Three things

1. Jimmy Fallon continues to dominate; The Boss continues to rock; Chris Christie continues to fail; I continue to be amused.



2. These 1920s mug shots are… hot. What's going on here? Whatever it is, I'm a buyer.

3. Babies in letter sweaters are as cute as you might have suspected. Even better, this one is 30 years old. T was a proud dad at the Yale-Harvard game at Madison Square Garden. Baby H getting in her first hockey game at eight weeks… yeah, he's a proud dad.

A new day + a new life

Today's our anniversay. Number four, in fact. Four! Do you remember our anniversary last year? I flew away to New Orleans with my love to eat, drink, and be merry in one of our favorite cities. A year ago today I also confessed something close to my heart here, something buried and raw: our long struggle to conceive.

In so many ways it was a beginning, although I didn't know it at the time. The beginning of being more open about a problem so many couples experience yet so few discuss. The beginning to seeking more advanced treatment. The beginning to handling a new level of disappointment. The beginning of a new kind of dedication to having a family. A year later I'm more vulnerable, but I'm fuller, too.

The truth is, my heart is so full these days I feel like it might explode. It's time (once again) to let it all hang out.

(adventures in horrid office bathroom lighting!)

(omggetthatgirlahaircut)

It took us nearly three years and almost everything our doctors could think of, but today I'm 14 weeks pregnant with a little girl! It's surreal to see that in print, still. I'll share all the details soon - the how (unlike most pregnancy announcements, I suppose mine does warrant a "how"!), the ups and downs, and the now. But first, I have a date with an airplane headed once more to New Orleans, where my love and I will eat (oh yes), drink(ish), and be very, very merry.

I'm getting all teary writing this - the journey has just been so... much. For everyone reaading this who's still in the trenches, please know that you have an eternal sister in me. My path toward pregnancy changed me; it's absolutely a part of who I am today. No smug preggo here - just an eternally thankful one, without complaint and with a lot of humility and love. I wish I could hug each one of you in person, right in the trenches where you are. If I could lift you out myself, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

More soon. After the beignets and the shrimp etouffee.

xoxo

New Orleans, aka My Happy Place

You know those getaways so full of love and fun that you realize even inside the moment that you're actively creating a memory that'll make you smile forever? That was our New Orleans anniversary weekend. And of course, I forgot my camera, so all I have are Instagram snippets from my phone. Somehow, though, I think the joy comes through anyway.

We flew through happy, bright blue skies.

We stayed at the Roosevelt, which was still shuttered from Katrina during our last visit. The restoration of the hotel and the building's history are both remarkable. (Pretend you're looking at pictures of gorgeous chandeliers here instead of just a napkin.)

The Roosevelt is also home to the Sazerac Bar, which makes, among other delights, a perfect sazerac. (Naturally.)

And bonus: fancy bath products!

We spent Thursday afternoon eating muffalettas at Central Grocery - YUM. We also meandered the French Quarter - I have a soft spot for the galleries along Rue Royal and all the street musicians.



Later that night we crossed town for an anniversary dinner at Gautreau's. I can't say enough about our meal... just spectacular, start to finish. Imagine decadent soup and salad, weep-worthy fish. Imagine a restaurant without even a sign out front, in a converted house, on a residential street. Imagine being the last diners there and having our meal in a completely empty, gorgeous dining room... just us, candlight, and music. Heaven. I also wore one of my favorite dresses, but this is the only image I have of it (awesome Roosevelt tile alert):

I haven't mentioned yet that we had a wedding to attend later in the weekend, so after dinner we met up with the bride-and-groom-to-be at a great dive bar on Magazine Street. Friday we hung out at the pool sipping drinks, reading books, eating catfish sandwiches, and being otherwise decadent. Such a life! That evening we had dinner plans at Cochon. Here I am on our walk from pre-dinner shrimp and cocktails at Luke and on our way to dinner:

This is actually the dress I wore to our rehearsal dinner three years ago - fitting since later that night we joined H&M's rehearsal party. But Cochon... oh my. Porky goodness and the best roasted oysters I've ever had and this fried alligator, which tastes a lot like Nobu's rock shrimp dish, if you've had that before. I adored this restaurant, which is entirely unsurprising.

Later that night in the French Quarter, we were toasting soon-to-be-newlyweds and toasting each other, too. So much fun.

