Becoming Frida

I took on the character of Frida Kahlo for Halloween this year. It was kinda awesome. Even I was amazed at how much I resembled her. There's not much else I need to say about it, so I will let her tell you.


“I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.”

“There have been two great accidents in my life. One was the streetcar, and the other was Diego. Diego was by far the worst.”

"I leave you my portrait so that you will have my presence all the days and nights that I am away from you.”

“The only thing I know is that I paint because I need to, and I paint whatever passes through my head without any other consideration.”

“I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.”

“My painting carries with it the message of pain.”

“I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim, and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good feeling.”

Thank you so much to Bryce for tolerating my insistent directions on lighting and framing, and taking about 80 shots in a rush before I ran off to dance the nights away. “I love you more than my own skin.”

Many more photos can be found here.

Waste Not, Want Not

Throwing together dinner tonight, I figured out one more thing to do with carrot fronds rather than discarding them: pesto. I separated and rinsed the fronds and dumped them in the food-processor and pulverized them first, and then I added some olive oil, and then I kept poking around in the kitchen, finding things that needed to be used, dumping some in, pulverizing, tasting, and then dumping more in: fresh lemon juice on the verge of turning rancid, stale sliced almonds, a neglected, half-empty jar of roasted minced garlic, a can of black olives a bit past its expiration date, about half of the olive brine, some Mrs. Dash seasoning we never use, and the last dregs of a canister of parmesan cheese. The wasabi peas and the candied ginger did not make the cut, since I don't think we'll have trouble using them soon, and there was already enough flavor that they weren't needed.

By the time the pesto was ready to be dumped over whole wheat pasta shells, you wouldn't have been able to guess that the main ingredient was bitter, coarse carrot fronds. And the ingredients I described probably sound a bit gross: nearly-rancid lemon juice, stale almonds, expired almonds. But honestly, if I had you over to our apartment and served this to you for dinner, you wouldn't have known the difference, and I think you would have gobbled it up just as we did.

The first time I tried using carrot fronds, I braised them like one would braise collard greens, and it didn't work out so well. They didn't get very tender, and they were scratchy going down the throat, not very pleasant. Granted, maybe I didn't braise them long enough. But also, they cooked down to such a tiny amount, that it felt like wasted effort. But I wasn't going to give up. I just can't let food go to waste. This was my third attempt at making use of carrot fronds, and definitely my most successful. And bonus: carrot fronds are really good for you, nutritionally-speaking.

Did you know that cauliflower grows in the middle of a massive head of green leaves? And did you know that the leaves are edible? When we get cauliflower in our CSA pick-up, it usually comes with the leaves still attached, and it can easily measure two feet long.


It's massive, and if I ride my bike to pick up the share on a day when we end up with one of them, it's usually a nerve-wracking ride back home as my bike wobbles from the weight of everything packed into the crate on the back, with the cauliflower on top. And sadly, at the place where we go to pick up our share, there is usally a huge pile of discarded cauliflower leaves next to the crate of cauliflower, where CSA members tore off the leaves before departing with their cauliflower curd. I wonder if they know they leaves are edible? And if they know, do they just not want to go to the hassle of processing this unfamiliar food? I braise the leaves like collard greens for one meal, and then the cauliflower curd itself gets used for another meal a couple of days later. It's tasty, and it's economical, and it just feels right.

Americans waste an incredible amount of food. I don't know the statistics, and I don't feel like looking it up, but I know that it's a lot. But this American (I prefer the term Unitedstatesian - but that's a topic for another blog post/rant entirely) can't stand to let food go to waste. I always carry three ziplock bags in my purse - snack size, sandwich size, and quart size - so that I can take home leftovers. I really hate the wasteful packaging that is used when a restaurant packs my leftovers. I used to be embarrassed about packing leftovers in my ziplock baggies, and sometimes I still am, but I've gotten used to it. Bryce just rolls his eyes, but I don't think he minds.

