Compost Bin - An Update

So I've decided to postpone sprucing up my yard this week due to an unusual late-February freeze these last two nights. My procrastination in trimming back dead plants actually paid off this time. Take that homeowner's association community aesthetics subcommittee!! Even so, I am still in the process of building my compost pile. I have decided against using one of those bathroom-receptacle-sized ceramic bins and have, instead, opted to construct a 3X3 foot heap in my backyard. I figured with a mound of compost, I would more efficiently be able to dole out the stuff to my planting beds with a shovel. And who needs to pay for "special" worms, when you can just summon the natural ones! Being that it is a pile of rotting old soil, coffee grinds, produce trimmings, and newspaper, the big question is going to be: where am I going to put this thing? I live in a restriction-laden golf course community. Our home, according to the Architectural Review Committee, is located on this golf course. However, I've had not even a glimpse of said golf course through the 25 foot buffer of 30 foot pine trees and overgrown, cottonmouth-infested underbrush, unless you count the occassional "G*d D@$& it!" or "S&*$!" or, most often, "F@#king F&*@#$%&*!" from the forest-consealed amateurs on the green. Actually, my first experience with these "ghostly" utterances eminating from the woods in our backyard occurred about four months after we moved in. It was April, about 75 degrees outside, and I was approximately five months pregnant. The day was too gorgeous not to spend it outdoors, and our home felt ultra-secluded since we were the only house built so far on our side of the street. I got into my bikini, which I must admit looked more like a woman bodybuilder's competition garb over my very cumbersome body, than the delicate floral string number I had flaunted the prior summer, slung a towel around my neck and poured myself a glass of Pellegrino, before stepping through the patio doors onto our back porch. Surrounded by a peaceful solitude, I tossed around the idea of whether to lie down topless or not. Do you think anyone would see? I asked myself. Who? I responded, construction workers don't work on Sundays. The neighbors across the street cannot see over here. How about someone with binoculars? I wondered. It was while I was engaged in this internal conversation that I heard it:


"What are you waiting for?"

The sun's rays eminated down through the cumulus clouds forming a patchwork of light on the St. Augustine grass as the powerful, resolute voice came from the pines. Huh? That's weird, I thought to myself. Perplexed, but certain all that folic acid intake must finally be getting to me, I shrugged it off.

"Would you just do it already!"

"God?" I whispered hesitantly, as I squinted my eyes and gazed out at the sunlit forest. My conversations with Him had never felt so....um...concrete before now. Plus, who knew He was so preoccupied with my sunbathing practices.

"Stay off the beach! Stay off the beeeeeach! Oh, man! That was a close one!"

No, shit! I whisper to myself. a little offended. Why do you think I'm even here, in my backyard, mulling this whole situation over in my head.

"Aw, come on! You're so close! Why don't you just dive in? You're right on the edge! Damn it!!"

The voice sounded a little deeper this time, and a little more agitated. God doesn't cuss, right? I pondered the possibility. But, then again, wouldn't you be a little irked too if your job was to give advice and guidance to billions of people everyday, that mostly went ignored and less then 10% ever followed through with? Certainly.


So I did it. I laid my towel down on my beach chair, and placed my book, water, clothes, and my bikini top on the grass. Aahhh! I closed my eyes and reveled in the few moments of utter serenity. The only sounds being the creaking of the cypress and pine trees, the rustle of the grassy underbrush, and the chirping of two cardinals chasing each other around a magnolia. There was a light breeze and the wonderful scent of jasmine.

I took a sip of my sparkling water, and as it's crisp bubbles tingled on my tongue, I nearly choked when I heard, "WOOO HOOO! You did it, youS@n of a B&%@H!

I perked my head up, thought for a moment, then smiled as I reclined back into my chair. Yep, I had done it. Liberated from clothing restraints and tan lines, I lie there basking in my newfound freedom.

And, yes, later I eventually figured out the voices were that of a foursome of drunken golfers struggling at the 17th hole. And, yes, had I not been an overly hormonal pregnant woman, I'd surely would have come to that conclusion much sooner.

But, anyway, back to the subject at hand....my compost bin. I've got to find an inconspicuous spot for it in my yard. One far from my house, and out of view from my back windows and those of my neighbors. Again, I am asking for your help....any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

On the Job

For all you vegetarians out there, this recipe is for you! Okay, so here is, yet another of my favorite recipes. Yep, you guessed it, not much going on, and not a lot of witty stuff to talk about. But mosty, I've just been very lax in my housekeeping responsibilities as of late, so I must spend some time today spiffying up the place. I would be completely and utterly embarrassed to have any guests over in the state that it is in currently. See! Even stay-at-home moms get carried away surfing the net, playing computer card games and otherwise neglecting their work, while on the job. Only difference is, I don't have that nosy coworker in the cubicle next to me, peeking his head over the side and complaining to the boss (aka "Big Brother") about my 2-hour-long solitaire sessions, thus initiating a covert, computer-spying investigation of my workspace, and ending with my termination....Nope, my husband and daughter are stuck with me, whether or not the laundry gets done or the bathrooms get clean.

Anyhoo, this Couscous Salad is awesome as a weekday lunch to bring to work, since it is best served at room temperature. Plus it is a cinch to make. I lifted this recipe from a Cooking Light magazine a few years ago, so it is not a Polly Fox original (although it has served as the basis of most of my own pasta salad concoctions.)

