I heard you like to laugh. At my expense. Sounds like you're ready to take our friendship to the next level. You won't be disappointed. I swear on teeny, tiny baby chipmunks.
“When you’re a kid, age matters a lot,” Babs, my mom, said the other day. We were lounging on her living room sofa killing time before her friends, Dick and Fern, came over for dinner.
Hang on. What’s that? You think I’m lying about their names being Dick and Fern? Would I lie about something like that? Babs even gave me permission to use their real names in this post! (Then again, Babs also gave me permission to paint my aunt’s house as a surprise gift…)
Dick and Fern have been friends with my parents since before bottled water was a thing.
“You know. If you’re seven and the neighbors are ten it’s a huge deal,” Babs went on. “Then you get into your 20s and it really doesn’t matter at all.”
“Dick and Fern are a few years older than us so they’re in their 70s now,” Babs said. “And just look at this.” She whipped out her phone and showed me the text message that Fern had just sent.
“Late because of rain! At least she finally got a smart phone this year,” Babs went on. “Before that she was doing the texting where you had to hit the number keys over and over!”
I didn’t have the heart to remind Babs how recent her own memorable smart phone purchase was.
“Yeah,” I replied. “It also seems like there’s get-off-my-lawn-seventy and I-AM-JUST-GETTING-STARTED-B*TCH-SEVENTY.”
This, of course, got me thinking of my own friendships. Had there ever been an age gap that suddenly became too pronounced? Is there ever a “cut off” when you can no longer relate, whether it’s on a surface level with cultural references, or emotionally based on various life stages?
So far, at 36, age has never been an issue in my friendships, though it’s still certainly bittersweet when they fade for other reasons: Distance, difference of opinion, or interests in chipmunks and priorities that no longer align.
My advice to Babs? Might as well stick it out. At least you’ll get to tell your favorite stories over and over.
“Do you think they’ll have coffee?” my sister asked, peering over the edge of a wide toll bridge that would take us past the Hudson River towards a small town in central New York state.
“I was just thinking the same thing!” I said, slapping the steering wheel. “We’ll have to ask as soon as we check in.”
After a two and a half hour car ride from our hometown in New Jersey, we arrived at Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York on Friday afternoon, leaving plenty of time to have dinner before our weekend workshop began at 8:00pm.
Omega is a nonprofit, mission-driven, and donor-supported educational organization. For more than 40 years we’ve been a pioneer in holistic studies – helping people and organizations integrate personal growth and social change, moving beyond ‘the way it is’ toward ‘the way it can be.'” –Omega Institute website
We wound through bumpy, forest-lined roads until we pulled into the main driveway. A tan, golden-locked young man greeted us with an easy smile and glazed-over eyes.
“Hey there! Staying here or are you a commuter?”
“Commuter,” I replied.
“Right on. You can go ahead and park in either of these two rows. Have a good one.”
When we’d spot him later that evening, we’d find him still perched at his station, but holding a guitar. We parked the car in the gravel lot and joined a long line in front of a building at the main entrance.
Eventually receiving welcome instructions and a map, we moseyed uphill towards the dining hall.
“I feel like I’m in Dirty Dancing,” I said, gazing at the casually dressed men and women wandering through Omega’s plentiful cabins and gardens. There was something serene about the timeless energy surrounding us. Or maybe it was just the lack of wifi.
Someone definitely needs to put this in the corner.
As calm and quiet as the campus seemed, the institute was fully booked for the weekend and the food hall was hopping, hundreds of people lined up at the (mostly) vegan buffet.
Commuters like us (we were staying at an off-campus AirBnB) had to pay a mandatory $110 “commuter fee” on top of the workshop registration fee in order to enjoy the food and campus amenities. (Coffee, the staff assured us at registration, would be available in the morning, along with milks made of everything from hemp to rainbows.)
We filled our plates and fruitlessly searched for the vodka station balanced our cups awkwardly as we tried to find a table outside.
I think someone forgot to turn on the air conditioning…
All of the tables outside were large enough to accommodate at least eight people; luckily, I’d spotted the phrase “communal dining” in the brochure and had spent the prior two weeks practicing my fake niceties.
“What workshop are you here for?” I asked the man across from me, wondering how many chanterelle mushrooms I could shove into my mouth between questions.
“Psychic Detective,” he replied, spearing a chickpea and giving me the kind of bright-eyed, smiling response usually reserved for preschool teachers and cannibals. “How about you?”
I inhaled dramatically before replying with jazz hands, “Your Spirit Guides Await!”
He nodded as if I’d just said “the sky is blue” and we went on to cover all of the other usual platitudes for the next hour before finding an excuse to leave. The question he never asked, and that I imagine you’re wondering at this stage:
What the f&@% are you doing here?”
I blame meditation. After just a few short months of daily meditation, my sister and I found ourselves exploring other metaphysical curiosities, from oracle cards to crystals to chakra-balancing. Poking around these avenues ignited a spark in both of us that felt too intriguing to ignore.
Plus those crystal balls really bring out the crazy in my eyes.