And it's not because I'm cheap. I don't pack my leftovers in order to save money, although it does make economic sense to get another meal or half-meal out of them. Economic concern is not the reason. When I splurge, I splurge. And I'm a big tipper. It's just that I really can't stand to see food go to waste. It pains me. Literally, it makes me feel queasy, a little sick to my stomach. Even if I'll be going somewhere after dinner where I don't want to have to bring my leftovers along, I'll still have them packed or pack them myself, and then I'll offer them to the first panhandler I encounter, or I'll leave them someplace where I think a homeless person might come along and find them.

We're so spoiled in this country, that most of us can afford to let food go to waste on a regular basis. But I don't think our ancestors could afford to do that. And I'd like to think that this is one way in which I'm akin to them.

Dance my heart out.

This is me. This is my happy place.

[You may have already seen these if you're on Facebook.]

This was the first of my three dances at the Stardust Ballroom showcase night on Friday, 10/1/10. I was so shaky, but I survived!



By my second dance of the showcase night, I was much more at ease. I like to think of this dance as an homage to my love of electronic music... and, though I know it sounds vain... to my newly-acquired ab muscles! :-)



For my third and final dance of the Stardust showcase night, I performed a waltz with my amazing (and utterly handsome) International Standard instructor, Vladya. Our music was supposed to be much less traditional - an acoustic guitar-accompanied song called "Talking Bird," by Death Cab for Cutie - but Vladya had to play this one due to a technical glitch. But it went well, anyways!



So, that's what I've been up to lately.

Love is...

So, apparently love is also helping your wife touch-up her roots?

He hates doing this, but he does it anyway, every time I ask, because he knows it makes me happy.

But he wouldn't care if I never touched-up my roots. He takes me as I am, grey hairs and countless flaws and all.

Yes, sir, that's my baby.

How tantrums can be quite effective. Or, how we celebrated our 10-year anniversary weekend in Atlantic City: May 20-23, 2010.

[If you have already seen these photos and the accompanying text on Facebook, please pardon the double-posting. After first posting it all there, I realized that the content was actually well-suited to my poor neglected blog, especially for the benefit of friends and family who don't use Facebook. So I'm simply copying the photos and text over from there to here.]

Sometime in the fall, while trying to talk to Bryce about what kind of plans we could make for celebrating our upcoming milestone anniversary, and feeling like I was pulling teeth, I finally threw a tantrum, said something about always being the one who plans everything, and yelled something like "If we're going to do anything for our anniversary, you're going to plan all of it! AND IT BETTER BE GOOD!"

Sometimes tantrums actually work. A few weeks before our anniversary, I learned that we would be going somewhere for our anniversary weekend, but the location and most of the details of what we would be doing were to be a surprise, and I only learned that our destination was Atlantic City when I met Bryce at the train station. His plans included three nights in a lovely hotel, a harbor cruise, walking on the beach, a duelling piano bar, massages, lounging with margaritas next to the roof-top pool, a ballroom dance dinner gala, and more. Well-played, Bryce!

For our first night in Atlantic City, Bryce made a reservation at fancy-schmancy Chelsea Prime. This night was our actual anniversary date, May 20th.I wish I had taken a picture of what was across from us: big picture windows, and beyond them, the sea in fading light.

Can you see us? Boo!

Ah, there we are!
After learning that it was our anniversary, our waiter put candles in our fruity desserts.
Bryce booked us for a shoreline cruise for Friday morning.
The cruise narrator kept talking about Atlantic City's "beautiful coastline" and I was like: "What? Where? What beautiful coastline? It's Atlantic, City, dude!"
An old lighthouse, the tallest building in the area once upon a time... looks puny now.
This photograph contains the components of a classic "Bryce and Steph" shot:
1) Bryce Nichols.
2) Stephanie Nichols.
3) Beer.
Mmmacaroni and cheeeeese....