Couscous Salad with Chickpeas and Tomatoes

Ingredients:
6 tbsp organic vegetable or chicken broth
6 tbsp water
3/4 cup uncooked couscous
3/4 cup canned chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1/4 chopped, seeded plum tomato
6 tbsp crumbled feta cheese
2 tbsp chopped, pitted kalamata olives
2 tbsp minced red onion
2 tbsp chopped fresh parsley
1 tbsp red wine vinegar
1 tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 tbsp extavirgin olive oil*
1/8 tsp kosher salt

*You should never use the cheap stuff when dressing a salad or making an olive oil dip for bread. Save that for pan frying, and splurge on a good Italian, Spanish or Greek olive oil for this type of thing.

Directions:
1. Bring broth and water to a boil in a medium saucepan, gradually stir in couscous. Remove from heat, cover and let stand for 10 minutes. Fluff with a fork.
2. Combine cooked couscous with remaining ingredients in a large bowl.

So Easy!! I know!

Tradewinds

With a typical closing time of 10:00 pm, downtown Saint Augustine is not known for its nightlife. But a few months ago, in an effort to forget about our mundane lives for one night, some fellow work-from-home-women, mothers and I ventured out for a ladies night we will not soon forget. Initially we had planned to visit an elegant Bistro for its Ladies Night specials, however, for some fateful reason, it's bar area was closed that evening for repairs. We drove through the narrow, one-way streets, desparately seeking a new nightspot (and a parking spot for that matter.) Everything would be closing soon, except for a stagnant "Scarlett O'Hara's" and a college-age sports bar. We finally found a parking spot along the main drag, and decided to search on foot. As we rounded the corner on King Street, we heard it, loud music and the sound of a good time. The doors were open and people were packing into the place. The row of bikes out front should have been our first clue, but we were so determined in our quest for bequilement, we sauntered right passed them through the open door to the Tradewinds Lounge.

Admittedly, it looked less like a tropical isle in the South Seas, and more like the opening sequence of a Law & Order episode, as we stopped just passed the entrance huddled together like a group of rabbits surrounded by a pack of wolves. If there was any other time I heard more loudly (and more appropriately)the proverbial screech of the jukebox record player coming to a stop, I do not remember it. Here we were, five, somewhat conservatively dressed, suburban housewives emerging from the dissapating cigarette smoke like a pod of just-landed aliens through the early morning fog in a Kansas cornfield. We stood there a minute (okay, maybe five minutes) in awkward silence, as we stared at each other, then at the bearded, tatooed, and black-leather-clad crowd, then back at each other again. Until, finally, the boldest one of us started to make her way toward the bar, as we followed in a single-file line after her. She ordered that night's special, pre-made "punch." While the rest of us ordered our vodka tonics and bottled beers. I ordered a Michelob Ultra, of course, since I planned on getting in an eight-mile run before bed that night and didn't want to fill-up on too many carbs! (I'm kidding, of course, I usually only run about three miles in the dead of night.)

We staked-out our spot near the "dance floor," since it provided a great vantage point for people-watching. Amid the deafening live music and the one-eyed, one-legged pirate playing the harmonica in my ear, I was actually beginning to loosen up and enjoy myself. While I couldn't hear a damn thing my friends were saying, I continued to smile and nod my head in agreement, and occassionally throwing in a chuckle and a scrunch of my nose for good measure. Halfway into the night we had "adopted" Peg-Leg, the nickname we affectionately gave our harmonica-playing friend, into our little group. Two of my friends got the itch to hit the dancefloor with two members of the motorcycle gang sitting at a table nearby. The lead singer of the band gave a little speech before his next song. I couldn't tell you what he was talking about, but the room full of bikers rose to their feet, as the band uttered the first few notes of that old dance club favorite...God Bless the USA.

Watching the scene unfold before me, I was puzzled, speechless, and a bit dizzy from inhaling all that smoke. Those who had taken to the dance floor for that number were hell-bent on finding a dance beat in that song. All of a sudden I noticed a rather large biker chick boring a hole through me with her eyes. She resembled what I envisioned a model for the plus-sized S&M collection at your local smut shop would look like. She smirked as she grabbed her dance partner's buttocks and uttered in my direction, "you wish all this was yours!" Shaking my head back into reality, I realized I apparently had been momentarily hypnotized by the oscillating gold-plated chain dangling from her belly-button and disappearing up under her very unflattering mid-driff halter top (where only her rough-rider companion had the balls to venture, I'm guessing.) God only knows how long I'd been ogling at the pair dirty dancing to Lee Greenwood.

After a few hours, and a few more Ultras, I discovered that Tradewinds was really a melting pot of a dive. There were not only bikers, but retirees in their floral-print, Tommy Bahama duds, tourists wearing their newly purchased "Tradewinds Lounge, The Oldest Bar in the Oldest City" colored t-shirts, the college crowd downing their cheap pitchers of Bud Light, the traveling businessmen, and us, the suburban wives club. Actually, the only demographics noticeably missing were the old ladies from the Red Hat Society and children.

We capped off our trip to the twilight-zone with a stop at the Wendy's drive-thru and a harrowing 15-mile ride home on a dark two-lane highway, back to the safety of our sheltered little community. Ah, to be home again. Aaaargghhh!