With time to spare before our workshop began, my sister and I made our way down the hill towards the community lake, passing several people lounging in hammocks. We plopped down in two empty chaise lounges by the water and watched a few kayakers drift lazily in the distance. One of the staff members raked the sand in front of the water for a solid fifteen minutes, a concentrated frown on her face.
The result of her efforts.
“Do you think she misunderstood the term ‘Reiki’?” I asked at one point.
My sister rolled her eyes at my pun and answered, “Do you think people take the kayaks out just to smoke pot?”
A solid theory.
Neither of our questions were answered because we spent the rest of the weekend sitting barefoot in a small, brightly lit room with one instructor and eighteen strangers, meditating and channeling spirit guides, angels, and for one unlucky classmate not used to a plant-based diet, farts.
Elizabeth Harper, a walking fairy our instructor, explained in a lilting British accent that we all have one main spirit guide with us throughout our lives, along with one main guardian angel, but you might have other spirit guides with you for specific life events or goals. You can tap into these all-knowing, all-loving energy forces at any time, most especially through meditation. I would tell you more, but apparently I can make a lot of money offering this kind of instruction.
So, did I receive any meaningful guidance or insight throughout the weekend? Yes.
My classmate Gale received this channeled message for me from my spirit guides, including the symbol. Obviously, I am destined for superstardom.
Did one of my spirit guides look like Zac Efron? Yes. Did I love not stressing about finding vegan food to eat? Yes. Did I mention the farter every chance I got? Yes. Would I go back?
No… You’re not. You’re not ready. Stop. I see your face. You’re not ready. I’m not messing around.
Are. You. Ready?
Oh. Okay. Fine. You want my credentials:
Years 0 through 21: Unrequited Love
Years 21 to 31: White picket fence
Year 31.5: Divorce
Year 32: Rebound from Hell
Year 32.5: Rebound from Hell: Fully Reloaded
Year 33: 10 Dates in 10 Weeks
Year 33.5: (Elective?) Celibacy
Year 34: Well…but he’s so nice…
Year 35: (Elective?) Celibacy Reboot
Year 36: TBD
So.
Where were we?
Right.
Do you think it’s looks? Do you think it’s money? Do you think it’s who you know?
You’re wrong.
I’m not the funniest, smartest, richest, or most beautiful person you’ll ever meet.
I know. This is coming as a shock.
I’m not being modest. I’m being honest. If they paid me for cellulite and drunken snafus I wouldn’t even have to be writing this right now.
But look at Year 33.
See that? Ten dates in ten weeks. That’s not an exaggeration. That’s a thing I did. Me. A textbook introvert who would rather Tweet-watch a show with a group of strangers than have an actual conversation. I think MeetUp is a place where people go to avoid their families on not-real-holidays like Memorial Day. (Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I eat tortillas in front of the refrigerator wearing pajama pants held together by a safety pin that I may or may not have inherited from Laura Ingalls Wilder.)
And out of those ten dates? Eight of them asked for a second one.
Why?
During this phase of, er, prolific dating, my hair changed. My weight changed. I think my job even changed. None of that mattered. No one cares. People only care HOW YOU MAKE THEM FEEL.
Except a few.
A few people who really love you.
And why am I telling you all of this?
Because no one asked me for a third date those few people who really love you need to include YOU. I grew up feeling rejected (see: years 0-21), and now, I suppose, to prove a point, I can (kinda) get anyone to (sorta) like me anytime I want. And so can you.
I admit it, Chipmunks. I’m slipping. Between working full-time, embarking on a 130+ hour practicum project, writing a Masters thesis, and designing a new website (…stay tuned!), I’m starting to crack. I’m even getting other people to write posts for me.
On the upside, this post totally wrote itself.
1. You find yourself posting things like this to Facebook:
Always the butt of your jokes, I am.
2. You Could Give the 3 Stooges a Run for Their Money
I have spilled not one, not two, not three, but FOUR dinners in the past few weeks. First, there were the freshly grilled veggie burgers that flew out of the container and down the stairs, making friends with all of my stinky workout shoes. Then there was the bag holding popcorn kernels that gave up on life just as I was about to dump its contents into a pot. And let’s not forget the tray of vegetables that took a detour from the grill to the house via the grass on Mother’s Day.
The crowning jewel was a tray of general Tso’s tofu, smothered in bright, red sauce, gleefully leaping from the confines of my plate and landing all over my gray living room carpet. I’m still finding sticky sauce in fun places, like underneath the dog’s bowls.
I would have recreated some of these moments for the photo op, but I promised Uncle Jesse I’d stop scaring him.
For the love of God, woman, sit down. Sit. Down!
3. You Can’t Even Select the Right Address On Amazon
I’ve now sent a grand total of three packages to my parents’ house this month. Luckily nothing too embarrassing. Like ‘stache bleach.
I’m kidding. It totally was ‘stache bleach.
Now that I think about it, I’ve also gone to the grocery store and walked away with everything but the one thing I really needed, lost or misplaced an umbrella, a phone charger, a water bottle top, a child, and even ordered a Redbox movie and tried to pick it up at the wrong location.