On Saturday we decided that T should wear a bowtie to the wedding (When In New Orleans, right?), so we walked and shopped and walked and ate and drank and walked and relaxed.



And here's my favorite guy wearing not only the bowtie we acquired that day, but also his wedding day seersucker! He hadn't worn it since our wedding - and for those that don't remember, this suit was originally his grandfather's. I loved that tradition then and I still love it now. (I also love that he didn't shave for this wedding... I'm a sucker for scruff.)

Here's me and more of that great Roosevelt tile. These are some of my favorite shoes, by the way - seersucker Louboutins gifted by that handsome guy above a few years ago. He's pretty great.

H&M's wedding was at the Audubon Zoo... it was so much fun seeing the animals at the wedding and late into the night. Here were some of our favorite wedding participants (apologies to the gators for the fried item previously included in this post).

Oh hi. We match.



No seriously.

I love that T loves pattern as much as I do. That's his wedding pocket square, too!



This picture sums it up. Happy, happy, happy.



Oh, and... on Saturday afternoon a Cajun-accented psychic told me I need to be nicer to myself. T's been gloating ever since, because he always says the same thing. So here's a laaaaaate-night picture of me drinking a hot toddy due to my lack of a voice (I woke up Sunday with a lousy cold I'm still fighting). You see that squishy area that's not quite arm and not-quite side boob? That area is my nemesis. I hate it. But because I'm being nicer to myself these days, I'm posting this picture anyway. SEE, Cajun psychic and "Baby Spirit" that I've been instructed to talk to, SEE? I'm being nice.

Until next time, Nola.

A new day.

Today is a very good day.

It's my three-year wedding anniversary. It's the day my favorite person and I jet off to one of our favorite cities and spend a long weekend being no one but us. It's also the day that I confess a very big thing to you, because it's finally become more tiring keeping it quiet than letting it all hang out.

Here's my baggage, thrown open for the world to see: I've been trying to get pregnant for two years.

Exhale.

Two Junes ago, T and I threw caution to the wind and decided to just see what happens. Of course, nothing did. A long journey began then instead, one much more complicated than we ever expected. All the same, the June of my memories is a month of freewheeling optimism, a month of earnest hope, a month of giddiness. It's almost June again, and so much has changed. Our world is decidedly more measured in its optimism now, our imaginations a little more contained, our hearts a little more tender. But there is hope, always.

There's also been a lot of writing over here, in my quiet moments. Some of it is sad, some of it funny, and some of it just explanatory, captured so I don't forget the details. It's been good for me. When I started writing, the only audience I had in mind was someone besides you guys. The person writing wasn't the me you all know. She's a little more wry, a little more bitter, a little more beaten up. She has something big in common with the me of Freckled Citizen, though: they both hate whining more than anything.

I think it's the fear of coming across as a whiner that's kept me quiet here for so long. With everything I have in my life, who am I to complain about the one thing I'm missing? My mantra that keeps my inner whiner in check is "I am lucky." And I am; I know I am.

I've learned so much about myself in the last two years, so much about my husband, so much about who we are as a couple. I've never been prouder of us. I don't know when we'll overcome infertility, or if we'll overcome infertility, but I know that at the end of the day, I'm still one of the luckiest girls alive. I still wouldn't change a thing.

So if you'll indulge me, I'd like to share some of what I've written here from time to time - The Infertility Diaries, if you will. And whether or not you've ever set foot inside a fertility clinic, I have stories that might interest or amuse you. (The one where I inject myself with hormones at a wedding reception is worth the wait, trust me.) But what I'm offering isn't really entertainment or even for you: it's catharsis, and it's for me. 

I'm spending the next few days in New Orleans, where I'll be in my happy place of food, drink, music, and cheer. One of my favorite things about New Orleans has always been the way it wears itself from the inside out, guts splayed open right alongside its picture-perfect facades. It's the perfect city for me to start this new journey, this one where I unzip my insides and wear them openly. Decorum just isn't working for me anymore.

And so it's May 24, and it's a good day. Three years after the fact, and three years from now, too. No matter what.

Meal of Love II

Remember last year when we made Valentine's Dinner at home together? Remember me talking about how much I hate going out to eat on V-Day, and how much more romantic it is to stay in? Remember our curried mussels and the first date that never was? Remember the pact we made to cook together every Valentine's Day, to make something new to us?

Here's last night's menu. Recipes to come the rest of the week!

We had so much fun last night.

