Fall

Fall is slipping through our mitten clad fingers, kittens. 

Feet have crunched leaves.

Shadows have grown longer.

There were many games of football vs. football,

 and football always won. 

Midwestern eyes are wide in fear of the impending 
months of doom and drear,
 and all the giddy chain stores are already
dripping with Christmas. 

It's all coming to an end, and I'm doing my best to 
chase it out in style. 

May your fists be full of leaves and mugs of warm things.
Until the next, boogers. 

                                             

Citrus Sage Mimosas

This weekend brought my 22nd birthday. 

When you turn 21, you expect your belly button to morph into 

a shot glass indefinitely,

 all of your clothes to turn into

 state school memorabilia and mini skirts, 

and to somehow develop a slight new jersey accent, maybe. 

Well, now that 21 has come to a close, I can

say that the reality of it is that

you still drink out of cups, 

your accent is still vaguely Minnesotan, 

and you mostly just work and go to school 

all of the time. 

So what does 22 promise? 

Taylor Swift says that I'm going to be lonely in the "best way"

(like, THIS LONELINESS IS THE GREATEST THRILL OF MY LIFE!)

and dance, and feel 

and be miserable,

yet somehow magical. 

If that doesn't sound promising, 

I sure as hell don't know what does!

So until the promised magical misery and hipster clothing of 

being 22 rolls around, I'm going to

wrap myself in classy things and cling to my friends. 

Inspired by my birthday outing to the Violet Hour,

this mimosa-meets-cocktail teeters between savory and sweet

and pairs unusual flavors in a way that makes them

seem less unusual and more so just pink and 

bubbly and delicious.  

Since your next years prospects are looking arguably
unfortunate, you're gonna need to find some
room in your schedule for some keister shakin'.

These are the dancing-est songs of all time.
Get to groovin' folks. 

                                               

Until the next, dears. 

Lemon Mascarpone French Toast

This week's post is brought to you by 

LOW POINTS!

This past week has had its handsomely shitty moments.

Yesterday's makeup made several encore appearances. 

It was a beer-in-the-lunch-ice-cream

coffee-in-the-lunch-shower

kind of week. 

People are the worst!

You know what's not people?

French toast. 

There is a way to hold a baby that will almost immediately

 silence their cries, 

hide their worries, 

and put them to sleep. 

This French toast is kind of like the food equivalent of that. 

It's like a really big consoling hug with no awkward back pats

that relates to your struggles and knows all the lyrics

to that one Jewel song.

Challah bread is like a big soft pillow for your mouth, when it 

has said lots of downer words 

and could use a nap.

Here is a tiny playlist that serves as an exercise in angst control.
Let it help you regain your endearing whimsy.

Until the next, kittens.

Chai Spiked Cider

Some Saturdays there is a criminal amount of buttery

sunlight coming at you from all over the place

and an un-ignorable amount of 

rum and chai tea in your cupboard. 

Some Saturdays, you hide your half-finished dog food 

campaign and stack full of midterm briefs under a 

catrtoonishly large rock in your mind

and embrace the catchphrase 

"Sounds like a problem for future Hattie!"

Because, really who can bear to sink into 

assignments when there are pillows in the world that are 

waiting to be squished against my cheek 

and boozy cider filled walks down the boulevard to be had? 

The only thing that can make apple cider better is booze.

The only booze worthy of apple cider is 

booze that honors not just any, but all of the spices

that warm our autumn souls 

and make our hearts grow 3 sizes.

Spiced rum? Well played with the name, brother. You're in.

Vodka wearing a chai tea costume? Resourceful. You're in, too. 

Honey? You're not booze, honey. But you do tend to bring the party. You may join.

Raise your mugs and rest your sleepy faces.

This is what fall is all about, after all.

Until the next, dears.

     
                                                    

Roasted Vegetable Tart

These weeks have been passing by

 with alarming speed. 

I feel as if my life is turing into a low budget western film

where I am walking in front of a

rotating backdrop that changes between 

day and night painted sceneries every few seconds

to show the passing of days.

So sometimes, you need to pinch your Sunday real hard

until it winces and grunts and 

reluctantly spits out a few hours of time for you. 

Preferably in the company of some

late afternoon sun and puff pastry.

Take yourself on a walking and eating date.

Because those are two things that you excel at 

and your stunning performance is likely to send your self esteem 

sky rocketing. 

Forget bathing in the dead sea or doing yoga, children.

Cheese is the ultimate stress reliever. 

I am pretty sure I just proved that. 

Until the next, loves.

                                             

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.