I didn’t want to hear you try to do a Russian accent for 141 minutes anyway, Jennifer Lawrence! …Yes I did. I so did.
Oh, and I asked the woman at DSW Shoe Warehouse last weekend why my gift cards weren’t working.
Ma’am…those don’t say DSW anywhere on them.
4. You Mistake Someone for a Different Person…and They Look Nothing Alike
The other day my sister texted and said, “Come meet Joe and I at the pizza place!”
“Give me a few,” I replied. “I need to put on pants and stop crying over my nonexistent love life a really sh*tty Netflix movie.”
I greeted my sister and Joe fifteen minutes later, and after we chatted for a while, Joe said, “Oh, what’s your thesis about?”
I tried to cover up my confused expression. Hadn’t we just discussed this a few weeks ago over drinks in my sister’s yard when we first met? Was my project that boring? I bit my tongue and simply explained it again.
It wasn’t until the next day that my sister cleared up the confusion.
“Um… we had drinks with Chris in the yard. Wait. Wait. You thought Joe was Chris? They don’t even look alike!” she sputtered, breaking into hysterics.
“It was dark!” I tried to defend myself.
While she got her ab workout for the week, I realized, “Huh. That explains why only one of them had an accent.”
I also think this is a normal-sized pretzel.
And the number one sign you’re losing it…
5. Halfway through writing this post, you realize you wrote a post with the same title six years ago.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I hope you’ll share some of your own ‘losing it’ stories so I don’t feel so alone.
This is precisely what happened to me (again) two weeks ago when I read an alarming update from my friend, Robin. Rather than fill you in on the details, I thought I’d let the wonderful woman herself handle the job!
Let’s all give a warm welcome to Robin (and her four-year-old son, who plays a…surprising…role in this tale)!
How does a day that started off normal end with a trip to the doctors, tweezers, and California Raisins?
Let’s start from the beginning…
Baby carrier in tow, I walk into my four year old’s classroom. He is peeing in the toilet, door wide open, a content look on his face – you do you, buddy! By the time I grab his bag, he has finished his business and I notice something on his ear.
In typical mom fashion, I lick my thumb and go to wipe his ear.
“Ow!” he winces.
Well, this can’t be good…
I lean in and take a closer look.
**shudder**
There is something IN HIS EAR.
Instant panic. Is it a bug? Is it poop (he was just in the bathroom)? Is it some other foreign object with which I am less familiar? I grab his hand and leave.
Sitting in the car I’m thinking, “What the actual f*ck is in your ear?” and I am not getting any straight answers. He is clearly exercising his right to plead the fifth. I call the pediatrician, who closes at 4:00, and hope they answer. They answer! I tear out of the parking lot, grilling this poor kid the whole way.
It took the entire drive to the office to get the full story. Apparently a little girl (who will not be named) was eating…wait for it….RAISINS at lunch and decided to put some in his ear. While listening I am wondering, Were you a willing participant in all this? Did she assault you? Should I tell the school? What the f*ck does a parent do in this situation? Also, note to this young lady with the raisins: not the way to make friends!
…Or is it?
Once inside the office the panic begins to subside. Luckily we have an amazing pediatrician who was willing to see us right away and calmly removed said RAISIN from William’s ear…all while providing a teachable moment in a stern doctor voice.
“Now you listen here young man. Just because your mom got an AMAZING story out of this…yeah, no, never mind. Definitely stay friends with that chick.”
The whole drive home, after the raisin extraction, I was thinking to myself what is the name of that cartoon…with the raisins who play instruments…they are in a band?…
Robin, I believe you’re referring to the Emmy Award-winning band, The California Raisins, who catapulted to popularity in the mid-1980s.
Now that things have settled down, I think you and your son can both enjoy (and hear) a trip down memory lane…
~*~*~*~*~*~
Any other surprising social media post-spottings out there?
A few weeks ago at work, I overheard someone say, “A.S.M.R.” Normally when I overhear things at work, I stare at my computer screen for a minute, open my Google doc titled, “New Ways to Avoid People,” and start furiously typing.
This time I hesitated for only a moment before popping up and walking two cubicles down.
“I’m so sorry I totally meant to didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you say ASMR and I just had to come over. I’m Jules, by the way because despite the fact that I’ve sat two desks away from you for a year I’ve been really busy with this whole Google doc thing. I’ve been listening to ASMR for ages and everything you’re hearing about it is TOTALLY true!”
Many years ago, a fellow blogger clued me into this newfangled phenomenon called Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response, or, ASMR. “Just watch this and keep an open mind,” she said. “I swear it’s not dirty.”
As I watched this pretty, whispering blonde woman, grateful I was in the privacy of my own home, I suddenly felt tingles on the sides of my scalp. It was so pleasant, in such a benign and innocent way, that I laughed out loud. It was similar to the feeling I used to get when my sister or a friend would brush and braid my hair. I’m pretty sure it’s exactly how a dog feels when you scratch behind his or her ears in that juuuust right spot.
You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout.