How did you celebrate?

All you need is love

I've always liked Valentine's Day. Not because of romantic relationships, but because of the sentiment. Love, laughter, smiles, warmth... these are good things. There should be more of these things in the world. And so however you choose to honor love, laughter, smiles, and warmth... just do it. Do it today. Do it every day. Honor love in all your relationships.

Honor it in your friendships.

Honor it in your family.

And yes, honor it in your romances.

Sarcasm can only take us so far, after all. It feels so much better to smile than to roll your eyes, don't you think?

New Year's, then and now and next

Five years ago, T spent New Year's Eve with my family in North Carolina. He'd never met them. Just days before, he'd moved back to Dallas, while I was still living in Albuquerque. Life was a wee bit uncertain. There was a lot I didn't know, but one big thing I did: bringing this guy home to the family for New Year's was the best idea I'd ever had. Here we are that night, all shiny and new. T's still sporting his short politics hair. He hates this photo, and even though it doesn't flatter either of us, I can't help but love it, knowing that hours later he'd whisper things in my ear that we both already knew, but were both waiting on him to vocalize. (As usual, I'd jumped the gun weeks earlier.)

Five years later, we've come full circle. We were home in NC for New Year's Eve again with the family that he's firmly a part of, in a position so secure it's hard to believe there was ever a time when we hadn't yet used the L word. In a twist of fate that I'll choose to believe was just the universe giving us a year's worth of bad luck all at once - and not a cliched representation of the decline of passion after marriage - we didn't even kiss at the stroke of midnight this year.

T was sick. Miserable. Bedridden with the flu. Holed up in the bedroom of my youth. The entire weekend.

It was a very Influenza New Year's Eve. Oh, how times have changed.

Folk art paintings now take the place of Smiths posters up in my old bedroom, but there's still something sweet about tending to a sick husband in your teenage bed. Poor guy.

Downstairs, we tried our best to be festive without him. After five years of making memories in this house, his presence left a hole. But I set out the party supplies anyway.

My nephew Liam kept calling it a birthday party. And so during our "calendar birthday party" without one of our own, we ate smoked fish, beef tenderloin, green beans, and cheesy grits. We played games. We laughed at the kids and hugged a new puppy. We wore flats.

But most of all, we fervently wished for a 2012 that's a little luckier for our crazy crew, with a little less sorrow and stress than the year before. I'm fairly certain this was my family's wish in 2011, too. We're a patient family, I suppose. Although by the looks of her kitchen chalkboard, my mom may be getting less patient...

T tried to make it downstairs for the ball drop, but couldn't do it. Hence the saddest and cutest New Year's Eve text message I've ever received, sent from two floors above.

Now that he's feeling better, we've decided to just redo New Year's. We have lots of fun plans this weekend... why not add in a romantic countdown? So if you're out and about in DC this weekend, keep an eye out for two weirdos whispering to each other and checking the clock at midnight. There will most definitely be kissing this time around.

Our family tree

We might do things late around here, but I like to think that we also do them right. Take our first wedding anniversary, by the way - the "paper" anniversary. Those who know me might have guessed a paper anniversary would be right up my alley, but in truth I couldn't quite figure out a paper gift that T would love as much as I did. Somewhere along the way, the idea of creating a family tree took hold of us, with our wedding date as the center. And since he hadn't thought of a gift for me either, we decided that a family tree would be our collective first anniversary gift to each other. There was something harmonious about the way that gift-giving moment paralleled what the tree represented, and when I found My Tree And Me, I knew I'd struck gold.  

Our stumbling block wasn't what kind of tree to order, then, but the genealogy needed to fill out the tree.  I had lots of my family's information - with a few holes - but T's family didn't have much at all. I've long been fascinated with genealogy, so for the next year, I delved into ancestry.com with all my might. For any of you history-lovers, I'd really recommend digging into your own family background - it's such a treasure trove! For me I found it really interesting to research both of our families at once.

My family are as a whole settlers - they came across the pond from England, and with only one exception went straight to eastern North Carolina, then stayed there generation through generation. That kind of tradition amazes me, as someone who's had a hard time staying put herself. In this respect my mom and dad's families are absolutely intertwined. Ancestors on both sides founded a church together, sold land to each other, lived next door to each other, and were buried together. They even married each other. (Yep - my parents are in fact distantly related. Two sisters married my parents' great-grandfathers in the 1800s. They think it's hilarious. Which is really the only way to react, in my mind.) Combing through my family records was fascinating for me. I got to know people like Hezekiah and Grizelle and Hepsebeth. I was able to trace lines of my family back to Wales in the 1500s - completely new history for us.