The Oscars

So, a night of shameless self promotion and back-patting came and went with a fizzle at the Fox household. Yes, once I grew weary of the endless bickering between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton during the Texas Democratic Presidential Primary Debate, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and switch to the Academy Awards. Who needs presidential primary debates when you can get all your relevant political insight from host, Jon Stewart's, facetious, left-slanting commentary. Since it didn't even "start" until after my daughter's (and husband's, for that matter) bedtime, I was stuck by my holey-sweatpants-and-stretched-out-waffle-weave-shirt-wearing-and-plate-of-Skinny-Cow-ice-cream-sandwiches-eatin'-self watching the botoxed and liposucked beauties strut to the microphone to announce the nominees & winners. (Nothing like watching the likes of Heidi Klum and her amazing crimson sillouette to make me wish for a rematch with the Norovirus, and then along comes Jennifer Hudson and her game of side-boob peek-a-boo, and I feel much better.) And I say "start," because, really, the only part (in my opinion) worth watching is the whole pre-award show glam-a-thon on the red carpet. I like to equate the worldwide audiences' enthusiasm to know who won the award for "Best Sound Editing" to that of Mary So-and-so winning an AICPA (American Institute of Certified Public Accountants) award for "Best State Sales Tax Avoidance Scheme." The only difference being, Harry Winston and Dontella Versace were not banging down poor ol' Mary's door, and instead, she was stuck with her sales lady from Ann Taylor as her stylist and a diamond heart pendant from Kay Jewelers as her little item of "bling, bling."

And what award night wouldn't be complete without a coked-up Gary Busy violating young startettes on the red carpet? And speaking of violating young starlettes, what about Ryan Seacrest? Every network's go-to guy for hosting television events, apparently needs to take a lesson from Miss Manners when it comes to appropriate lines of questioning. Asking Jessica Alba if she is "going to breastfeed", or "what's the process going to be," was a little gauche, if you ask me. But all together less horrific than Joan River's roughhewn interviews (and looks, for that matter.) And he'll still have a job on American Idol...lucky S.O.B.! All I can say is poor Dunkelman.

Criticism aside, my family did celebrate with our annual, over-the-top, extravagant, Hollywood-award-night-worthy dinner fare of "Oscar"-meyer hotdogs, chips and salsa! We pulled out all the stops, including ketchup and mustard, when it came to our little Oscar night shin-dig!

In closing, I'll leave you with some of Stewart's memorable quotes from last night:

"You have to admit, this is a huge election. A historic election. So much excitement. For the first time in so many years we don't have an incumbent president or an incumbent vice-president. The field is wide open. Have you all had a chance to examine all the candidates, study their positions and pick the Democrat you'll vote for?"

"Democrats do have an historic race going. Hillary Clinton vs Barack Obama. Normally, when you see a black man or a woman president an asteroid is about to hit the Statue of Liberty. How will we know it's the future? Silver unitards, that can't be all?"

"You have to give Barack Obama credit, he's overcome a great deal. Not just he's an African-American. Barack Hussein Obama is his name. His middle name is the last name of Iraq's former tyrant. His last name rhymes with Osama. That's not easy to overcome. I think we all remember the ill-fated 1944 presidential campaign of Gaydolf Titler. It's just a shame, Titler had so many good ideas. We just couldn't get past the name. And the moustache."

Can't Get Enough?

Finding yourself craving more of a "Fox Fix" lately? Just because I take a break from the blogosphere on the weekends doesn't mean you all have to stop reading. In the tradition of NBC's Must-See-TV motto: If you haven't read it, it's new to you! So take some time this weekend to catch up on some earlier posts you might not have had a chance to read yet, or peruse the Archives for a re-read of some memorable favorites, such as "The Mall" or, of course, who can forget, "Blue Balls." And as always, share them with your friends and co-workers. See ya Monday!

A Lesson Learned

Like most American families, my husband and I are struggling to pay off a lot of debt. Since selling my soul to the University of Miami School of Law to the tune of $100,000, half of which funded my year of living it up in South Florida, I have been forced to live "the life less luxurious." But my brief fling in legal education was not in vain. I learned three things in one semester of law school: 1.) the art of argumentative writing; 2.) the definition of the word "chattel" (a moveable article of personal property); and 3.) that you should NEVER "dabble" in a private law school education unless your last name is either Gates or Buffett.

Since there is no such thing as a time machine, and I try to live my life by the optimist's mantra, "all things happen for a reason," I have made peace with my expensive decision and have vowed to instill in my daughter (and any of her future siblings, for that matter) the monetary lessons I was unfortunately not privy to when I was young and naive.

For instance, the importance of paying off a credit card each month. (As a side note, I think it is shameful how banks promote their credits cards to unknowing college students, but that is beside the point.) The credit companies will collect their money from you sooner or later, unless you file for bankruptcy or die - two options that I, as a former CPA, must discourage against since they tend to wreak havoc on your financial and actual life.

Also, the advantage of applying for scholarships over student loans. And, no...No, no, no....you will not be able to "live like a college student" for a few years once you find a decent-paying job after graduating, thus enabling you to pay off your loans early. I can promise you that! And, yeah, at the time, you may have enough money to buy yourself the entire fall collection at Hollister, but you'll be paying off that fashion faux pas (plus interest) over the next thirty years of your life, when you'll ultimately realize the life-span of your college style choices does not last much past the age of 22. I still try to explain this point to my husband, who to this day, continues to wear all of his long-sleeve, one-in-every-color, Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirts, you know the ones depicting their wearer as some newfangled jack-of-all-trades. They deceptively insinuate that he is somehow simultaneously affiliated with the Breckenridge Ski Club (he has never even seen snow) and the North Shore Surf Academy. And then there is my personal favorite, marketing director by day, cashier at "Uncle Freddie's Finger-lickin' Fried Chicken Shack" by night.