I began a nightly ritual of falling asleep to these videos, my ex chiding me as I’d put on headphones. “Gonna listen to your whispers?” he’d tease. He was the only one who knew about this little routine, because, well, it was a little…weird.
Until now!
As my work conversation proves, ASMR has exploded over the past six years. Some people theorize that the sound of a nurturing woman’s voice brings us back to early childhood. Many people, like me, use it as a sleep aid.
Where there used to be half a dozen ASMR “artists” on YouTube, there are now thousands. The woman above, Maria from Gentle Whispering ASMR (my personal favorite), has well over a million YouTube subscribers. Even people like Olivia Munn are hopping onboard. I’m pretty sure there’s now an ASMR artist for anything you can dream up. Turning library book pages? Chewing gum? Folding towels? Scalp massage? (I would keep going but I’m afraid of what I might discover.)
If you’re looking for a little soul-comfort food, I highly recommend browsing YouTube and picking up some dreamy tingles, free of charge.
I know what we should do! We should get a tent, go to that place in upstate New York with the naked dancing, and just CUT. LOOSE.
I have this group of really great girlfriends who love to get together and enjoy a glass or ten of wine. Eventually, one friend or another says some variation of the above.
The alpha female of the group (*cough* my sister) then pulls out her phone and starts pointing around the table, “WHEN ARE YOU FREE. WHEN ARE YOU FREE. WHEN ARE YOU FREE. OKAY….DONE.”
In these moments, I turn into a spastic owl puppet, my head spinning a full 360-degrees. I’m suddenly the only person who can see in the dark, wondering when the light will shine again.
As my little bird noggin spins like a top, everyone around me screams, “OH MY GODDDDD. BARRY CAN WATCH THE DOG AND I’LL TELL MY BOSS TO GO SCRATCH AND I’LL GET THAT SALSA FROM WHOLE FOODS AND YAAAAAAASSSSSS OH MY GOD YAASSSSSSSS!!!!!”
My heart starts racing. Once again, I’m becoming:
Chief Long Memory.
Chief Long Memory, ironically, is the member of the tribe with the least amount of responsibility — no kids, no mortgage, no sick ferret. In these moments, she sighs heavily, straightens her understated though decidedly fabulous headdress and gently reminds everyone what happened last time we thought signing up for horseback riding lessons in Tijuana on Cinqo de Mayo was a flawless endeavor.
“Um, hey, guys, yeah, it’s me. I was just thinking, I don’t know, remember that time we all spent 48 hours scraping neon pink vomit off our bangs –bangs which we did not have when this adventure began– and we couldn’t find Claire for, like, six weeks? I mean I don’t want to compare this latest discussion to the decision to film SHARKNADO 6, but, you ladies aren’t giving me a lot to work with here.”
Oh. You thought I was kidding.
Take, for example, road cycling. For the past year, I’ve been trying to, er, broaden the group’s collective appreciation of what it means to ride very uncomfortable bikes very long distances in very inhospitable weather.
Spoiler alert: it usually ends like this.
I figured my case rested on facts included in this post and this post. (The CliffsNotes version: a 60-mile race in frigid rain with two flat tires and one fall, and a 30-mile epic Arizona mountain climb in oppressive heat with no water.)
What I didn’t realize: the untapped potential in pointing out the hazards of simply dressing for these hellish excursions.
Cue: Janeen.
Janeen is the member of our tribe who’s usually gleefully responding, “ALL THE TIMES!!!” to my sister’s, “WHEN ARE YOU FREE.” Where others go right, Janeen goes left. Where others say “Hell no,” Janeen says, “I’ll bring bean dip.” Despite what you’ve heard me say so far, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Janeen makes my project manager heart go thud. Janeen makes things happen in a way I haven’t seen since Britney and Justin at the 2001 American Music Awards.
Lest you think Janeen’s an irresponsible wild child, she has every single one of her sh*ts together, working one of those smarty-pants jobs my bird brain can’t even understand, raising three children, and running a household in a lighthearted yet no nonsense way that would make Mary Poppins proud.
I mean, she even turns watermelons into sharks, paints like Bob Ross, and curls her hair before meeting us for lunch, for crying out loud.
This is precisely why I should have known that Janeen would serve as my ultimate ally in the Chief Long Memory campaign.
“Oh my god you’ll never guess what happened to me this morning,” she said the other day, tossing her purse down wearily and taking a seat at the dining room table. The tribe stared at her, sipping our wine. She looked…frazzled.
Janeen never looks frazzled.
Not even when she’s teaching Kid #1 to drive.
“I was in the car, all ready for the bike ride,” she began, “but then I realized I had to get Kid #3 something to eat. Mom guilt blah blah. I went back inside…to TOTAL BATSH*T CHAOS.”
She drew a long breath and continued.
“Shoes everywhere. EVERYWHERE! I trip, almost break my neck, get to the kitchen and find an ENTIRE BAG of bagels devoured by the dogs. Then I screamed at Kid #2 about the shoes — it was not my finest hour.”
By now we were all nodding sympathetically and filling her glass to the brim.
