Guess what? Apple Butt.

As requested, lyrics and original video after the jump:

Apple Bottom Jeans

by FLO Rida ft. T-Pain

{Chorus:}

She had them Apple Bottom Jeans/Boots with the fur/The whole club lookin at her/She hit the floor/Next thing you know/Shawty got low low low low low low low low

Them baggy sweat pants/And the Reeboks with the straps/She turned around and gave that big booty a smack/She hit the floor/Next thing you know/Shawty got low

I ain't never seen nuthin that'll make me go/This crazy all night spendin my dough/Had a million dollar vibe and a bottle to go/Dem birthday cakes, they stole the show

So sexual, she was flexible/Professional, drinkin X and ooo/Hold up wait a minute, do i see what I think I/Whoa

Did I think I seen shorty get low/Ain't the same when it's up that close/Make it rain, I'm makin it snow/Work the pole, I got the bank roll

Imma say that I prefer them no clothes/I'm into that, I love women exposed/She threw it back at me, I gave her more/Cash ain't a problem, got a pocket full of that!

{Chorus}

Shawty what I gotta do to get you home/My jeans full of gwap/they ready for Shones/Cadillacs Maybachs for the sexy grown/Patrone on the rocks that'll make you moan

One stack (come on)/Two stacks (come on)/Three stacks (come on, now that's three grand)/What you think I'm playin baby girl/I'm the man, I'll bend the rubber bands

That's what I told her, her legs on my shoulder/I knew it was ova, that Henny and Cola/Got me like a Soldier/She ready for Rover, I couldn't control her

So lucky oo me, I was just like a clover/Shorty was hot like a toaster/Sorry but I had to fold her/Like a pornography poster/She showed her

{Chorus}

Whoa Shawty/Yea she was worth the money/Lil mama took my cash/And I ain't want it back

The way she bit that rag/Got her them paper stacks/Tattoo Above her crack/I had to handle that

I was on it, sexy woman, let me shownin/They be want it two in the mornin/I'm zonin in them rosay bottles foamin

She wouldn't stop, made it drop/Shorty did that pop and lock/Had to break her off that gwap/It was fly just like my glock

{Chorus}

Home on the Range

Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam

Where the deer and the antelope play

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

And the skies are not cloudy all day

Home, home on the range

Where the deer and the antelope play

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

And the skies are not cloudy all day

How often at night when the heavens are bright

I see the light of those flickering stars

Have I laid there amazed and asked as I gazed

If their glory exceeds that of ours

Beauty Hurts or What To Do When Your Face Become Furry Like A Little Rodent

One of the side effects of an old medication led to my face becoming furry like a baby rodent. It was kind of awful. It was too big of a task for plucking and I was worried about my skin if my whole face was waxed. I'd heard of threading: a less painful South East Asian import. It was supposedly better for your skin and many women used it on their entire face.

Threading salons were all over New York. So one day after a meeting, I happened upon one. The price was right. It looked clean and tidy, so I decided to go. There were a few girls there getting their brows done. As the Indian girl with incredible hair and brows rolled her thread up and down her client's face, it seemed almost hypnotic. The client's eyes were closed and they both appeared to be in a zen-like state of hairlessness. I was excited.  I lay my head back, ready for this amazing, transcendent excavation of face fur. A young woman with thick, black hair began to wind a white thread, twisting it between her fingers a half dozen times. She approached my face and began to roll the miniature rope across my cheeck. I screamed. Loud. Back and forth the little threads went, ripping my baby hairs out, 10 or 12 at a time.

I've had my freaking chest cut open twice but this was certainly some of the most pain I have ever been subjected to. And I was doing it voluntarily.

I felt entirely deceived. Those girls who made it look so effortless -- dare I say -- meditative. How dare they!? It was a violation of a common bond of sisterhood. They should have warned me. They owed it to me. This must be against the law, I thought. Outlawed by some international convention or treaties having to do with cruel and unusual punishment. I think I asked if it was.

The next thirty minutes seemed like hours -- days, ever. I screamed, squirmed and yelped in pain. The other women who worked in the salon gathered around. I think they found my cries for help rather entertaining. Clients would come in and out, giggling and giving me sympathetic glances. What can I say? I've never been particularly good at keeping my feelings in.  When I was finally done, my face looked like I had had a chemical peel or something. -- I was pretty sure the top few layers of skin had been removed. But my cheeks were smooth as a naked baby's bottom.

