Monday, November 28, 2011

blueberry apple crumble.

So if the title of this post didn't make you lick your lips, your not human (or a fan of pies). Ironically i met my current boyfriend through my little brother, whose  going through a call of duty/ nerf gun stage. But who am i to judge? When i was his age, i had a dark blonde bob (ear length), bangs, and a closet full of Juicy. All of which, i considered "trendy" at the time.

Looking back, i laugh at everything that used to upset me. I vividly remember my fifth grade crush. His name was Brendan, and a jock in the making. I was going through an awkward man repelling stage so he didn't even think twice about "asking me out". He wouldn't even share his cinnamon Altoids with me. Word of advice: If a boy isn't willing to share his cinnamon Altoids with you, guess what? his just not that into you.

If you haven't purchased the book "His just not that into you" written by Liz Tuccillo, you immediately need to rush to the bookstore (or amazon), and do so. Its a no nonsense, tough love, get the hell out of fairy tale mode-novel. Sure: love happens, fate can happen, and maybe even fairy tales occur, but at the end of the day i can guarantee that, you will date an ass hole. Whose just not that into you. So why do women date ass holes? do we lower ourselves down to there level? or do we set ourselves up for disaster? I don't care if his hung like a horse, has an accent, Gucci loafers, or any other enticing detail you set on your pros and cons list. At the end of the day if he hurt you once, he will hurt you twice and if his an ass hole once, his going to be an ass hole twice!

Most people stay in relationships because they are scared of the unknown. They are scared of ending up like the women in the supermarket. Pushing a cart full of Lean Cuisine meals, Luna bars, and kitty litter. Or the women that sits in your local Starbucks in a bright red scarf, with a new date every Monday from The truth of the matter is: unless your in your late twenties, you shouldn't even be worried about finding the "one". Have fun with your life, travel the world, date around and don't settle. The best quality a girl can have is confidence. So we all need to embrace this. Until a man formally asks you to be his girlfriend, you have no ties to him. If you get asked on dates, go. Why miss out? Everything happens for a reason, and everyone comes in and out of your life for a reason. Your youth won't last forever, but regrets will!

Friday, November 25, 2011

More Coco Chanel than Coq Au Vin.

Indolent  (ˈɪndələnt) — adj
1. disliking work or effort; lazy; idle (aka me for my four days of nonblogging. So please excuse and enjoy the very long and informative post)

I was just in the deepest sleep of my life (there's no such place, like home).  Until my dad came knocking down my door, asking for my car keys. To drive himself to the gym... at 6 am. Multiple times in my life I have wished to have my fathers work ethic, or my grandfathers. However I find myself in a quarter life crisis, with an indecisive personality. Whenever I'm home on Long Island, I wish to return to Manhattan and whenever I'm in Manhattan I miss my family. Whenever I work, I wish I wasn't working and whenever I don't work, I wish I was. You get the jist.

On a happier note, or fattier I should say thanksgiving was yesterday. Usually for thanksgiving my family heads into NYC. We stay at The St Regis, watch the parade and eat at Adour Alain Ducasse ( within the St Regis) this avoids arguments, stress, and food poisoning from my mothers cooking. It's a tradition. This year was different though, we stayed home on Long Island. My mom brought a turkey (as well as 3D  turkey name holders), vegetables and potatoes. After nine years of living in the states, she was ready to give her British version of a thanksgiving dinner.

Almost 24 hours later, I'm happy to say that no one died from her cooking (except the turkey).  Growing up my mom never cooked, so when she does it is a very rare/scary experience. Everyone always says that women have to cook to be good wives (and blah blah blah.).  So recently I have tested my own cooking skills.

I never took home ec, or cooking classes in high school. So when I say I'm a beginner (chef) who googles terms like "saute" and what  "lemon zest?" is, I'm not kidding. In 10th grade I told my boyfriend (at the time) that I would cook him an Italian dinner. I went to stop and shop and got ingredients to make lasagna. Tomato sauce, ricotta cheese, the lasagna pieces, crushed red pepper, mozzarella and everything in between. I was feeling confident, and all Martha Stewart. My mom agreed to let me use the kitchen, and took my siblings out so that I could be a great girlfriend and cook Italian for my non Italian boyfriend (which doesn't make much sense either). Unbeknown to me, you had to cook the lasagna noodles before you prepared it. So long story short, I had assembled lasagna without cooking it first, and the whole thing came out rock hard. Smelling delicious.Yet inedible.  Just like your hot gay best friend, so date-able, so superb, so compassionate (for moments when Barneys tell you they no longer have the Manolo Blanc suede pump in a size 7) and yet untouchable. And more in love with Brad Pitt than you ever were 5 years ago. That was my lasagna.