T's family are for the most part explorers. They came to the U.S. from England, Scotland, Germany, and France. They followed their own paths - for some of them, their professional lives meant they traveled in and out of the country regularly. They went West when it was Indian territory, living in Oklahoma, Iowa, New Mexico, and California. One line even went South, becoming part of Charleston history. A few of them stayed in the Northeast, but what's interesting about T's family is that even for those who didn't, Connecticut always called them back. T's father now lives in a town where completely unknown to him, his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother was buried in 1675. For a man who was raised in California, that sort of connection is eerily fascinating. I found a kindred spirit in T's family history, too - a pioneer woman named Mae who I feel sure I would've adored had I been able to meet her.

What I found by researching our families in tandem is that despite our opposing settler/explorer natures, we both have our fair share of rogues. I love having rogues in the family. We have the upstanding citizen types too, of course... but the twinkle in our eyes when T and I laugh at each other seems to me to come directly from our ancestors who fled the military and caused mischief and married a farmhand instead of a planter. There's a restlessness that we each have that I like to think was passed down to us.

After all this history I've laid out here, it's probably implied that our little genealogy project took on a life of its own for me. We needed just five generations to fill out our tree, and so I finally pressed pause on my research to have it made. We designed a custom colorway that's just gorgeous, and perfect for our dining room. Here it is framed on the wall... a first anniversary gift that came a year and a half late.

Thanks to My Tree And Me for making something we'll treasure forever. If you're in the market for a tree of your own, I highly recommend working with them. The designs are fresh and modern, and the quality is fantastic - fitting for a piece that will tell a thousand stories.

Rooftop, scaled.

I really like this guy.

It was his birthday a couple of weeks ago, which I didn't mention here. So if you need a justification for this annoying shout-from-the-rooftops post, pretend it's a birthday post. And just let me have my moment, mmmkay?

Photo via Instagram

Two years ago today...

...this happened.

We still do this all the time, by the way. A crossing guard just follows us around.

It's been an amazing two years. A ton of change (moving to a new city! buying a house! etc!), but none of it anything I'd rather do with anyone else. Life is good with this one by my side. Or dipping me in the crosswalk.

Happy two years, my love.

The Requisite Moving Post

Here's why I haven't written yet: moving sucks. We all know it. So why come here and whine about how terrible it was and complain about something that was not only my choice, but the thing I practically begged of Capitol Hill home sellers for months?

Not gonna do it. Or rather, wasn't.

But see, as time ticks by and I ignore Bloglandia for another day without glowingly posting about culinary creations out of my new kitchen or perfectly dressed windows or newly organized closets, I feel increasingly lame. I love this house, and I couldn't be happier that we're here. That I know. But getting here? Awful. I think we know who deserves the blame on this one. 

I'm the brilliant girl who did the following:

• Thought the lead-up time to the move should be spent doing house renovations instead of packing
• Kept a long-planned OBX weekend on the calendar even though we didn't have time for it
• Told parents, in-laws, relatives, and friends that we didn't need help moving
• Thought hiring movers to do only the "big things" was a good idea
• Thought "the little things" that would remain were, in fact, little
• Believed we could do said "little things" with our relatively little vehicle

So yeah.

We worked our butts off in the house for ten days, painting and sanding and stripping and the like, and didn't pack a thing, meaning we were sore and tired before moving even began. The day the movers came, not a box had been packed. I was so unprepared I had them wait before disconnecting the Internet so that I could finish a work project. Once they got going, the movers only broke one piece of furniture, which we were actually pretty cheery about, given how horrific our last experience with movers was. We moved into the house that night with our furniture, and you know... the house seemed so great with just furniture in it, minus our pesky stuff. Have I mentioned we have a lot of stuff?

Friday we packed and moved all day long, fourteen hours straight. T rented a U-Haul intervention-style (thank God), and even with it we missed a concert and any chance at having a normal weekend. We were limping and bleeding. Really. By Saturday, we were existing solely on caffeine and willpower, and broke at different moments. My breakdown moment came in the closet (don't they always?), surrounded by clothes of three different sizes and facing a pair of pants that were giving me a particularly condescending look. That's when I announced that Saturday, April 23 was the worst day of my life. Take that, stupid pants I can't wear anymore. You win.