I'm going back to New York for Rosh Hashanna and while I no longer need the full face, I might just get threaded tomorrow. If you need it, it is true: it does work very well. It is supposedly better for your skin. It hurts like the Devil. And it makes me wonder, what goshawful painful routines do men engage in to stay beautiful? On that note, have a beautiful, hairless new year this Rosh Hashana. 

Aprovechar el Dia!

The other night, Dave and I were sitting up late, reflecting on how Summer had slipped through our fingers. Dave's crazy work schedule meant a lot of travel but not a single day of real family vacation.  The next day, my hardworking husband got word that his two main client contacts were going on vacation themselves as soon as Dave's group delivered their next report. It seemed like a sign, and within an hour we'd booked tickets and made plans for the whole family to spend two weeks road tripping through the Yucatan Peninsula. We spent the next week or so wondering how on earth we'd been so crazy, and I'll admit I felt more than my normal sense of pre-trip excitement when we hugged Charity goodbye at the airport. Now that we're here, we're feeling pretty happy about our fit of rash spontaneity.

Here's the thing about growing up in Northwest Denver, and then visiting Mexico for the very first time at age 33: it feels an awful lot like home. Home, plus idyllic beaches, Mayan ruins, Spanish Colonial charm, wild flamingos and the best ceviche of my life. I'm a little bit in love. 

We took the slow ferry to Isla Mujeres

I don't always love the beach, but this was pretty much perfect.

Hettie loves boat rides.

Especially this fast little boat we took to the lagoon at Rio Logartos

Where we saw SO many wild flamingos!

The kids liked this baby Chihuahua maybe even more than the wildlife. Her name is Mia.

Willa likes to linger over breakfast.

One of seven Colonial churches in Valladolid

Chichen Itza really is awesome.

Our hotel near the ruins was kind of amazing. Jackie O. and Princess Grace stayed here back in the 60's, and I kept expecting them to show up in the corridor. They never did, (but there was a peacock)...

One of many golden facades at Izamal.

For a Good Time Call me. lol jk.

As you may or may not know, solitude can oftentimes lead to super fun and sexy times. I'm living in an unattached single this semester, and over the past three days, I've read books, wrestled seven giant boxes of assorted schmutes into exquisite order, homemade prescription sunglasses, watched Harold and Kumar go to White Castle alone in the dark while hula hooping in my underwear -- it's been like camp. . . except all alone and actually not at all like camp. This newly appreciated freedom to do whatever the swear word I want has leaked through the cracks of my nice, red, automatically locking door and sometime in between strolling the lamp-lit streets of New Haven -- a large bar of high proof chocolate in one hand and a glass bottle of low proof ginger beer in the other -- and reclining on an ivy-shaded gravestone reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I rerealized that my own company is maybe one of the best things. And not in the 'I'm doing my best to cope with my debilitating friendlessness' way, but rather the 'I now actively avoid the rest of humanity. Seriously. **** people.' way. Not quite, but hear me out: I'm totally into all of the weird things I'm into; I'm always up to doing or not doing whatever I want to do or not do; I never stare uncomfortably to the side when I mention unemployment or heinous acts of porcine mutilation (I bet just reading that phrase made you ask 'dear heavens what is wrong with this girl?' I didn't ask that when I wrote it. I was totally non-judgmental). It is excellent. I don't want to end this with some pitiful insistence that you 'Be Your Own Best Friend!' You do whatever you want; attach yourself to as many people as you fancy and spend every waking moment holding pinkies with them. Just know not to despair when you find yourself in the wilderness of human independence, because (to use the immortal words of the title of that one Tyler Perry movie) you can do bad all by yourself.

Risotto

I hate rice. You can ask Premal, it brings him great sadness that at best I refrain from eating the fluffy white stuff, and at worst I basically refuse to cook it. I'm like the cat in the hat guy from Green Eggs and Ham. I do not like rice,with my curry, I do not like it in a hurry. I will not eat it in a soup, I will not eat things that resemble choleric poop... You get the picture. I do have an exception to my "no rice" rule, unfortunately--though perhaps predictably--it's a labor intensive one. Risotto. But between me and these creamy waves of grain lays a lot of stirring, and grating, and stirring, and many bubbling pots, and also stirring.  Consequently, risotto has been relegated to a column in my diet labeled "strictly restaurant fare." But a recent craving (bolstered by some virtual encouragement from my kitchen-philosophy-crush Mark Bittman), and somehow all of my rice/risotto related rules began to resemble mere suggestions.  So, I was off to the kitchen to stir my life away. Luckily, the results were really, really good, and along the way I discovered a few tricks that may just make risotto a staple in my kitchen....