A view from our hotel room:
Best room service breakfast ever!
A corner of our spacious hotel room at an adorably kitchy-retro-chic Atlantic City hotel called The Chelsea. Note the porcelain eagle lamp bases and the leopard-print lounge chair.
Sipping red wine and reading Heinlein by the window: how I spent most of Saturday in lieu of lounging outside in my new swimsuit as planned, since by then the weather had turned cold, windy, and wet. I was very determined to wear my new swimsuit. Pasty is as pasty does, eh!
Bryce scheduled us to attend a ballroom dinner gala at the Taj Majal on our last night in Atlantic City. I was so impressed and touched that he did this for me, since it's not exactly his kind of event. I failed to get any pictures of us that night, but what I did get a picture of is far more interesting.Your eyes do not deceive you: this woman's dress, were it not for stragically-placed beading, would be entirely sheer. Undergarments not likely!

A corner of the lobby at The Chelsea.I highly recommend this hotel for anyone planning a visit to Atlantic City. It's not only charming and pretty, but also casino-less - a bonus for those like myself who loathe casino environments.

Other lovely anniversary weekend experiences that I didn't photo-document included hanging out a duelling piano bar until the wee hours of the morning, getting massages together (can't really photo-document that one), and going to a trashy nightclub. It was a lovely and relaxing weekend, and I am so proud of Bryce for planning all of it. It was so nice to be taken care of and to not have to plan or be responsible for anything other than packing a suitcase!

Ten years ago today

"I choose you, Bryce, for husband. I want to laugh with you for the rest of my life."

I doubt I'll ever resume blogging as much as I'd like. I seriously have enough photos, started-but-never-finished posts, and voice-recorded brainstormed notes for what could have easily become fifty different blog posts over the past year. But other things have simply taken precedence. By which you all probably know I mean: dancing. But I couldn't let this day go by without at least putting something on here about this whole milestone anniversary thing.

We went on an outing to Philadelphia's historic diamond district earlier this week. Rings were tried on, gems were inspected, sticker prices were gawked at, and a couple of people who are basically clueless about the finer points of diamond clarity and color became just barely less clueless about it. By the time I return from my trip to Bulgaria and Turkey next month, my tiny wedding band will meet its new best friend, an engagement ring. And Bryce will soon acquire a wedding band to replace the one he lost seven years ago. Getting new rings was entirely his decision. I can't say I'm disappointed.

What would you do with a jar of chile radish strips in soy sauce?

Not to worry: I'm not trying to turn this into a food blog. There are enough of those around already, and I have no such aspirations. I'm just seeking advice.

On every trip I make to an Asian grocery store in our Chinatown here in Philly, I make a point of purchasing at least one mystery item (unrecognizable contents, with no English words on packaging) and one semi-mystery item (some English words on label, and with recognizable contents, but in a form that is new to me). This jar of "chili radish strips in soy sauce" was recently one of the latter selections.

Sorry about the crummy photo quality. You can't make it out here, but the brand name on the label is "Goldensmell." Love that. I mean, what does gold smell like, exactly? Must be good.

So, far, I have tried them as a snack item (sharing a plate with local cheeses, green tomato slices I pickled in the fall, and kimchi) and as a garnish/topping (on rice and beans, on a green salad, and on a Chinese rice noodle dish with bok choy and shiitake mushrooms). And so far, I really don't like them. As you can see, I have barely made a dent in the jar.

And I have this little obsessive problem: I can't stand to waste food. Like, really. It pains me. Maybe it's because I grew up in a household where getting to go to Taco Bell and pick an item off the 59-cent menu (remember the 59-79-99 menu?) was a special treat when I was young, but I just can't stand to see food go to waste, even if I don't like it. Such that I feel the need to take the time to write a whole blog post in order to avoid throwing away a jar of food that set me back a whopping $1.79.

So it's time to try these little guys in an actual dish, where perhaps their flavor will compliment and blend happily with other flavors. It's like with anchovies: I wouldn't want to snack on them, but they do amazing things for dishes like pasta puttanesca or roasted cauliflower, raisins, and anchovy vinaigrette (try them; they're awesome). Of course, I'm nervous about the potential outcome of including these things in an actual dish being such that the entire dish is unpalatable to me, greatly increasing the risk of wasted food.