So I am hoping my daughter will be much more financially secure once she graduates from Harvard, than I was graduating from UF. Or she'll come to the same demoralizing realization as I did....that her "investment" in "fine" furniture items for her college apartment, such as papasan chairs from Pier One, an entertainment center made from particle-board purchased from Best Buy, a Walmart oriental rug, and the "Monet's" bought from the back of some guy's delivery van at the corner of a busy intersection, are not the makings for a cover of Better Homes & Gardens, much less the stylish livingroom of your average middle-class suburban family.

My Favorite Sandwich

So, this morning I awoke to my first bout of writers block.

My husband and I have been at odds over the past few weeks, but in an effort to coexist peacefully, and after coming to the realization that we weren't quite sure what we were arguing about in the first place, we decided to reconcile our differences a few days ago. Ever since, everything has been fantastic! That is, everything except for my creative thinking process. It turns out, our arguing had actually been my muse. I begged him last night if we could go back to the way things used to be - the bickering, the snide, off-hand remarks, even the silent treatment. Oh, how I long for that silent treatment. It provides me an opportunity to get lost in my routine reverie. (How, exactly, do you think I come up with all this crap anyway.) "I need my blog inspiration back," I pleaded, "I can't let my readers down!" But, alas, my darling husband would hear none of it.

So here I am, upon my virtual soapbox, empty-handed but for my recipe for the best sandwich ever:

Ham, Apple & Brie Sandwich

Ingredients:
1 Baguette Loaf, sliced in half lengthwise
3 tbsp Apple Jelly or Apple Cinnamon Chutney
1/4 lb Honey Maple Boars Head Ham, sliced thin
1/2 Granny Smith Apple, sliced into thin wedges
4 Long Slices of Brie, with or without the rind
1/8 tsp Ground Cinnamon

Directions:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees
Spread jelly (or chutney) over bottom half of baguette. Layer the ham slices on top of the jelly. Next, evenly layer the apple slices over the ham and top with the brie. Sprinkle with the cinnamon. Place the open sandwich on a foil-lined baking sheet and bake until brie has melted and tips of ham are golden brown, about 5 to 7 minutes. Remove from oven and "close" the sandwich using oven mitts or a (preferably clean) dish towel. Press down firmly. Slice sandwich into 4 sections. Serve immediately. Makes 4 servings.

This recipe is a Polly Fox original! It was inspired by a similar sandwich I had at the Wine and Cheese Gallery in Gainesville, Florida. I happen to love the mixture of sweet ham, crunchy, sour apple, spicy cinnamon, and creamy brie. It pairs nicely with Chardonnay.

Mini-Vans

Wow, so I see my online wine tasting experiment is doing quite well. I'm predicting another half-day therapy session in my near future.

Anyway, that's not what I want to talk about today.

Back in high school I made a promise to myself that, no matter what, I would never, NEVER EVER, drive a minivan. Not even if I had eight kids, they were going to cram themselves into whatever vehicle I owned, just as long as I had my own seat. Even if their exit from, let's say, a Toyota Prius, resembled that of confetti from a champagne party popper, I was not going to give in to the incessant beckoning of the mommy-mobile.

I made this promise after enduring three grueling years of driving my mother's 1985 white Plymouth Voyager, with it's sun-bleached, delaminated wood paneling, and fabric that no longer adhered to its ceiling, grazing my head as I drove, so by the time I reached school, I looked as if I had rubbed a helium balloon against my hair atleast 30 times.

Now, I know a lot of you out there L.O.V.E. your minivan. It's so easy to get the kids in and out, you say. The doors open and shut by themselves, and best of all you can play Kanye through your iPod dock, while the kids listen to the warblings of the Doodlebops using their earmuffs, er...I mean, headphones in the back seat.

Yep, it's practical, I agree. Maybe the most practical vehicle out there. And I know so many of you moms absolutely could not go on without your minivans. And more power to you, I say. You submitted to your practical side, and I commend you for that. In a few years, you'll be trading-in your Jimmy Choo's for Easy Spirits, but that's OKAY, because you want to be comfortable, and it is YOU that matters.

As for me, for now, no minivan. So don't try to intimidate me, minivan mafia, I will not budge on this one.

Okay, so, now that I've lost about 85% of my audience (and friends), let's move on to how I feel about crockpots. Maybe I can lose my last two readers. Mom? Marsha? Are you still there?

It's All About the Pounds

I'm just one stomach-flu away from my goal weight.
~The Devil Wears Prada

In all fairness, those of you who may have a weak stomach may just want to skip today's post. For the rest of you, sick bastards.....read on.....

Well I have to admit of all the fad diets I've tried, coming down with the stomach-flu has been the most effective way for me to lose those last 5 pounds. I worked my ass off to lose the 60 pounds I gained while pregnant, but try as I might, I was stalled right at those notorious last five. Nothing I did helped. Not the three-hour daily workouts, not the Zone Diet, not the South Beach Diet, not the Sonoma Diet, not even the poached chicken and pureed cauliflower diet. NOTHING!! That was until my adorable little niece came down with the Norovirus, and it spread like a vicious wildfire throughout our entire family.