Luckily I had cooked early enough so that if things went wrong, I would have a backup plan. I was 16 at the time, and had a budget. So without hesitation I googled Mario's pizza, and ordered two homemade lasagnas. They came fairly quickly, so I managed to slide them into a glass dish and stuck it in my unheated oven. When my ex finally came, I told him dinner would be ready in 15 minutes and briskly turned my oven on. He was smitten when he found out I cooked, and even more so when he tried the delicious "homemade" lasagna that I had been cooking all day. I then had the title of a "good cook" with a time frame of 20 minutes (all screw ups aside), mess free, ingredient free, and virtually a free pass on a good meal. I had fallen in love. Why cook, when you can get somewhere else to do it for you? Throw it in a dish, and take credit (after all you did have to re-heat it up). To this day my ex never knows I didn't cook, and probably never will unless reading this post. As Sarah Jessica Parker once said " more Coco Chanel than coq au vin" and if I were a man, I would much rather prefer Gabrielle over coq au vin..even if it does mean storing shoes in the oven and ordering take out for the next 360 days.

Then there was the penne alla vodka scenario. I was dating an 100% Italian boy ( born and raised in the US). My friends had always warned me to never date an Italian. 1) because their mama's boys 2) you would have bad in laws if you wasn't Italian and they hated you and 3) you're cooking will never be as good as there mothers. I was never one to listen, so I brushed it off and continued to google recipes for the next 2 &1/2 hours. I managed to find a five star penne alla vodka recipe online, which had about 684 positive reviews. I figured that if 684 people in the world can do it, so could i. So I set out on an adventure to the food emporium midtown and brought a variety of items to decorate my fridge with (other than the Grey Goose, Verve Cliquot and eye masks). I came back to my apartment and shortly after the chef critic "Italian Stallion" (as he referred to himself as) arrived. I put on a football game, led him to my couch and demanded he stay put. Apparently those simple directions were to hard to follow because within seconds i found him standing behind me, critiquing  how to make REAL penne alla

 About 40 minutes later,  constant interferal, wise remarks and one angry women (me) the sauce was almost done. I had put garlic bread in the oven and then Mr "Italian Stallion" stood up and quote: said " I'm not eating that. How about you cook your version and I will cook mine, and then we can compare whose is better?" I sat there flabbergasted, and for .5 minutes thought the audacious comment was a joke, until he tried to take over my kitchen. I then smelt something burning, and had remembered that the garlic bread was on 500 degrees and on broil in my oven. Close to flames, hard as a brick, and pitch black describes the outcome of that bread. I tried to work around it, cutting off the black bits with scissors but as you can imagine, this didn't really work out to good. Nonetheless, I decided to put the bread on the table, as well as MY version of the pasta, a salad, and some drinks. This wasn't good enough though, so Mr Italian then decided he would make his own chicken, with my chicken. I said yes while cringing my teeth and sat at the table waiting. Eventually he brought his chicken to the table, that looked repulsive. It was chicken breast, but for some peculiar reason it looked like he had snapped the wings of a live chicken, breaded them, and then thrown them on a dish! I was horrified.

When we were finally ready to eat, (and I was finally ready for this night to be over) he sat down and tentatively took a bite. I can't even say that he looked like a deer in headlights, was worse than that. He didn't even pretend to enjoy my hard cooked ( and yes, I really did cook this time) dinner! He took about one spoon full, and then declared that next time "we should try his version." I told him there wouldn't be a next time if he didn't be quiet and then continued to text my friends the unbelievable night I had, and what a splendid penne alla vodka I made.

Lessons learnt: 
a) I can be a good cook when I want to be.
b) tune everyone else out when cooking
c) my penne alla vodka sauce is amazing
d) My cooking will never be as good as an Italian mother (in the eyes of an Italian son).