“Then I decide to go upstairs to grab my arm warmers,” she says ominously.
Cycling arm warmers: It’s less what they can do for you and more what they can do to you. Photo credit.
“And now I’m late as hell, so I’m trying to hurl myself into them. I can’t get the damn things on, they’re so tight. I’m tugging and tugging and tugging. I finally get one halfway up my arm, and then as I’m giving it one final tug….
“BAM.
“I PUNCHED MYSELF IN THE FACE.
“I CHIPPED MY OWN TOOTH. I chipped. My own. Tooth!”
I managed to stop laughing long enough to ask, “Did you still ride?!”
Janeen answered with this photo:
On second thought, I may still have my work cut out for me in convincing this group to stay inside and do jigsaw puzzles with me.
~*~*~*~*~*~
What kinds of trouble are your friends stirring up?
“So the ultimate goal, really,” the instructor said, brushing back a curly red lock that had broken loose from her bun, “is to start seeing the whole world this way: a universe filled with divinely placed signs and symbols to help guide you.”
I shuffled a large, colorful deck of cards for the tenth time, glancing around the room at the handful of other students. There was the older woman who introduced herself as a teacher’s assistant, a gray-haired man with turquoise beads around his neck, and someone about my age, in her mid-to-late 30’s.
We sat in the brightly colored yoga studio barefooted, having all been instructed to remove our shoes and wash our hands as soon as we had arrived.
“When you first get your cards,” the instructor continued, “you’ll need to cleanse them. For today, you can wave them over one of these candles, but make sure to pause on each one.”
If I burn these I’m going to be really pissed.
She then explained how to develop our own interpretations of the “oracle cards” in our hands – oversized decks depicting vivid images and words.
“They come in all kinds of themed decks,” she went on, adjusting her blue-framed glasses, “and you can mix them however you’re called to.”
We spent the next two hours learning about the importance of color, challenging our initial associations between words and images, and tapping into our “inner knowing.”
Fast forward a week later, and I found myself registering for this:
Yup. That’s right. Part two. I went back for more.
I mean, you can’t be an oracle card expert without learning how to create your own…intuitive…spreads…right?
Before the end of the second class, I was accurately predicting which cards I’d turn over – from a deck I’d never seen before!
So what was I doing there? Did someone drug me? Threaten to steal my dog? Promise free tickets to see Darren Criss and Lea Michele?
Oh wait. That’s already happening. I love you, Jenn! Photo credit.
Last summer, I started tugging on a thread that quickly unraveled, revealing a treasure trove of paths to explore. By “following my allurements,” as a favorite teacher of mine likes to say, my love of learning and reading returned with a bang, hidden in a pile of metaphysical books and podcasts.
My dad always pegged me for a Phoebe. Photo credit.
Astrology? Reiki? Past lives? Numerology? Near death experiences? Crystals? Sound healing? Chakra balancing? Spirit animals? Astral projection? Telepathy?
BRING IT ON.
The more I’ve explored, the more I want to know. The humorist in me loves that this is all just another way of following the classic improv mantra, “Yes, and.” The humane educator in me loves that this is just another way to acknowledge we’re all connected. The chipmunk in me loves that this is just another way to guarantee I’ll find some nuts. The project manager in me loves that this isn’t woo-woo at all; as Carl Sagan put it, “science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality.”
I’m finally finding words to articulate the strange things I’ve always experienced. And, the funny thing is, the more I’ve started opening up about this, the more I’ve found like-minded chipmunks everywhere. I mean seriously. Ya’ll were holding out.
Anyhoo. I’ll make sure to send postcards from down the rabbit hole.
Each week, you read one of twelve chapters and follow the assignments and prompts, all the while committing to regular daily and weekly exercises. So when I say I’ve “read” it thrice, I mean I’ve DONE it thrice. (…That’s what she said.)
See that? Yeah, that was the result of one of the trademark assignments in The Artist’s Way, from one of my weekly “artist’s dates.” On these artist’s dates, you must go do something that delights you, and you cannot -I repeat, cannot- bring anyone with you.
That particular week, back in 2000, I thought taking photos of “typical New York City life” in black and white was absolutely essential. I was 18 years old, boldly hopping the train from suburban New Jersey and traveling one whole hour into Manhattan. I wore all black, feeling above on top of the whole world…until someone my age commented, “Where ya going? A funeral?”
I brushed it off (except for the part where I vividly remember that comment nearly two decades later), got the film developed, framed that shit, and thought, Here we go, I. Am. An. Artist.
DISCLAIMER: This post contains affiliate links, which means I may receive a small commission if you purchase the linked product, at no additional cost to you. I only ever link to products that I truly love, like these.
During my most recent attempt with The Artist’s Way, in my late 20s, I found out the book had become a trilogy.
Yeah. So. Thirty-six weeks of waking up at 5:30am every day to squeeze in 30 minutes of stream-of-consciousness journaling before driving an hour to my day job so I could still beat traffic.
Each and every time I read did The Artist’s Way, I found some of that magical “flow.” I experienced the synchronicity that Julia Cameron, the author, loves to talk about.
