did someone say dinner party?

The doorbell rang and I checked the peep hole: my first guest stood pulling on her pearls with one hand and balancing a pie dish in the other. I pat my bouffant hair and smoothed the ruffles in my skirt. “Hellooo, dahling! DO come in!” I cooed as she stepped inside. Another friend followed with a salad bowl in the crook of her arm. “To the kitchen, shall we?” As we waited for the green bean casserole and lemon-pepper chicken to arrive, we chit-chat about the rich and gorgeous husbands we’d invented, which naturally led to stories of our adorable children: Kitty, Bartholomew, Margot, and Derek Ronald Frances III.

I can’t remember how or why we came up with the idea for a Housewife Party, but it was one of the most memorable get-togethers of high school. We were junior girls, pot-lucking around my parents’ dining room table. We dabbed the corners of our lipsticked lips and giggled at each others poorly executed British dialect. “EXcellent nosh, loves. AbsoLUTely divine.” After indulging in homemade pie and a game of Life, we deemed our dinner party a massive success.

Six years later, I still love dinner parties (though they no longer include fake children or snooty accents). The community-style meals make hosting a cinch, and, more often than not, guests are happy to contribute. Last night, I only made the zucchini and roasted new potatoes. My friends covered the salad, pork tenderloin, brownies, and drinks. We broke into the wine, chat in the warmth of the kitchen, stayed at the table for hours...it’s hard to imagine an evening better-spent. These dinners counteract our work-induced exhaustion. We relax. We laugh. We say we should do this again, and we mean it. We all eat, so why not eat together? The concept is simple, and the effects are satisfying. Deeply satisfying. Satisfying like red wine and dark chocolate. Like red wine and dark chocolate and a good book. And a warm blanket. Mmmmyes, I think I’ll bask in a feeling like that. Every chance I get.

touch my swag, wish you could.

Either my body needs to learn how to stop bruising, or I need to learn how to stop slamming into inanimate objects.

This is on my mind because, naturally, I just walked right into the bathroom doorframe. My left shoulder didn’t quite make it through. At least I didn’t hit my leg this time—a lovely bluish-yellow line is still visible on my thigh from last Friday’s bedroom door collision. Granted, it was before 6 a.m., and I really can’t be expected to dodge these things in the dark and morning delirium. Doorframes aren’t my only issue, though. They normally only catch my shoulders, whereas doorknobs bang up my hipbone, and the coffee table nearly brakes my shins every time I walk through the living room. And, since I’m confessing all sides of my inability to walk, I’ve also been known to shut the door on my own leg (did I really not notice that I hadn’t slipped all the way out yet?). Nearly every day I find faint bruises, and I run into stuff so often that I have a hard time figuring out how I acquired them. I think the time has come for me to finally own up to the truth…

This obviously has something to do with my swag.

I recently learned that I have “a walk”. A teenager at the Shelter, where I work, asked me what I was like in high school. Not sure what she was looking to know, I said, “Cool, of course.” I laughed and she cocked her head with her hand on her hip, waiting for a more detailed answer. “Well, I was cool with my friends. I wasn’t in the party-happy in-crowd, but those kids were nice to me, so I guess I had it pretty good. I liked where I was at. Why?”

“Because,” she said, “you walk like you were cool. You know, like you were the kind of girl who could get away with whatever she wants. I can just picture you walkin' down the hall like a bad a--I mean, like someone who owned the place.” I keeled over laughing as a couple of other girls circled around us. “She has a walk, right? Don’t you think Miss Sara must’ve been cool in high school?”

“Yeah, Miss Sara! You totally have a walk.”

“It’s true! You do, Miss!” The girls all nodded and reassured me about my coolness, which was highly amusing and somehow flattering, even if I did make them walk in front of me the rest of our way back to the Shelter.

I’m glad that teenagers can read so much into my walk, but it’d really be nice if doorframes and furniture would follow suit. Show a little respect. Give the distance a cool kid like me deserves.

go, go gourmet: take 2.

Not only do I now know how to use a garlic press, but I own one. Be impressed—I can mince, slice, press, and roast garlic. I know, I know. A sure sign of talent. I’m expecting the Food Network’s job offer any day now. Say it with me: Saucy Suppers with Sara. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?