Chanel Birthday Cake 

Monday, November 21, 2011

demure vix

On a sweet and simple trip to duane reade, my doorman stopped to tell me that my sunglasses made me look like lady gaga. I immediately stopped in my track, threw the glasses at his head, jumped behind the desk and slapped him. OK, not quite. But that's what i wanted to do. Growing up i was always taught that if you don't have something nice to say, don't say it. Yet in this day and age, i think it's the opposite.

We all lie, minimize, exaggerate and avoid confrontation to spare or protect peoples feelings. Stephanie Ericsson once wrote that the bald face lie doesn’t toy with perceptions- it argues with them. It doesn’t try to refashion reality, it tries to refute it.  So are lies told to protect people rather than hurt people? Does dishonesty ever come in handy, or is it prevention of moving forward in life? Unless its a tabloid on Brangelina, Elle, Vogue or the latest Cosmopolitan magazine, your probably very unlikely to spot me reading. Excluding English assignments and sparknotes.

Stephanie Ericsson was indeed an English assignment. I am constantly wondering why people lie. After living in Manhattan for over a year, and meeting multiple promoters who all claim to be attending NYU, i have learnt that lying is second nature. Unless your a pro con artist or Sherlock Holmes, the truth will always (somehow) emerge. Once that happens you pretty much have a new fashion statement, of the word liar stapled to the front of your head.

They always say that a tiger can not change it's stripes, or a leopard can not change it's spots. So can a liar change his or her habits? I once met a guy that was so critical of everything and so brutally honest...that he had to come up with a lie, to defend himself. He told me (and no this is not a joke) that the reason he was so honest, was because the left side of his brain was overactive.

Confusing? yes. Gullible? no.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Bridges and tunnels

A few months Back, my moms friend shared her terminology for when women date men bellow them. Hence the tittle of today's post. Bridges are the women, while tunnels are the men. So why do women settle? There are over 80,082,78 people living in New York City( according to wikipidia) so am I wrong to say that absolutely no one should settle? While wearing sunglasses big enough to cover half my unmakeuped face, velvet black leggings and a black shirt acquired from Topshop on Oxford street, i sat pondering the answer to this question. 

And just like that, it hit me. The reason anyone settles is because they don't have enough determination or guts to get where they want to go, or do what they want to do. I'm a strong believer that everything happens for a reason. And guess what? If you've ever gotten asked  "where you see yourself in five years"or "things you want to accomplish before you die"it was for a reason.

At some point in life, every one needs to reevaluate what they want. Weather it's choosing what college to attend, what major to pursue, what job to pick or even what man/women to pick. A magic 8 ball is not going to give you the answers to your life, and nor is google.

So why are some things so hard to decide? and is settling a decision we make? The problem is, we settle because we don't realize how great we really are (all cocky-ness aside). If you have a boyfriend who constantly nags about your boobs being to small, your legs being to short, or your terrible/lack of need to dump him.  If your not getting treated like a princess, especially in the early months of dating you wont treat yourself like one. You will turn into a toad because he makes you believe your a toad! So starting from tomorrow i am reevaluating my own life. What i want, who i want, where i want to be and how to accomplish it.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

The broken glass

So while i was having the midnight munchies and craving something peppermint to warm me up, i created my own take on the tall Starbucks skinny peppermint mocha latte. The $4.37 small latte that i order every other day, in replacement of my usual Vente coffee frappachino light. The invention was quite simple, minus Starbucks language. One peppermint tea bag, one spoon full of hot chocolate mix, a dash of milk and there we go. While i was getting my Tiffany blue mug down from the shelf a martini glass ironically fell down (out of no where) missed me by about 1.2 inches and smashed everywhere. Thankfully i was not hurt, but then all night i suspiciously googled the symbolism of broken glass.

So what did i find? I found out that breaking uncolored glass can be a fortune omen, as well as a tradition in Jewish weddings, the underlying proof that you are a clumsy cow, and that shattered glass can be bloody painful to tread on. Especially when your not wearing your fluffy pink diamanté slippers. The same slippers that mop your floor when your to hungover to do so yourself.