And then I felt guilty, and looked at the guy putting up with me through all of this, battling an explosion of my old graduate school papers, or shoveling dirt from my planters into plastic bins, or wrangling gift wrap, or some other ridiculousness of my own design.

"Okay, this isn't the worst day of my life because you are with me."

(Hug.)

(Pause.)

"But it's still a really shitty day."

"I mean really shitty."

We pulled away from our apartment for the last time at 1 in the morning. We had a plan that things would go in their rightful places as they came out of the thankgoodnesswehaditohmygodhewasrightU-Haul, rather than just anywhere. That plan had been thrown out long ago.

Contractor bags filled with clothes still on hangers... thrown. Suitcases of books so heavy they barely rolled... shoved. Random-ass shit that I don't know why in the world I still keep: basement. And so on.

By 3:00 a.m. Sunday, we were reduced to two lost souls on a dark streetcorner, covered in bruises and scrapes and whispering lifting and turning strategies, with an audience of stray neighborhood cats. It started to rain. But finally, we were done.

Three days later, to say that this house is "taking shape" would be vastly exaggerating the homemaking progress going on inside. Instead, this house is beginning to consider a process of thinking about taking shape. The truth is, we need some time to recover. Or at least one day to do nothing but sleep. Or a massage therapist to fix our broken bodies. Or a contractor to fix up everything we want fixed, simply by reading our minds. Those glowing blog posts about kitchens, windows, and closets... you're going to be waiting a while. So you know.

Moral of the story: don't try this at home, kids. Accept help. Know you're not Superwoman. Be okay with that. Pack up your too-small pants first, on a happy day. Or for pete's sake, finally throw them away, why don't you?

And that's all I have to say about that.

The only happy thing to ever come out of Moving Day... big love from me to the awesome person who identifies this brilliance:

First date food, almost five years later

Somewhere along the way, T and I decided that mussels were the perfect first date food. Maybe our focus on first dates lies in the fact that we never exactly had a first date, or maybe it's because in restaurants we love spotting potential first dates at neighboring tables and interpreting their interactions. Regardless, were we to meet again on a traditional first date that did not take place from 11 p.m. - 2 a.m. and did not involve me telling him he was ridiculous, we would choose to eat mussels.

Mussels are adventurous and revelatory: they are not for the squeamish, and right away they tell you a lot about a person as an eater, which in turn suggests many more things you hope to learn for yourself over time. Mussels are interactive: they're shared, there's a give-and-take involved, there are fingers unexpectedly meeting in the bowl. Mussels are also messy, and they don't take themselves too seriously: any food where you are likely to laugh, have dribble on your chin, and probably make a mess at the table... that's a fun food to eat with someone, in my opinion. Mussels are also about being insatiable: sopping up the broth with great crusty bread, and going back piece after piece because you just.can't.get.enough... why not be insatiable together?

In honor of that hypothetical romantic first date we will never have, we chose to make mussels at home this year for our Valentine's Day dinner. I'd never made mussels before, due mostly to lots of fantastic mussel spots in town a stroll away from us. But suddenly I realized that if our hypothetical first date would involve adventure and interaction and more.more.more, why couldn't our own kitchen have the same sensibility? We made a pact: every Valentine's Day, we'll try to cook something new together, something we've always wanted to try but never quite gotten around to. As such, with our first-ever mussels, we skipped a traditional white wine broth and went straight for spice and decadence. Of course we did.

Spicy Curried Mussels for Two

Adapted from Gourmet Today

(can easily be doubled to feed a table)

Ingredients

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

1/3 cup finely chopped shallots

1.5 teaspoons curry powder (adjust depending on spiciness of your curry)

Pinch of red pepper flakes (more or less to taste)

2 tablespoons medium-dry sherry

2 pounds mussels (soaked, scrubbed, beards removed)

1/2 cup heavy cream

2.5 tablespoons water

A scattering of fresh chopped cilantro

Salt

Crusty bread

Directions

Soak mussels in a large pot or bowl of water for 20 minutes. Lift mussels out of water after soaking, rather than pouring everything in a strainer (there will be sand and debris left over in the pot). Discard any mussels that opened during the soaking process. Scrub mussels and remove beards, if any.