After two days of hovering over the toilet and consuming nothing but Saltines and Gatorade, I had done it! I had lost those last 5 pounds! Actually I had lost 7 pounds, but who's counting except for me? It was a curse and a blessing. Now I'm just wondering how long it will be before someone figures out we need to bottle-up some of this wretched stuff and promote it as the lastest weight-loss remedy. Why not? It is natural, right? And easy, and free, too. You don't have to do one of those refrigerator and pantry overhauls, you don't have to buy a food scale, or count points or calories.

Is it not God's little way of curing us from our cruise-ship-buffet gluttony? I mean, really, are all these recent meat recalls such a bad thing? We, Americans, are quickly, if not already, the most obese nation on the planet. Could it really hurt us to come down with a little Salmonella now and then?

I Did It All For The Nookie

Okay, so I'm a husband-proclaimed "Wino." I used to stick to the same ol' type, by the same ol' brand, but since I started listening to Gary Vaynerchuk of Wine Library TV, I've found myself becoming a little more adventurous. By no means a connoisseur, but by all means a wanna-be bon vivant. I've moved on from Merlot to Malbec, and from Chardonnay to Beaujolais. So in an effort to get the rest of you out of your wine rut, I am hoping you all will indulge me in a little experiment of mine.

Today is the inaugural day of "Online Wine Tasting." (Fear not, while I'm hoping this will be an ongoing endeavor, I promise I will be back each day with more witty, satirical, and embarrassing stories of my life.) I will start by listing my favorite wines (by brand and type) for under $20, of course. And (hopefully) you all will comment back with your favorites. Please don't let this be a birthday party where no one shows up! (That happened to me once in early childhood, and might partly be to blame for my neurotic tendencies.) Anyway, try some of the suggestions other readers make and comment on those, too. I will attempt to keep a tally of the most popular selections and update you, maybe a poll to vote on a winner....who knows?

But before we start, here are some tips for becoming a wine snob:

1. Try to resist filling your glass more than 1/3 full; it allows the wine to "breathe" and makes it easier to swirl. However, if the temptation is too great, try using one of those novelty wine glasses they sell at ABC liquors, you know, the ones you are suppose to use as fish bowls.

2. Hold your glass by the stem, not the bowl. Your body heat can alter the temperature of the wine. And no ice, please!!

3. Give the wine a good swirl before tasting to release its fragrance. Give it a light sniff. Skip this part if you are sick; any phlegmmy audio is just, well, gross.

4. Sip. Coat your mouth with the wine, so that it reaches every tastebud. Some experts "chew" there wine to aerate it, thus releasing more of its flavors. You may want to attempt this, however, try not to gurgle - this isn't mouthwash.

5. Now this tip is for the serious (or lazy) wine snob: Don't use soap to wash out your glass. Just rinse with warm water and wipe clean. The soap could leave a residue on the crystal that could alter the taste of your next glass of wine.

It also might help to know some wine characteristics to enhance your wine tasting experience:

1. Color and Appearance: The darker the red or whiter the white, the younger the wine

2. Bouquet & Aroma: Is it earthy, floral, fruity, nutty, spicy, woody? If it's sulphury, vinegary, varnishy, or vaguely reminds you of dank, rotting wood - that's not a good sign.

3. Is it "oaked?": In other words, aged in an oak barrel, as opposed to.....um......not aged in an oak barrel.

4. Complexity: the more flavors you detect, the more complex.

5. Balance: good balance exists if the fruit, sugar, acid and tannins are in harmony, and you don't have one trying to "out sing" the other (like the lady with the fluttery voice sitting in the pew behind you at church - you know who I'm talking about.)

6. Finish: The after-taste. The longer the finish, typically, the better the wine.

Now you are well on your way to becoming an oenophile!

By the way, this is not just for the desperate housewives, or stressed-out, working moms, or desperate, stressed-out single ladies out there. I happen to think it's incredibly sexy when a guy knows his stuff when it comes to food and wine. So for all you men out there, brush up on your drinking and cooking skills...it might just get you a little somethin', somethin' tonight. (That coupled with your significant other's wine buzz.) Just don't overdo it. It could backfire on you, if you know what I mean.

So, raise your goblets, start swirlin', start sniffin', and start chuggin'! (Yep, now I know I've lived in Jacksonville too long.) Salud!


My Favorites:

Chardonnay - La Crema or Toasted Head
Pinot Noir - Bistro Wine
Malbec - Los Cardos

Giada

Di Laurentiis, that is. And if you are a foodie like me, then I'm sure you've at least heard of the star of Food Network's Everyday Italian. Most of her food is delicious (except for maybe the squid tentacles) and easy to prepare (except for maybe the crepes.) But what I love about Giada is that she just has that carefree, tea-and-Baci-with-girlfriends-every-afternoon-in-the-garden-and-moonlit-picnics-complete-with-perfectly-grilled-salmon-crisp-frisee-salad-and-belini's-on-a-Burberry-blanket-in-Malibu-every-evening-with-a-handsome-husband aire about her. Jealous? Me too! Giada is mostly criticized for two things. The first being her penchant for plunging necklines. The second is her emphasis on Italian pronunciation. Personally, I've learned a lot about Italian from Giada. There is a certain smugness I get now when ordering a half-pound of sliced "provolo-NAY" from the grocery deli counter. Or being able to properly pronounce "CHA-batta," "pan-CHETTA," or even "zaba-LIO-NAY." (Pretty good for someone who once embarrassingly ordered a "ca-PRIS" salad in a fancy restuarant in front of at least 20 friends.) But now it almost makes me feel like a seasoned professional at Le Cordon Bleu. Okay, maybe not, but a girl can dream can't she?