The other day at work while wondering around the cashier, waiting for one of many customers to make a purchase, i found myself with four items. Scissors, bubble wrap, tissue paper and tape. About 200 pops later, i invented the bubble bracelete. A bracelete that kills time, looks phantasmagorical and even gives of the misconception that you are indeed very creative. Especially when your stuck behind a cashier, for nine hours.

So back to Starbucks. I've never really been the type of girl to sit in a coffee shop, and write. So today was the day to change that. Thanks to inventions like the iPad and iPhone I no longer have to whip out a notebook and jot down notes about my surroundings. Instead I can look like I actually have friends (awake at 9 am on a Saturday morning) and go on ( to what looks to be) a "texting spree".

Surprisingly my local Starbucks (a good two minute walk from my apartment)is fairly empty. There's two autumn orange chairs, one vintage looking mirror, a wanna be vintage coat rack and then two different level Tory birch like shabby chic ceiling placements. Hopefully that paints a clear picture. As for people, there's one couple sitting opposite. Both are reading newspapers and haven't said one word to each other. There is also a 20 something (plane jane) man with headphones in, a MacBook and what looks to be a blog in front of him. Lastly to my left there's a tourist in a purple scarf, sunglasses, a Chanel pleated jacket and a subway map that she will never understand unless she's lived in New York for five months. 

Friday, November 18, 2011

The four B's

So after catching up on some much needed "Gossip Girl" episodes, and coming to the realization that if Serena Vander Woodson can make the time to blog, as well as Carrie Bradshaw, and of course Bridget Jones ( from Bridget Jones Diary) can i. Right? As cliche as it may or may not sound, walking the streets of Manhattan i constantly have this voice speaking to me or wwcd moments (what would Carrie do).

Its officially been my 15 month anniversary, with my apartment. In 15 months I've used the oven twice, had a job at Henri Bendel, left my job at Henri Bendel gone to med school, left med school, died my hair brown, re-died my hair blonde, and here we are November 18th 2011. With a bar of Toblerone fruit and nut, my macbook pro, and a lifelong story that is flabbergasting, to say the least.

Although i haven't exactly met my "Mr big", i can say that i have met some very good friends equivalent to Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte. And due to the fact that i navigate my way around Manhattan by the four B's Bendels, Bergadorfs, Bloomingdales and Barneys, i would call myself a savvy New Yorker. In other words, a 19 (almost twenty) year old Carrie Bradshaw with a British, powerful, and potent tweak.

Instead of being a journalist,  i had always dreamed of living in NYC and being a famous fashion designer. This dream lasted up until last year. I thought that i was making a mistake entering the world of fashion, and changed my major to Pre Med. Anatomy was interesting, as well as philosophy and trigonometry, i even had pink lab goggles,  a pink scientific calculator and of course a pink fluffy pen that had the word serious written all of over it. Towards my 4th month as a med student i had learnt that my anatomy text books cost as much as one meal at Nello, one Christian Louboton shoe, or 1/7th of a watch at cartier. When we were told to dissect cow eye balls one wednesday afternoon, that was the end of my pre med adventure.

To my parents shock and dismay, i swiftly told them of my love for fashion, living in the city, and lack of passion for dissecting a dead cows eye balls. They supported me and within a few days, i had gained my job back at Bendels. As they always say " It's not what you know, It's who you know".

While sitting on the red bus, squashed between trader joe bags, puffy eskimo-like jackets, a screaming baby and a man with a blue mustache i couldn't help but wonder what the world has come to. Yes their have been significant advancements in technology, but what about everything else?

The older i get, and the more hands i look at. The more i find that their are less and less Harry Winston rings, and more and more 40 year old divorcees wondering the streets of Manhattan.  My question is why. Is marriage going out of style?

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Warm heart

Warm heart

Oasis cream cocktail dress
$190 -

Lanvin platform heels
$785 -

Chloé leather handbag
£770 -

Ileana Makri diamond earrings
£3,095 -

Lavish Lace

Fuzzy Fresh

Fuzzy Fresh

Paul smith shirt
$315 -

Zadig & Voltaire velvet pants
£160 -

Miu miu boots
$750 -

Wendy Nichol black jewelry
$225 -