the gaze

"...I'll ask you to consider for a moment the exemplary issue of prettiness. One of the things that makes the people on television fit to stand the Megagaze is that they are, by ordinary human standards, extremely pretty. I suspect that this, like most television conventions, is set up with no motive more sinister than to appeal to the largest possible Audience- pretty people tend to be more appealing to look at than non-pretty people. But when we're talking about television, the combination of sheer Audience size and quiet psychic intercourse between imagery and oglers starts a cycle that both enhances pretty people's appeal and erodes us viewers' own security in the face of gazes. Because of the way human being relate to narrative, we tend to identify with those characters we find appealing. We try to see ourselves in them. The same I.D.-relation, however, also means that we try to see them in ourselves. When everybody we seek to identify with for six hours a day is pretty, it naturally becomes more important to us to be pretty, to be viewed as pretty. Because prettiness becomes a priority for us, the pretty people on TV become all the more attractive, a cycle which is obviously great for TV. But it's less great for us civilians, who tend to own mirrors, and who also tend not to be anywhere near as pretty as the TV-images we want to identify with. Not only does this cause some angst personally, but the angst increases because, nationally, everybody else is absorbing six-hour doses and identifying with pretty people and valuing prettiness more, too. This very personal anxiety about our prettiness has become a national phenomenon with national consequences..."

E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction, David Foster Wallace

yes, it's spelled "jucy"

This is complete blasphemy. The Jucy Lucy is Minneapolis' revered burger (Matt's Bar, holla!), and my god, it is good.

My version, while good, is (gasp) vegetarian*. Not because I have the audacity to claim that mine is better, but because I'd already eaten all the beef in my house and am too lazy to go to the grocery to pick up some ground chuck. Also, I had slices of sharp cheddar, not american cheese, so yeah, this is going into seriously yuppie territory.

Black Bean Jucy Lucy
1 onion, minced
olive oil
2 cans of black beans, drained (or a couple ladelfulls of cooked black beans, which is what I used)
1 cup of bread crumbs (approximately. I used panko crumbs b/c that's what I had in the cupboard)
a healthy dash of chili powder, or whatever seasonings sound good
cheese of your choice: about 2 oz per burger
burger stuff, duh: buns, mustard, etc.

Sauté the minced onion in a glug of olive oil. While you're doing that, smoosh up the black beans into a chunky paste: I used a pastry mixer for this, but you could use a fork or a food processor. Whatever works! Mix the sautéed the onion, chili powder, and bread crumbs into the black beans. Form into smallish patties and flatten.

Take a chunk of cheese and place it in the center of one flattened patty: I find this works best with a cube-like chunk of cheese, rather than a flat slice. Place another flattened patty on top and form into one cohesive, thick patty of goodness.

If you have a grill, grill it. The black bean patty really does hold together well.
Otherwise, you can bake the black bean burger in the oven (400 degrees) for about 10-15 minutes, and finish it under the broiler or in a lightly oiled pan to get a really good outside crust going on.

If you're a fan of overkill, as I am, top the burger with a slice of cheese. What? A Jucy Lucy is no exercise in moderation.

Makes about 6 burgers, depending on how large you form the patties

*Hell, you could make this vegan if you used nondairy cheese, but let's not go nuts here.

pancake house

MM FOOD.
(Ask me about last night's Mos Def / MF DOOM show and you will get an earful. Promise.)

My kitchen is a wreck, and there might be a pool of brown butter on the floor, but I am sated and pleased.
I have been thinking about polenta lately, and how absurdly delicious it is. That led to some searching for breakfast polenta options outside the normal poached eggs + polenta + cheese, which led to the polenta pancakes recipe from the Times. (I think this would be even better as waffles, but I was not about to procure a wafflemaker.)


I followed the Times recipe, and then topped the pancake stack with a dollop of plain greek yogurt and some slivered almonds that I spiced with chili oil and black pepper. As I ate these, I had a moment of glorious wonder where I asked myself "why do these taste so freakishly amazing?". I then looked over and saw that I'd bought salted butter, rather than unsalted, and that about half a stick of salted butter had been used to make my breakfast.


Yeah, that's why they were so good.

get on the good foot

This was possibly the most satisfying Home Improvement project ever, guys. For three years now, I've been fantasizing about creating a shoe storage system that doesn't involve boots being shoved into the corner of a closet, and lone heels being found under the couch. After this summer's temporary apartment and its built-in wall of shelves, I was on a mission build it better than it was before: we have the technology. ("Technology", in this case, being a laser level and a cordless drill.)