Another thing Giada has opened my eyes to is Nutella. Nutella is a chocolate hazelnut spread, that I otherwise like to refer to as "heaven in a jar." And if you've ever traveled to Europe, you have most assuredly heard of it. It has increasingly gained popularity in the States, and can I tell you, I nearly fainted at the sight of the size of jar they sell it in at BJ's Wholesale!

Almost every night I indulge myself with Nutella spread on either banana or strawberry slices, topped-off with a great glass of white wine (most preferably Gewurztraminer, but most likely anything already opened in the frig.) Aside from that, you can make a Nutella and strawberry panini on slices of pound cake or Nutella ravioli (Giada has a great recipe for that, too.)

So, treat yourself to a "Giada Day." Cook up some chicken piccata for the fam. Roast some asparagus and top it off with some freshly grated, imported parmigiano reggiano. Grill up some pineapple slices, drizzle with warm Nutella sauce, and sprinkle with chopped hazelnuts. F.Y.I., drool may be thoroughly removed from your keyboard by simply placing the whole thing in the dishwasher. Sounds crazy right? But it's true! Ciao Bella!

A Love Story

If you have ever visited my home then you are well aware of my love affair with Pottery Barn. While all of my furnishings may or may not actually be from Pottery Barn, I like to think they have that Pottery Barn-chic look to them. I also desperately need my daily fix of "PB smack"(as I like to refer to it.) Whether it be reading PBkids, PBteen, PB Bed & Bath, or plain ol' Pottery Barn catalogues, or my weekly visit to an actual store. (Now that I've limited myself to spending $50 a week, however, these visits have become quite masochistic-for all you psych-majors, that would be in the non-sexual sense, of course.) But I need it, I crave it, I must have my Pottery Barn!! I would hook myself up to an IV of PB smack if I could. (On the opposite arm of my Diet Coke IV, of course, since the mixture of the two could be dangerous, if not fatal.) Without my weekly dose, I've been known to suffer "the shakes," irritability, nightmares and hallucinations.

Pottery Barn at my local mall is like my Cheers Bar, where everyone knows my name (as they so playfully call me "the crazy lingering lady.") They know me so well there, they sometimes like to play little practical jokes on me. Like the one time they called mall security and had me thrown out for loitering. Funny guys!

I have a feeling my daughter doesn't share my enthusiasm, though. Each time we cross the threshold into the store, she hops up from her stroller, stiffens her legs and tries to immobilize my forward movement with the rubber soles of her jibbitz-covered, pink crocs. All the while begging, "No, Momma, no Potty Barn! No Potty Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaarn!"

"It's okay, honey," I say to her. "Just a couple of minutes and Momma will bring you to the quarter carousel."

"It'll be alright," I tell myself. "She'll learn." In a few more years she'll be just as Pottery-Barn-obsessed as me. (That or she'll be mediating the newly-formed PB-Anon at the local "Y")

Disclaimer: Events may have been exaggerated for comical effect.

Tax Rebate

Up until now, only my husband has been subjected to my occassional politically-charged rants, but as a former accountant, and this being tax time I get all sorts of wacky ideas brewing in my brain, I feel compelled to share my opinion on the above-titled subject. I'd also like to think of it as less of a rant, and more of a public service announcement.

By now, you have probably heard that most of us middle-to-no-income American citizens (sorry Manuel, the irrigation guy) will be receiving a lump-sum tax rebate in the mail in the very near future. Yes, the very same government who believes that we as Americans are financially savvy enough to take control of our own retirement funds and healthcare, is banking on the hopes that we will squander our unexpected, albeit small, financial windfall on plasma tv's, new car downpayments, home gyms, and stainless-steel appliances in order to stimulate our sluggish economy, and, thus, rescue our current leader from his looming future moniker, "Worst U.S. President EVER."

Although, there is not much we can do about that, we can redeem ourselves from our own personal economic crises, by not yielding to what the government expects us to do with this money. I find it hard to believe that going out and buying myself a 50" Sony Bravia will somehow rescue us all from a recession. Consequently, I do know of one country that would be extremely elated at the prospect of millions of Americans upgrading their mind-numbing, idiot boxes.

All that being said, my husband and I plan to pay down our debt with our rebate. Actually pay for the stuff we already have...a novel concept, I know. And I urge all Americans to do the same. Pay down your credit cards, or put money away for your child's education or your retirement. Create a rainy-day fund. For example, when you need to buy a new air-conditioning unit because your old one brakes under stress due to abnormally heavy use brought on by global warming. Or, I don't know....call it crazy....paying your mortgage bill next month might be considered a wise investment choice. It baffles me to think, in the face of our country's current mortgage crisis and in the midst of government-funded bail-outs, we are being encouraged to go out and spend our rebates on "frills," instead of ensuring we have a roof over our head.