I’m in the kitchen a lot these days, which is great, because it makes me happy. Super happy, in fact. Stocking up my kitchen has been a long process; vinegars, sauces, spices, herbs, and cooking utensils can’t all be on one receipt (unless they’re on someone else’s). I’m a crock-pot and food processor away from reaching Junior Suzie Homemaker status. As I’m only a young twentysomething, I don’t intend to go full-Suzie and prance around my kitchen in an apron and pearls. And, really, when given the choice between high heels and sock-monkey slippers, you know I’m going with the latter.

As with my cooking attire, my dinners aren’t lavishly sophisticated yet. That’s mainly because my budget doesn’t allot much extra spending on fancy foods. Take Central Market’s London broil, for example. I asked the meat guy for a price estimate and thought I might splurge, but when he slapped the meat on the scale and said it’d be $11.62 for 1.66 lbs, I walked away. Actually, I moved my pencil from the corner of my lips, pointed it at him and said, “Oh, um, I just don’t think I’ll be able to pay that. I mean, there isn’t even any fresh basil, which is a major letdown—you always have basil, it’s the staple herb!—and my whole menu for tonight was based off the idea that I’d be buying fresh basil for the main dish and the side, you know, to use it up,” and, pulsing my pencil mid-air at every word, I finished, “Sorry, I just don’t think I can justify this...but, I might be back. Ah, this is complicated! I had it all planned out, you know?” He offered one of those you’re-amusing-and-borderline-crazy smiles and I lowered my pencil, thinking how I should never hold one again while shopping.

So I can’t buy pricey meats, and I cook a lot of chicken. But chicken is delicious! Especially when simmered in the mustard sauce I whipped up last night. Shallots, chicken broth, brandy, chardonnay, heavy cream, Dijon mustard, chives...now that’s gourmet. I might also add that, though I didn’t include garlic in my sauce, I did roast and mash it into my potatoes. I’m under the impression that garlic fancies up any meal, and makes your house smell like you’ve been slaving away for hours. It’s a smart trick—I’m sure you’ll hear me mention it again someday on an episode of Saucy Suppers with Sara.

wish upon a starbucks.

A friend posted an essay of mine on his website (a place you should really check out anyway).

http://www.sevenminutepitch.com/contributors/2009/9/5/wish-upon-a-starbucks-sara-hevron.html

I've blogged a few times about my Starbucks experiences, but this is the background, the real coffee in the cup.

librarian dreams.

If my house caught on fire, I’d save my books first. I know I should answer the age-old “if you could only save one thing” question with, say, my dog or my roommate, but...let’s be honest, my books are way more flammable. And if we want to get specific, I’d snatch my Harry Potter set first—I interned at Bloomsbury Publishing in London and sort of snuck them home with me. I say “sort of” because I was allowed to take books, but I’m guessing that didn’t translate to, “Why sure, we’d be more than happy to donate a hardback set worth £115.00! Whatever suits your fancy, love!” Nonetheless, the books are mine, and I adore them.

I’ve always been obsessed with reading. As a kid, I would make my mom read to me in Dad’s comfy recliner way past my bedtime. Every summer, I participated in the library’s Summer Reading Club. In junior high, I won Outside Reading awards. In high school, I actually read a lot of the assigned books (which is saying something...kids these days). In college, I majored in English and minored in British Lit. Therefore, it should not surprise anyone that I spent the last half hour reorganizing a bookshelf.

When I pulled Under the Tuscan Sun—only two quarters, courtesy of the Friends of the Library program—from my bag this afternoon, I realized that I could justifiably revamp my Contemporary bookshelf. (I also have a Classics bookshelf and a Leftovers bookshelf, where I stash the unlikable school texts and those with ugly bindings.) Before shuffling books around, I started the Coldplay CD my roommate recently burned for me and decided that, gee, the scrumptious scent of a crème brûlée candle sure would be nice. I stood before the shelf, pulling books, replacing and moving them based on aestheticism. Can’t have white next to grey—insert color here. Hey this can be a need-to-read shelf! Hmm, short books together, or intermixed? I like it, I like it. I sat down on the couch, admiring my work. I leapt to the fireplace, to marvel from a different angle. I pushed and tugged books less than half a centimeter, convinced that such “vast changes” made all the difference.