First, the Before. This was just sad:

sigh

And then Ruth and Tim came over last night, heeding my plea for slave labor, and were polite enough not to verbally express their suspicion that I was crazy. Note: if you're installing the big fucking Ikea Lack shelves- the ones that are taller than I am- you do not want to do this solo. Trust me on this. Bribe a friend or two to help you out, or you will want to die.

Now, the glorious After. A place for everything, and everything in its place, and bonus: that place is relatively free of cat hair. Behold!

swoon

Is it more than a little Conspicuous Consumption to have shoe shelves as a main feature of my bedroom? Definitely. But I don't care.

(Ruth and Tim are facilitating my apartment decor, one big favor at a time. First the loan of Ruth's antique Singer to make pillows for my couch, and now their readiness with a drill and a hammer: I feel like I should just hire them both as project contractors. My friends are the best, especially when they prevent me from maiming myself with power tools.)

boxed in

I love my new(ish) apartment so much, I really do. But the main failing of its design is the bathroom. My bathroom has approximately two square feet of floor space, and this has meant that for the past four months, my cat's litterbox lived in the living room.

This was both ugly and unpleasant, obviously. I did my damndest to hide it behind an awkwardly-placed bench and shove it under an old Ikea table, but it still looked like crap.

See? Craptacular. Also, dusty and gross. The cat didn't seem to mind, but it drove me nuts.

I broke down today while running some errands in the car, and veered into the Cost Plus parking lot, and then to Home Depot. Step one: acquire large wicker basket thingy on sale. Determine that yes, the litterbox will fit inside this wicker chest.

Step two: rent jigsaw from Home Depot and buy blades for said jigsaw. Think about what a bad idea it is, really, for Home Depot to rent me a power tool without an instruction booklet and no waiver. Why the rent-a-tool desk employee felt that I had any trustworthiness at all, I'm not sure, but he took my $11.20 and my credit card and handed over the saw.

Step three: cut a arched entrance on one side of the wicker chest with the jigsaw. I suppose I could've measured and traced the cut lines onto the chest, but at this point, my impatience took over and I just freehanded the opening.

Step three and a half: apologize to neighbors for making such a racket in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. Sorry, neighbors.

Step four: put cotton liner back inside wicker trunk and cut opening into liner to line up with the hole I just cut into the trunk. Place litterbox inside, and do that dumb thing cat owners do where we point at something, look at the cat, and say "see? that's your new litterbox" as if the cat will understand, as she stares at me and thinks "I'd like a treat and a belly rub now."

That's so much better. The grand plan for this new contraption is to also affix some small storage baskets for litter bags and the litter scoop to the inside of the trunk, assuming they leave enough headroom for the cat. I'm also going to muck around with sticking some sort of air freshener/deodorizer to the inside of the trunk's lid.
And yes, eventually, I will get around to doing something about the blinds on that window.

sick day

I have no proof of this, but am certain that some evil marmoset has moved into my throat and nasal cavity, and alternates scratching the hell out of my throat with steel wool and filling my head with cotton balls so I can neither breathe nor think.

I've been dosing myself with massive pots of pomegranate tea and fistfuls of whatever psedo-meth-containing "daytime" medicine for various ailments promises to keep me from falling over while I attempt to prepare to start my new job on Monday. This has the side effect of making everything slightly shiny and certainly brighter than it is in reality, and has driven me to eye the chairs I purchased in a Nebraska thrift store last weekend with a malevolent gleam in my eye.

before

In Lincoln, I scored a set of two vintage Gunlocke wooden armchairs for next-to-nothing, and after convincing the skeptical salesman that yes, I could fit two armchairs into a Honda Civic, I schlepped them all the way home to Chicago.
Why were they so cheap?
1) there seems to be little market for this sort of thing in Nebraska, so no one banks on being able to get top dollar for their used furniture, and
2) my god, that vinyl seat covering is ugly. If it had been leather, I'd have left it alone, but the shiny plasticky vinyl eats at my brain.

I have a heavy-duty staple gun and a yard of charcoal wool, however. These things, in my This Is Your Brain On Lots of Cold & Sinus Meds head, meant it was time to reupholster. Apparently, it worked.

after

planes, trains, automobiles

Having come back recently from holiday travel (as, more than likely, you have too), and having seen some of the abominations out on public display in certain transit centers, I'm going to put this out there as a half-assed public service announcement: How Not to Look Totally Horrifying When You Travel.

Also having just completed a whirlwind road trip (twenty hours of driving over a fifty-five hour weekend window), I can safely say that if you're traveling via car, I have no good advice for you. I have found it impossible to get out of a car after driving for longer than two hours without looking completely wrecked. Something about my Honda Civic apparently mats my hair, greases my face, and removes all eyeliner.