1. Don't be too tied to recipes:

Risotto is just al dente individual grains masquerading as a creamy porridge. It takes patience, yes, but not really precision. You do not need freshly grated parmigiano reggiano flown in from Italy last night after being aged in some cave for twelve years. You need some hard-ish cheese. For me, this came in part from a crust of asiago that had been aged for a couple of months in the door of my fridge. The same goes for every ingredient. No arborio rice? Use brown rice, or farro, or Israeli couscous etc. 

2. Screw homemade stocks:

Slow-food enthusiasts will skewer me for this, but I want to punch the author in the face every time I read a recipe specifying how homemade stock is "preferable." No Sh*t. But please, ain't nobody got time for that! Of course it's preferable, but I'm a busy lady who's already taking time to make risotto, so Imma just slum it and subject the poor souls I'm feeding to something produced in a factory in Ohio Ontario. 

3. You do not need to have a million (or even just two) pots boiling the whole time you're cooking: Yes your broth ought to be warm, but I don't have a huge range (or kitchen for that matter), so it gets a bit claustrophobic if I go the traditional two-pot route. Instead, take a jar with a lid, add hot water and some better than bouillon and shake it up. If it gets cold just throw the jar in the microwave for a minute. This also saves you from making way too much (or too little) stock, because this method is batch bound by nature. 

4. Stir less:

I know it sounds like this goes against the main tenet of the art of risotto, but it's true! If you stir too much your porridge will be gummy and gross, and then you will be sad because you spent all of this time trying to make a special meal only to have it turn out like a horrible savory candy that your cousin says is "actually very popular in Mongolia." So relax, pass a spoon through right before adding additional stock, and be a bit more attentive towards the end.

5. TREAT YO SELF!:(<-- double punctuation for emphasis)

Add the wine,  and pour a glass for the chef while you're at it. Using tasty cheese? Great! Just add a lil Edith Piaf and you've got yourself a fancy micro-soirée!

Summer Harvest Farro Risotto

1 T butter

1 T evoo

2 cloves garlic--diced

1 1/2 C. dry farro (white/brown rice etc.)

1 C. white wine (or red)

6 C. (approx.) stock--6 C water + 2T better than bouillon

1 1/2 C. veggies (I used golden beets, fresh corn and rainbow chard)

1/2 C. grated hard-ish cheese (I used the aforementioned asiago and some sharp cheddar)

salt and fresh grated pepper and nutmeg to taste

Sweat the garlic in the fats, then add grain and toast a bit. Add the wine and let the grain absorb before adding about a cup of broth. Continue this process of adding and allowing to absorb/evaporate. Halfway through your broth additions add any firm veggie (beets, autumn squash, sweet potato etc. this should all be cut into relatively small cubes), then when you think your risotto is alllllmost there throw in the more tender additions (corn, peas, asperigus, greens). Stir in cheese, season to taste and enjoy!

If you only eat one thing before summer's end, eat this.

Growing up, we had friends who's grandparents owned a sorghum farm. It's an old grain that among other things, is used to make a very sweet molasses-like syrup. I used to love the stuff. It's an unusual flavor, but one I'm rather fond of. I recently found a bottle and decided it would be the perfect finish to one of Yoni and my favorite summer treats of peaches and burrata (mozzarella's dreamy cousin who I fell in love with when I lived in Italy).  Since the peaches are *finally* ripening around here, the timing couldn't be better. If you don't have any sorghum on hand, try honey instead!

Grilled Peaches and Burrata

2 peaches
1 ball of burrata
greens (these are from Kimber's garden)
sorghum
sea salt (optional)

Slice peaces in half, removing pit. Heat skillet to high, placing a little sorghum or white sugar where you'll place peaches. When sugar starts to melt, place peaches on top. Allow to brown. Place greens in hole left by pit and heap burrata on top. Serve with crusty bread. Serves 4.