As I sit here now, I can honestly say that my Contemporary bookshelf looks fabulous. Eclectic. Sophisticated and scholastic. In fact, I can’t stop looking at it. I highly doubt anyone will ever notice a difference, but, I know. And I know it looks good.

go, go, gourmet.

I recently copied down a recipe for Summer Garden Pasta from the Barefoot Contessa’s cookbook. The dish required me to julienne basil leaves and mince garlic, which seemed mighty upscale compared to my normal noodles, veggies, and sauce-from-the-jar pastas. But, I needed to venture beyond those humdrum basics. I purchased grape tomatoes, fresh basil leaves, kosher salt, and angel hair noodles at Central Market, as Central Market automatically instills sophistication and the illusion of a gourmet future in the average grocery shopper.

For the accidentally forgotten garlic and parmesan cheese, I stopped by Target after work the next day—the day I would master Summer Garden Pasta. I wandered between the two kitchenware aisles, fascinated by nifty apple slicers and wary of potato peelers. To my great dismay, no housewifely women were in sight to answer my amateur questions. What exactly is a paring knife? Why are there so many variations of cheese graters? How are you supposed to use this garlic press? Do I even need a garlic press?

Twenty minutes later, with a not-so-ominous pink chopping knife in my cart, I arrived at the garlic bins. And I panicked. I needed six cloves. What are cloves? The entire thing? That would be, like, a pound of garlic! What kind of recipe is this? Not trusting my own judgment—a wise decision—I asked a friendly-looking young woman to enlighten me. She smiled one of those “oh you’re so adorably clueless” smiles and informed me that cloves are the small sections, not the entire thing. With a quick “okay thanks bye,” I rushed to check out, go home, and test my cooking skills.

I poured olive oil into my new glass bowl and added the red pepper flakes and other seasonings. I halved the tomatoes, julienned the basil, and minced the garlic with my “it’s a girl” pink knife. I was getting pretty impressed with myself—I felt so Rachael Ray. Four hours later, after the mix had soaked and been stirred around the angel hair, a friend and I ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the finished pasta. We sprinkled on extra parmesan and basil—an extra touch of class—and photographed the masterpiece. I felt ecstatic, almost giddy. I hadn’t botched the recipe! Rather, my Summer Garden Pasta was good. Seriously good. And my next gourmet meal will be even better...so I hope.

starbs post: on ice.

Last time I came to Starbucks, I started a post that I didn’t publish. I’ll post it now, since I can follow up with a happier note.

“I paid straight from the coin purse today. I like to do that periodically. If I’m not using my card or dollar bills, it seems like I’m not paying. I don’t keep track of my change, and therefore don’t keep track of when I’m losing it—a genius budgeting trick, I know. Like an extra special treat, a forgotten five crumpled in your raincoat pocket.

I was ready to count out $1.73, but apparently iced coffee costs $2.11. Yes, your math is correct: ice is worth $0.38. Inconceivable! I also didn’t realize that what I really wanted was an iced latte, not an iced coffee, which is a flat Diet Coke look-alike. And, the velvety burnt-orange comfy chairs were all taken. This is not a good day for Starbucks. I’ll try again next week...if I can hoard enough pennies.”

Bitter Betty, right there.

It’s next week now and I’m a happy camper. The main upside to the day is that a friend was working (the only Starbucks barista who knows my name, though he doesn’t count, as he’s known me for four years already—the name dilemma is a story for another day). My iced latte was on the house and I tried the toffee almond bar, or something by a similar name, which was discounted from another barista. Glorious!

I’m becoming a fan of the iced drinks here. I can’t justify ordering a hot drink when it’s hot outside, which would be like wearing a swimsuit while ice fishing—doable, but uncomfortable. Iced drinks are where it’s at. Starbucks makes bank in the summertime—as I learned last week, ice is an expensive add-on. Now that I’ve come to terms with that, I can look forward to chomping on coffee-flavored ice all summer. Good times await.