But, alas, it is inevitable, American will go out and buy "stuff" they don't need then complain they don't have enough money to pay their bills...it's the American Way, and our government is betting on it.

Blue Balls

Ahhh....thought that would get your attention. Okay, now you can get your mind out of the gutter; it's not what you think! You may remember in an earlier post I mentioned that I employ M&M bribery when needed. Well aside from luring my child out from under our bed, or up from the pile of mulch she so dramatically threw herself onto at the playground (usually stemming from the sequential use of the words "we," "have," "to," and "go"), it's most often needed to coerce my daughter into using her potty (oh...instead of, let's say, um....our 80% poly-down blend couch.) She is well aware by now that she is rewarded with 1 M&M for "trying" and 2 M&M's for actually "doing something." (I'm considering revoking the whole "1 M&M for trying" clause of our "contract" for habitual abuse, however.) Consequently, three problems have arisen with this potty training method. The first being that our daughter seems to be on a 24-hour sugar-rush (not such a big deal when faced with the next two.) The second (and a little more disturbing) problem is that I fear we are inadvertantly conditioning our child to urinate at the sight of small, rainbow-colored candies (you remember Pavlov's dog, don't you?) But the final, most distressing of all, is that she refers to M&M's as "balls." Not so bad, if her favorite color wasn't blue. However, when your daughter comes running from the bathroom elatedly screaming, "TWO BLUE BALLS, MOMMA, ONE....TWO," you cannot help but feel alarmed.

Americanized Pasta e Fagioli

Okay, so I love to cook. Actually, I don't know of too many things more relaxing than hovering over the stovetop, sipping a glass of my favorite wine, and listening to the Pure Jazz station on satellite radio. So when there is not much going on, or I just have nothing witty to say, I'll probably just post one of my favorite recipes. Today's recipe is "Americanized" Pasta e Fagioli. It's my favorite crockpot recipe. And, probably the only reason I own a crockpot in the first place; since this is the only recipe I use it for. It's healthy too! Great for one of those, oh...you know....ate-too-many-holiday-cookies-because-while-your-had-good-intentions-waited-too-long-to-deliver-them-to-your-neighbors-who-were-all-out-of-town-by-then-therefore-leaving-you-with-60-dozen-green-sprinkled-Christmas-tree-cookies-with-candied-cherries-on-top-staling-away-on-your-countertop-so-of-course-you-had-to-eat-them-ALL diets, and need to lose the 11 pounds you gained in 3weeks!! So, anyway, here it is:

INGREDIENTS:
1 pound lean ground beef
1 can whole peeled tomatoes
1 15oz can cannellini beans, rinsed, drained
2 cups water
21oz low sodium beef broth
2 celery stalks, chopped
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 tsp dried basil
1/4 tsp dried marjoram
1/4 tsp cayenne pepper
1/4 tsp tabasco sauce
1 cup uncooked ditalini pasta
salt and pepper to taste

DIRECTIONS:
Combine all ingredients, except for the ground beef and the pasta, in the crockpot. You can cook it on high for 4 - 6 hours, or low for 8 - 10 hours, it really doesn't matter. About a half hour before it is done, brown the ground beef in a skillet and add to crockpot. About 10 minutes before it is done, add the uncooked pasta to the crockpot. That's all there is to it!

The Mall

Recently, my daughter and I were strolling through a large department store on our way to check out the supposed 90%-off sale at Williams Sonoma. While checking out some cute mini-dresses, a woman from the Estee Lauder counter approached us about some sales promotion involving a free 10-day supply of foundation and handed me a card I was supposed to bring to their counter in exchange. First of all, I'm not really a fan of Estee Lauder. I've always thought of it as something my grandma would wear, and I'm more of a Bobbi Brown girl, myself. So, anyway, in an attempt to avoid the stampede of shoppers down the main aisle of the store, and thus the EL counter, I lingered along the outskirts. That was, until our eyes met. The make-up counter lady was staring right at me, waving me over. I could feel the lasso tightening around my neck. Had I just remained hidden amongst the cattle, I likely would have made it through unseen, but here I was, a lost calf who'd strayed from the herd. As she roped me in, she asked me for the card she had handed me earlier, my skin type, type of foundation I wore, how many times a day I applied moisturizer, my bloodtype, my shoe size, and if I had any allergies related to polycarbonate resin. Confused, I was now firmly planted atop a make-over stool, watching another white-coated woman apply shimmery pink lip gloss on my 2-year old.

"Cassandra" wiped off my "old" make-up and proceeded to apply a toner, a moisturizer, a primer, a concealer, a layer of nude paint, some polyurethane, and a top coat. "There!" She exclaimed. "Doesn't it feel so light? It's like you're wearing nothing at all!" I looked in the hand mirror, and to my surprise, I actually liked my new paint-job, not a blemish to be seen. So, of course, I agreed when she offered to try out some new eye-shadow options on me. I had the choice of a "safe" rosy beige duo or an "urban" metallic quad. I chose the quad, what the hell, right? Who doesn't long for that smokey-eyed look?

After applying four layers of shadow, some charcoal eyeliner, and what seemed like the amount of mascara Elvira might wear, she was done. I looked in the mirror again, and as the group of Estee Lauder ladies ooh'd and aahh'd at how nicely I can pull off the "metallic look" with my deep-set eyes, I noticed the train-tracks of mascara across my brow bone, globs of liner between my eyes and the bridge of my nose, and speckles of shiny, olive-green shadow on my cheeks, and couldn't help but think I reminded myself of that loner, goth-chick in high school. Needless to say, I didn't buy any makeup and unfortunately had to wear the makeup I had on for the duration of my mall trip (since, being the nice person I am, I had to pass back through the department store to get to my car.)