Melt butter in a large wide pot over moderate heat. Add shallots, curry powder, and red pepper flakes and cook, stirring frequently, until shallots are softened, 3 to 4 minutes. Add sherry, bring to a simmer and simmer, stirring, for 1 minute.

Add mussels and cook, covered, over moderately high heat until they just open wide; check frequently after 4 minutes and transfer opened mussels to a bowl. (Discard any that have not opened after 8 minutes.)

Add cream and water to pot, bring to a simmer, and simmer for 1 minute. Add cilantro and salt to taste, pour over mussels, and toss gentle. Serve with bread for sponging up the sauce.

Meal of Love

I celebrate Valentine's Day in. Snuggled up, laughing in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of wine, wearing pajamas, IN. Honestly, just the idea of eating out on Valentine's Day is painful to me. All those people, all the reservation drama, all the elbows at too-close tables? While I'm a split personality extrovert/introvert, I am decidedly introverted every February 14. Last night was no exception. We made a glorious meal, so yummy that I thought I'd share it here.

We loved this meal so much, I decided to feature these recipes all week long. It'll also give me a chance to give shout-outs to some of my favorite food bloggers whose posts inspired our meal.

Course 1: Blood Orange Salad with Shallot Vinaigrette

Course 2: Spicy Curried Mussels

Course 3: Poached Spiced Pears

 This year's card, courtesy of my perennial fave Egg Press

Cooking a meal together, it seems, is our established Valentine's Day tradition. We added an additional element this year: cooking something new... but more on that soon. Any Valentine's Day food traditions in your house?

Update: This is too good not to share. Francis Lam continues to delight me to no end, as he live-blogs the top internet searches for Valentine's Day restaurant meals. Hilarity found here.

Dreams, deferments, and detours

So we didn't get the Pretty House. We found out on New Year's Eve, in the early evening. It took a while after we got the news for me to put on my party face and ring in the New Year. But I did. And then we celebrated.

Not toasting another year would have been a crime. 2010 has been intense, and we survived it. In the first half of the year, the world was our oyster: we moved to the city we'd been trying to move to for years. We set up a cozy apartment. We hung out in Europe. In the second half, though, we closed our circle in a bit, holding tight to family while saying goodbye to loved ones who left this world too soon. The second half of 2010 changed me. But now that it's 2011, I know that brighter times are ahead.

Which brings us back to the hunt for new digs. Our lease is up in less than two months, so the clock is ticking. Maybe we'll rent again, but we'd like to buy if we can find the right place at the right price in our very short timeline. The funny thing about house-hunting, I've discovered, is that it is exactly like everyone says it is:  highly emotional and completely stressful. I wrote about my concerns regarding the Pretty House here, but with each passing day, I was more and more sure that it was "the one." I had visions of renovations and a family and a life, all in that spot. Brains and hearts can so easily play tricks on us when there's a capital-h Home involved, can't they?

Since New Year's, we're not exactly back to Square One. There are a couple of interesting possibilities out there. One is purple (eek!). One is a renovation project (gulp-yay-dependingonmood). Maybe we'll see a slew of new listings in the coming weeks. Maybe not. Maybe I just want to make a decision so that we can move on with life. Maybe, as long as we're together, it really doesn't matter at all.

May your 2011 be filled with wonder, laughter, and joy.

Gorgeous papercuts and screenprints courtesy of Rob Ryan, my brightest-burning paper love.

How I Know

Remember when Whitney Houston was adorable? (Let us pause for an awesome '80s flashback.)

Whitney might look bubblegum here, but don't let the huge hair bow fool you. "How Will I Know?" is one of the biggest questions of all.

For each one of us, knowing is a unique process, but it tends to involve the way we feel, the way we laugh, the at-homeness and thrill of it all, and those many and varied things that can't be quantified. (If knowing was as easy as an equation, we wouldn't have pop songs written about it, now would we?)

So there are the big things, but there are also those tiny moments that are as humble as they are full of proclamation. There is me, cooking home alone while he's away on a business trip, digging through the spice box, and discovering a small bag labeled "Homeground Ancho Chile Powder," written in his handwriting, full of chile that he did in fact grind himself.

Someone needs to slap an '80s hair bow on me and call me done, because this little treasure from a guy whose stove had only been used to cook frozen pizza when we met, is in fact how I know.

*Really, I couldn't fit a Whitney Houston/bagged powder joke in here somewhere?