Can't you feel the drama of all that is at stake here, people?

A google search for recipes that include this item has yielded nothing promising. Got any good ideas for me? Holly? Hansen? Helen? I'm looking at you three in particular. Odd that the first three people I thought of asking for ideas have names that start with "H." But anyone else with any ideas, please chime in!

Recent Observations, Volume One, March 2010

1. I have confirmed my theory that men are far more likely to ask me to dance if I am wearing a red dress. Or is it that I am more confident in that red dress, and therefore men are more drawn toward me as a dance partner?

2. On the same dance outing during which I drew the conclusion in #1, I borrowed a guy friend's antiperspirant/deodorant, because I forgot to apply my own before rushing out the door. It made me smell like a dude. I think the brand may have been AXE. Could this have actually been "the AXE effect?" In which case, why weren't women chasing me down and begging me to dance?

3. On a bus on the way into work one morning, I observed the man across the aisle from me remove his very large black penis from his pants and proceed to thread a catheter into it. I was more bemused than traumatized, as he did not seem to think this was out of the ordinary, nor did he appear to intend to shock or harass anyone by his actions. And that is all I'm going to say about that.

4. Rolfing works. I wish I had taken a photo before my last session, showing my legs with their hip-knee-foot misalignment, because the difference after just that one session (the second of what will most likely be ten) made my jaw drop. That was three days ago, and I still keep staring down at my legs, partially because I am so in awe of what my rolfing practitioner Rebecca accomplished in only an hour and 15 minutes of manipulating my joints/flesh/sinews/etc, and partially because I want to make sure I'm not undoing the progress we made.

5. Just a nibble of some high-quality dark chocolate, perhaps enhanced with nuts, toffee, or a creamy dark chocolate ganache filling, can always make me feel better, no matter how awful a day I'm having, no matter what dark clouds I see looming on the horizon. Those ancient Greeks and Romans, they created gods for wine, love, fertility, sex, music, art, literature, dance, theatre, beauty, and other lovely things. If the cacoa bean had been around back then (it wasn't introduced to Europe until someone brought some to Spain in the 16th century... aren't you glad you're alive today?), I'm sure they would have created a god for it. I wonder what that god's name would be? I wonder if it would be male or female?

6. My ankles have become remarkably stronger and less wobbly as a result of my return to ballroom dancing. "Return" is putting it lightly. More like "life-altering re-devotion." The increased ankle strength and stability has carried over rather awesomely from the dance floor into daily life. Friends and family who have spent any time out walking with me in recent years may recall that I would occasionally stumble and you might have thought that I had broken an ankle or something, but nope - that was just my ankle randomly giving up and allowing my foot, usually the right one, to roll onto its side. That hardly ever happens now.

7. I think that one of the best things about being a grown-up, and finally being at a point in my life where I have some expendable income, without yet having to worry about things like children or a mortgage yet, is my clothing and shoe collection. My wardrobe, and the continuing enhancement of it, is something that makes me genuinely happy. I know money can't buy happiness, but it sure can buy a lot of really nice clothing, shoes, and clothing-making supplies, which in turn, when I work my creative styling on them, can make me really happy, truly. Chocolate, clothes, and dancing... when did I become such a girly girl? I guess I always was one, but I didn't always want to admit it.

Two years of love and adorableness

The second anniversary of Etienne and Marcello's homecoming, this past Wednesday March 3rd, passed with very little pomp and circumstance, especially compared to the week-long blogging flurry of their first anniversary. I made the annual donation in their honor to Green Street Rescue, the small organization of devoted individuals who rescued and took care of them until they found their furever home. And I nosled each of their furry foreheads and told them of the occasion, when it appeared on my Iphone calendar. They seemed to take it in stride, as they still don't understand English (or at least they pretend they don't) and I do the nosle-ing thing almost every day. So it passed as a day not unlike most other days. But it didn't feel right not to at least devote a blog post to the occasion.