Soon, I was the loner, goth-mom sitting by myself at the indoor, toddler playground, while the other moms whispered, "stay close to mommy" to their children, and looked on with pitiful eyes toward my daughter. Williams Sonoma was more of the same. The sales ladies stared , as they wondered what someone "like her" would be doing in their store, and kept asking my daughter if she was "okay." (It didn't help that she had an egg-sized bump on her forhead from an incident at the playground a day earlier.) Since the only thing left in the 90%-off section was a bunch of boxes peppermint bark and gourmet marshmellows, it didn't bother me so much that I felt ushered out of the store only slower than if I had been wearing a long black trench coat in 90-degree heat.

Moral of the story: when going to the mall, park at the food court.

New Year's Resolution

Well, it's a veritable ghost town around here. Hello? I know you all are reading. Can no one leave a stinkin' comment for goodness sake? Mom?

Well, I know it's February already, but besides losing all the weight I gained over the Christmas holiday, I 've decided this year to go "green." I actually already started a little last year by replacing most of my standard lightbulbs with CFL's (compact fluorescent lightbulbs - if, perhaps, you spent most of 2007 living under a rock.) CFL's, according to the packaging should last between 5 and 10 years, however, in the blackhole of energy consumption (a.k.a., my house), apparently they only last about 6 months. My husband and I have been recycling for a few years, and up until recently, I would drop off our glass at our county courthouse annex. However, in a stroke of pure brilliance, our county commissioners have decided that curbside pickup of glass just might be a good idea.

I try to buy mostly organic food products. Yet, in the (largely Republican) southern city of Jacksonville, the whole saving the planet from its own demise vs. the almighty dollar has not caught on quite yet. Most of our organic produce, for example, has sat on the grocery shelves for at least a month, making it not even fit to feed a pet iguana. And please do not let me begin to mention the fact that the largest city (in total area) does not have a Whole Foods!!

So this month my project will be to create a compost bin so that (1) my garden will be "healthier" and safer for my child to play in, and (2) I might cut down on the number of trash bags I use every day. So, if anyone out there has attempted this before or has any suggestions as to how to start a compost bin, please let me know.

PS - I once saw on an episode of Martha (I think) that you can purchase special worms to put in your compost bin to help break it down faster. First of all, YUCK!! Second of all, there is something really creepy about worms squirming away in a bin under your countertop while you're trying to make almond-crusted chicken breasts in a beurre blanc sauce for an intimate gathering of friends.

What's With The Name?

No, it does not refer to small, orange forest creatures afixing Daffy Duck Band-Aids to your "boo boo." Nor is it a vain affirmation of my opinion on my appearance. No, Fox just happens to be my last name (through marriage), and along with my first name, bears some resemblance (as some of my friends have pointed out) to a name you might just find at your local gentlemen's club. All that being said, this blog is just your daily dose of....um....well...me. (I guess I'm being a little pretentious to think what I have to say each day is worthy of publication.)

"Why blog?" You ask. Well, you know, it's something to do while my 2 year old daughter takes her daily 3 hour siesta (yes, I know, you are allowed to hate me!) And, I guess, in the hopes of becoming a blogging millionaire with book and movie deals, to get my husband off my back about finding a real "job" that makes real "money" to pay off all my "debt."

Well, so far this blog is about nothing (a la Seinfeld). So why are you still reading?? Maybe its because, like me, you've found that parenthood and being a stay-at-home mom has brought to light an endless realm of comical fodder? Or maybe you are hoping for some deep insight into how to stay beautiful, perky, and chic, after only sleeping for 3 hours, or maybe you're just bored and anything is better than reviewing the Proctor account for your egotistical boss for the third time before he meets with the client, takes all the credit for your hard work and makes sure to blame you, the lowly drone, for the mathimatical errors on the last-minute, unreviewed entry he made.

In any case, I hope you keep coming back....

I know what you're thinking

Another ho-hum, all-day-pajama-wearing, stay-at-home mom complaining about sleepless nights, posting pictures of her adorable 2 year old with mashed peas oozing out her mouth, and, that dreaded cliche, the endless changing of dirty diapers! And, well, yeah, maybe that is my life, or was (who feeds their 2 year old mashed peas anyway??) But, I can tell you that in these past few years I've learned a lot about myself. (okay, now I really know what you are thinking, "puh-leazzz, lady, do not go there.") And you are right, I won't go there. I'm not writing this blog to revel in some trip of self discovery, NO, I am writing on behalf of all mothers out there looking for a little less oversized, plastic, lead--ridden, toys building up in there living rooms and a lot more Pottery Barn, a little less Desitin and a lot more Kiehls, and , of course, a little less pink, green, and yellow Carter's onesies and a lot more Janie and Jack! Okay (whew!) well, I guess that's it. I should be going now, it sounds as if my daughter is coming out of her Disney-Channel-induced coma. It's the perfect start to a day filled with playdates, potty-training, and M&M bribery (oh, wait, I promised I wasn't going to do that) -----scanning------oh, wait, no I didn't.