I found this in my wallet last year. You had no idea I was so deep, did you?
But I kept sweeping away what seemed like, on some level, a pesky mouse trying to cross the threshold into my just-fine-thank-you-very-much home. (And sorry to anyone with brooms, and to mice everywhere; I honor and respect you and don’t know what I’m allowed to use as metaphors anymore. But since I’m a) a woman, b) a person who has swept things, and c) vegan, I’m going to go ahead and assume I get a pass on that last one.)
Obviously, the book wasn’t the problem.
I’m 36 now. So that’s eighteen years and three attempts with The Artist’s Way, collectively adding up to, what? A little over a year of prioritizing my creativity? And I wonder why things stagnate?
Don’t listen to your [relative/friend/colleague/inner critic/cat], Chipmunks.
Being an artist is hard work.
And it’s every bit as valuable as whatever else is taking up your time.
Even if you still can’t seem to get anyone to buy your black and white photographs…
~*~*~*~*~*~
Have you read The Artist’s Way (or anything similar)? Did it help you?
I’ll be honest, Chipmunks. I’m shocked that my first vegan food hack post wound up being one of my most popular ones ever. Usually I write something, my mom reads it, and I move on. That post gets new views and likes every day, even two months later. Whether you’re reading this because you love me food, love saving money/animals/the planet, or any combination of the above, I’m so glad you’re here. BECAUSE…
I HAVE SO MANY MORE (VEGAN) FOOD HACKS!
You can just go ahead and hold onto these.
They’re so cheap. And so easy. And so yummy.
And? We’re on the heels of my 2-year veganniversary (May 17, 2016…not that I’m keeping track of the spiritual awakening that completely turned my world inside-out or anything), so what better time to celebrate a few more?
Let’s do this.
Heads-up: My recipes are very informal because I want to encourage you to experiment! Most of these are really hard to mess up, so let your vegan flag FLY. And if you do mess up? You get to blame me!
1. Orzo is a fun word
16-oz package orzo
1 jar (about 8.5 oz.) oil-packed sun dried tomatoes (chopped or julienned)
Salt (to taste)
That’s right. One 99-cent package of orzo (tiny, scrumptious, basmati rice-shaped pasta) + a jar of julienned sun dried tomatoes in olive oil (about $3.00 from Trader Joe’s) = all you need for several filling meals. Just cook the pasta according to the instructions, strain, and then dump in the jar of sun dried tomatoes, oil and all. DONE. (Okay. You’ll probably want some salt.)
Don’t live near a Trader Joe’s? Check out the food aisle at TJ Maxx/HomeGoods – you’ll often find great deals on things you can stock your pantry with like sun dried tomatoes, condiments, seasonings, nuts, coffee/tea – even almond butter!
For other cheap additions, stir in a some baby spinach (it’ll wilt just from the heat of the pasta), sautéed onions and garlic, and/or any other vegetables that tickle your fancy (asparagus? Zucchini? Cherry tomatoes?). Speaking of fancy, if you want to splurge, add some pine nuts!
You can serve this hot, cold, or room temperature, and it’s a great make-ahead meal for a picnic or party. Or, try mixing in some vegan mayo (Hellmann’s is my favorite) and turn it into a traditional cold pasta salad with celery, red onion, mustard and dill!
2. InstaPot: What Can’t She Do? (Refried Beans Recipe)
By using that magical hummus recipe I mentioned in my first vegan food hack post as inspiration, I created my own InstaPot “refried” bean recipe. This is so, SO, *SO* much better than refried beans from a can, and it yields a ton = mega savings.
Don’t have an InstaPot? You can do this on your stovetop, just plan for a 1-2+ hour bean-cook time. (Less if you soak the beans overnight.)
16-oz. bag dried pinto beans
However many cups of water it takes to cover said beans
Your favorite seasonings, e.g., 1 bay leaf, 1-2 peeled garlic cloves, 1 onion (peeled and quartered), 1-2 spicy peppers (stems cut off), and a teaspoon each of smoked paprika, salt, pepper, oregano, etc.
1/2 c. reserved cooking liquid (see instructions)
1/4-1/2 c. your favorite oil
Rinse off your beans and dump ’em into your InstaPot (IP).
Cover with water, leaving about two inches of extra water on top of them (those suckers grow faster than my waistline after Thanksgiving).
Add whatever seasonings make you smile from the suggested list above – or come up with your own!
Set the IP on manual for 38 minutes (this is the magic pinto bean number – they will be extra soft), and make sure to turn off the IP when the timer sounds. Feel free to use those 38 minutes to catch up on my blog.
After about 10 minutes post-timer, you can manually release the pressure valve without melting your face off.
Strain the beans and any other veggies you added (garlic, onion, peppers, etc.), reserving the cooking liquid. If you used a bay leaf, discard/compost that.
Put the beans in a food processor, along with any other veggies you used, and blend.
Add about 1/2 cup of the reserved cooking water, then slowly add about 1/4 c. of oil while the food processor is on. Do all of this while everything’s still warm, and you’ll be AMAZED by the results. So light! So fluffy!