It never ceases to amaze me that these small creatures have such distinct personalities that continue to evolve and reveal themselves in their funny quirks and habits.

While Marcello remains the more distant and independent of the two, and still won't sit in our laps or let us pet him for long, he has gotten more comfortable with having us in close proximity.


Few scents are more pleasing to me than the soft, furry bellies of my peachy lovebugs.

And while Etienne occasionally sits in my lap, Marcello is happy to join in the family togetherness by chewing on my toes.


Speaking of sitting, Etienne recently chose a new favorite resting place.


Once I turn on the heater, he will sit there awake like a noble sphinx for great lengths of time, his front paws outstretched to lay possessively over the vent through which warm, harshly dry air is pumped into our apartment. And he seems fascinated by it.


When I go to turn it off, he gives me this adorable, pleading look that says something like "No, mom! My heater! Don't turn off my heater!"


It always turns my sucker of a heart into a drippy puddle of goo.

It's the same thing that happens when he twitches jerkily in his sleep, probably while dreaming of chasing and devouring small furry or feathered creatures.


He still loves flowers...


And television...


And he remains devotedly patriotic.


And he knows exactly who is in charge around here.


Both boys are happy to "help" when one of us is working from home.


But Marcello is the best at giving us encouraging high-fives. Or is it a high-four, if you're a cat?


They still play and wrestle, as brothers often do.


But you're just as likely to find them cuddling, too.


Happy 2nd homecoming anniversary, my sweet little princes. My love for you grows with each passing day.

on finding beauty in raw humanity, and why I love Auguste Rodin

Listening today to the audiobook of Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land, a book that helped shape the woman I was becoming when I first read it at age 16, I am struck by three things:

1) I am a very different person now than when I was 16.
2) Heinlein was a bit of a misogynist. "A bit" might be a bit of an understatement. But I forgive him for it.
3) Heinlein loved the work of Auguste Rodin at least as much as I do.

"Anyone can see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl she used to be. A great artist can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is . . . and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be . . . more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo see that this lovely young girl is still alive, prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart . . . no matter what the merciless hours have done. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn't matter to you and me—but it does to them. Look at her!”
-Robert Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

It's so true, so achingly true. And she is beautiful.

Celle qui fut la belle Heaulmière / She who was the beautiful Heaulmière

Little birdie

While tidying-up my iphoto files recently, I stumbled across these snapshots from 2006. They're from back before I went bloggy, but they were just begging to be posted on the interwebs for the whole world to see.

I took some of my students on a field trip to a "Costumes in Film" exhibition and symposium at Winterthur, but our favorite part ended up being the gardens we visited while exploring the grounds. Shouldn't every garden have a human-size nest in it?

So my students and I took turns taking each others' photos in the nest, and it was agreed that I made the best baby bird of anyone there. Because I am just THAT MATURE.

P.S. You really want to click on these shots for a more detailed view. Heh-heh.

Hot Mamma

Fifty-five years ago, on today's date in 1955, this woman was born. Not the cute little one, but the tall, slender one in the swimsuit.

She is the person I have to thank for my amazing legs. But I suspect she is also partly to blame for my manly armhair. Though the credit for that could go to either parent, as the body hair is pretty impressive on both the maternal and paternal ends of my genetic lineage.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

And can you believe I was blonde when I was little?

Dear Blog,

I know I’ve been away for too long. I know I’ve been neglectful. But it’s not you; it’s me. Please forgive me for my abrupt and lengthy absence.

I guess I needed some time off. Quite a lot of time off, as it turned out. But I think you’ll be glad to know it was time-well spent. Things are good.

I don’t usually put much stock in the idea of New Year’s resolutions, but I decided to make one this year. I hereby resolve that I will return to blogging, but without letting it become overwhelming this time around.

Which means that I intend to spend more time with you, old friend. I’ll be back soon.

In humble consolation,
Your pal,
Stephanie N.