 

Roll those decorated refugees in chopped pistachios. 

Let balsamic vinegar rain over them. 

Wrap them in prosciutto, squish them into a tasty hunk of bread.

Do as you please. 

You're fancy. You can't go wrong.  

To carry you through your thoughtful chin scratching and eyebrow arching,

here is a list of classic jams and my most favorite

pseudo-classy song selections. 

Until the next, chiclets. 

                                            

White Sangria Popsicles

The feeling of the first day of September is always 

what I imagine turning 50 will feel like.

It sneaks up on you like a little jerk

and then you have no choice but to greet it with handsome

amounts of destain and denial.

I'm there right now. 

I'm cursing under my breath at every social media mentioning of

"sweater weather and pumpkin flavored everything!"

Every advertisement for apple cider and every email 

from a professor is met with the meanest of mugs

from yours truly.

It's not fall, dammit! It's still summer. 

That's my equivalent of saying 

"I'm not over the hill! I'm young and super fresh!"

And instead of buying a sports car,

I ran to the farmers market and buried myself in summer fruits

and made some damn popsicles. 

Because if I'm eating popsicles, it can't be fall, right?

Correct. 

These aren't just any old fruit popsicles. 

No sir. 

They are winey boozy popsicles. 

Because what goes best with destain and denial?

Wine and booze. 

Always. 

They are essentially white summer sangria on a stick. 

If you can't get down with that, you

are super un-American

and also, probably a robot

and your demon creator forgot to insert your "good taste" chip. 

My condolences. 

Raise your pops, ladies and gents and let's all hold off on riding the 

leaves-and-sweaters-enthusiasm train

 for just a few more precious moments. 

Here is a tiny playlist to take you on
 the emotional roller coaster 
begining with joy and ending with ugly-crying to Don Henley 
that perfectly embodies this sad descend away from 
another beloved summer.

Until the next, cats.