Give it a taste, and then add more of the cooking water, oil and/or seasoning as needed to light your tastebuds on fire. If it seems thin, it will firm up once it cools.
Like I said, this makes a ton, but it’ll keep all week. You can eat it cold, reheat it and serve with tortilla chips, make a layered bean dip, spread it on tortillas (#foreshadowing), or just eat it on a spoon! Heck, one time I used it as the “sauce” for a Mexican pita pizza (pictured below), adding green chiles, tomatoes, corn, cilantro and vegan cheese!
Pita Mexican pizza
Bean burrito
Bean burrito
3. You Get a Tortilla, You Get a Tortilla, Everybody Gets a Tortilla!!!
I buy these tortillas from the refrigerated dairy section of Stop & Shop for $1.49. Eight, succulent, giant, versatile blankets of magic for less than $1.50. The possibilities? Endless.
Here are a few of my favorites:
Quesadillas
1 tortilla per quesadilla
Your ‘main’ filling of choice: ~1/2 c. refried beans, hummus, mashed potatoes (sweet or regular), or meat substitute
1/4-1/2 c. vegan cheese (optional)
1/4 c. sautéed veggies/greens (optional)
I’m telling you, just about anything will work in quesadillas if you have a pasty-bean-like-filling; you don’t even need cheese, although I’m in love with Trader Joe’s vegan mozzarella and Follow Your Heart.
Once you add your fillings to one half of the tortilla, fold over, and toast on a large nonstick pan (no greasing necessary) on medium-high heat for a couple of minutes on each side.
Last week I microwaved frozen vegan meatballs and mashed them up, added some vegan mozz, put them in a quesadilla, and used marinara sauce for dipping. Italian ‘dilla – BAM!
Enchiladas
Shhh… this is actually manicotti, but when you make enchiladas like I describe below, it looks pretty much like this!
Enchiladas are more labor intensive (because of prepping the filling), but they’re GREAT for leftovers/work lunches, and I’ve got an awesome hack coming up here.
4 large tortillas
Filling:
~2 cups of your grain of choice (rice, couscous, bulgur, quinoa, etc.)
~2 cups of your veggies of choice – cooked (spinach, zucchini, mushrooms, onions, peppers, etc.)
~1 to 1 1/2 cups prepared vegan meat (optional), e.g., soy chorizo, “beef,” etc.
1 jar marinara sauce (anything from 10 to 24 oz. will work)
About 1 teaspoon each (or to taste): oregano, crushed red pepper, chili powder, paprika, cumin, garlic powder, onion powder
8 oz. vegan cheese (optional)
Preheat oven to 350.
Prepare your filling and distribute it evenly among the four tortillas, wrapping each into a burrito.
Place four burritos in a 9 x 13 pan.
Now for the hack! Aside from the dirt-cheap tortillas, you can buy ANY marinara sauce and just add your favorite Mexican seasonings (suggested list above) and VOILA! Enchilada sauce for about a buck.
Pour your genius sauce over your burrito babies and feel free to top with vegan cheese.
Bake for 25-30 minutes or until nice and bubbly. (If you’re worried about the cheese burning, you can cover the dish with foil for the first 15 minutes.)
One time I boiled a head of cauliflower and blended the sh*t out of it and used that as a topping, too (swirled like in the photo above). Funky-smelling like cheese, healthy, delicious. Oh, cauliflower, you are the Justin Timberlake of vegetables: limitless potential.
I knew I’d work this photo in eventually. (JT’s Man of the Woods tour. March 2018, Madison Square Garden.)
Chickpea salad wraps
1 can (about 15 oz.) chickpeas (a.k.a. garbanzo beans), drained and rinsed
~1/4 c. your favorite vegan mayo
1/8 c. finely chopped red onion
1/8 c. finely chopped celery
1 t. dijon mustard
1 T. red wine vinegar (optional)
1 T. relish (optional)
1 T. fresh or 1 t. dried dill (optional)
Salt and pepper to taste
Think tuna salad, but swap out a can of chickpeas for tuna! The above are really just suggestions meant to play around with – go crazy! I mash the chickpeas a bit with a fork so they’re even more “tuna”-like.
I love to make wraps out of this with those bargain tortillas, topping with lettuce, tomato, and/or sprouts. You could even skip the mayo and just use oil and vinegar though it would cause me to reevaluate our friendship.
My lifeblood.
I could go on and on about tortillas, but I’ve still got two more hacks to go! (And hey, aren’t you supposed to be working?)
4. Carrot-Ginger Soup
Feel a cold coming on? Want comfort food that won’t require wearing yoga pants for the next week? This is one of my absolute favorite soup recipes, and I just realized how cheap and easy it is. To make it vegan, simply swap out the butter and milk with plant-based options. (Earth Balance and Westsoy unsweetened soy milk are my favorites, respectively.) To make it even easier? Buy baby carrots – no peeling or chopping necessary!
5. You Say Potato, I say Potatohmygod
Ohhh, are we ever ending with a bang here, Chipmunks! I often keep a container of whole, roasted potatoes in my fridge so that Uncle Jesse (the dog) and I can enjoy them in myriad ways throughout the week. Here are just a few:
Pierogi quesadillas
I have my friend Christine to thank for this miracle. (Remember Christine? The mastermind behind the vegan dinner party?) When she first found out I went vegan and had me over, she made this as an appetizer and blew us all away!
Tortillas (1 per quesadilla)
Your favorite potatoes, roasted or boiled (1 per quesadilla)
Vegan butter spread (e.g., Earth Balance) – about 1 T per quesadilla
Plant-based milk (optional) – about 1/8-1/4 c. per quesadilla
Salt and pepper to taste
Other optional fillings: vegan cheese, sautéed onions, peppers, spinach, jalapeño, tomato, scallions, cilantro – you can’t go wrong!
Mash up potatoes with a fork and add non-dairy butter, milk (if using), salt and pepper. I use yukon gold potatoes and leave the skins on (mmm yeah that’s right).
Add any other optional fillings, spread that sh*t on one half of a tortilla, fold over, and toast on a nonstick pan over medium-high heat. No greasing the pan necessary. It takes about a minute or two on each side – watch it closely!
Serve it with whatever you’d like: Salsa, vegan sour cream, ketchup, hot sauce, etc.
Roasted sweet potatoes with creamed spinach
Sound a little weird? Good. I like pushing you outside your comfort zone.
3-4 sweet potatoes
1 onion (any kind), roughly chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
~12-oz. baby spinach (roughly chopped, if desired)
1/4-1/2 c. your favorite vegan “cream” (Cashew cheese? Non-dairy milk, sour cream and/or cream cheese? Tahini? They all work!)
Nutmeg, salt, pepper and crushed red pepper to taste
1-2 T. nutritional yeast (optional)
Preheat oven to 375.
Wash and prick sweet potatoes with a fork and pop ’em in the oven (usually takes about 1 hour).
While the potatoes are roasting, sauté the onion and garlic over medium heat in a large nonstick skillet (use whatever you prefer to sauté: plant-based butter spread, oil, water or stock).
Once the onions are translucent (5-10 mins), add the baby spinach a few handfuls at a time, letting them wilt.
Now the fun part. Add 1/4-1/2 cup of your vegan cream of choice. My favorite (and arguably easiest) is half tahini, half unsweetened soy milk. Tahini is ground-up sesame seeds, and it’s delicious. It’s also mild in flavor so you don’t have to worry that it’ll outshine your garlic and spinach. They usually sell it in a jar right by the peanut butter, typically on the top shelf. It can be a little pricy (don’t pay more than $7.00 if you can help it), but a little bit goes a long way in things like dressing, hummus, and the wacky recipe I’m giving you right now. My favorite is Whole Foods 365 brand. I’ve gone on so long about this that I kind of want to make a “The More You Know” video.
Add your seasonings, tasting as you go (a little nutmeg is usually all you need).
Dump that gloriousness on top of your roasted sweet potatoes and have at it! (Pssst. This keeps well as leftovers for a few days.)
Potato casserole
Do you watch Counting On? It’s one of my favorite guilty pleasure shows where the parents have 867 kids, all the women wear long skirts, don’t dance, and make some really f#@$*& delicious-looking food.
They look kinda like this.
One of those foods is “tater tot casserole.” That is the inspiration behind this much somewhat healthier, vegan version. Thank you, Duggar family.
4-5 your favorite potatoes, cut into 1-inch (ish) cubes – I use Yukon gold and keep the skins on
1 or 2 onions (any kind), peeled and roughly chopped
~1/4 c. oil
Salt and pepper to taste
~15 oz. can black beans
8 oz. your favorite vegan cheese -OR- 1/4 c. nutritional yeast + 1/4 c. walnuts ground together
Optional: 1/2-1 c. corn, chopped tomatoes, wilted greens and/or spicy peppers, etc.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Toss potatoes and onions with oil, salt and pepper, and roast on a baking sheet in a single layer for about 35-45 minutes. (Check on them and give a stir about halfway through. You’ll know they’re done when the potatoes are fork-tender.)
You could seriously stop here and just eat all of it while standing in front of the oven, leaning through the doorway to catch the new Tig Notaro stand-up special on Netflix. No? Okay. Carry on.
Rinse and drain the black beans and add those to the cooked potato-onion mixture, combining into a 9 x 13 pan.
Add any other optional fillings from the list above – or your own invention!
Top with vegan cheese or walnut/nutritional yeast combo and bake for another 15 minutes, or until the cheese is your desired bubbly, golden brown-y-ness.
Don’t tell anyone you made this, because you won’t want to share.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Happy Cooking, Chipmunks! I love you as much as I love carbs.
He nodded as if I’d just said “the sky is blue” and we went on to cover all of the other usual platitudes for the next hour before finding an excuse to leave. The question he never asked, and that I imagine you’re wondering at this stage:
Have you Chipmunks heard of this book, 
.
. 
Go Jules Go 