A few guidelines that make my life better when I go anywhere via bus, train, or plane:

1) wear a huge scarfy thing. I don't care if it's August. Bring it, at least, because although it may be 90 degrees in Chicago when you depart, you will step onto the train to St. Louis and realize that the train is kept at 60 degrees for the duration of the ride, and you will curse yourself as you huddle, goose-fleshed in your tank top, against the window to try to absorb some exterior warmth.
The scarf is a blanket/ impromptu pillow/ drapey scarf to hide the drippy stains from your airport chicken wings/ ad hoc cover-up for when your flight gets canceled and you have to stay in an airport-adjacent hotel, but hey, they have a hot tub! Plus they pack up to almost zero space, so you really aren't out anything for bringing it.

2) keep lip balm in your pocket. You do not know hell until you know being trapped, lip-balm-less, without access to your carry-on as you sit on the bus and feel your lips cracking and bleeding.

3) wear a dress. Seriously. I am fond of dresses for many reasons (like the fact that they conceal the consumption of airport chicken wings), but I swear that dresses are the best for travel. You'll be sitting down for potentially hours on end, and you don't want a waistband digging into your stomach to add to the general discomfort of being crammed into coach. Plus, you'll look like you've made an effort, which will make people treat you with a tiny bit more respect, and if you get stuck in some horrific travel nightmare where trains or flights are missed and you have to say "I need to speak with your supervisor", you are far more likely to be taken seriously if you're not wearing flannel pajama pants with Mickey Mouse on them.
Comfort is key, obvs, but comfort is not limited to sweatsuits. Tall socks + knee-length cotton-blend skirt + sweater = as comfortable as a Juicy tracksuit, and 10,000x less likely to make you look like a jackass.

4) from personal experience over christmas: make sure the telescoping handle on your rolling suitcase actually telescopes and extends. If it doesn't, you will end up hunched over like Quasimodo, dragging a pathetically unhelpful roller bag behind you while trying not to let this posture dislodge your purse from your shoulder and also your will to live.

curry slurry

I tweeted the other day about my what-to-make-for-dinner dilemma--

wait, we can stop right there. That is perhaps the ultimate in Stuff White People Like: twittering about food. Or perhaps the White Whine of the day: "oh no, I have an esoteric assortment of ingredients in my cupboards, please tell me what to cook".
Moving on.

-- and my friend and former boss Stacey replied, with this "recipe" into 140 characters or less. It's less a recipe than a list of ingredients and a suggestion, and it worked out very well. Here, then, is my slightly more specific recipe for Stacey's abundantly healthy dinner suggestion.

You want about a 3:1 ratio of liquid to lentils, regardless of how many servings you're making.

3 cups stock (I used homemade chicken stock) or water or other tasty simmering liquid
1 cup dried lentils
lots and lots of curry powder to taste (I used about 2 tablespoons, I think. I just kinda dumped it in.)
a good dash of ginger just for fun (I used about 1/2 teaspoon, I think.)
3 small-to-medium apples

Rinse the lentils a few times and remove any rocks or other unappetizing bits by straining them.
If you've got a crock pot (and I highly recommend that you acquire one- I love my crock pot), put the lentils in there with the liquid and the spices, and simmer on low heat for six to eight hours. Walk away, get things done, etc.

If you're doing lentils on the stove, put them in a pot with the liquid and spices and simmer, covered, over low heat for about 30 minutes.

Core and chop the apples. Add the chopped apples to the crock pot and continue to cook for about an hour, or if you're doing this on the stove, add them to the pot and cook, covered, for about 5-10 minutes, depending on how mushy you like your apple pieces.


Serve hot or cold. Makes, I don't know, four servings? Depends on how hungry you are.
(Bonus: inadvertently vegan if you swap out the chicken stock for veg stock or water or something, y'know, vegan.)

diamonds on the soles of her shoes

There's a long list of things I never learned in life (formal etiquette, "no white after Labor Day", how to eat a lobster, how to say the alphabet backwards), and new rules that I was unaware of keep popping up. Sparked from a conversation I had with Helen, I now wonder if there's a formal rule about the color of the soles of your shoes.

Yes, really. Is there a Fashion Rule that dictates what color the sole of one's shoes should be, depending on the occasion?

Some background: I fell hard and fast for these satin pumps. You can see why, I'm sure.
I mean, look at them. Swoon.

Helen brought up a doubt as to their propriety, though. It's honestly something I've never thought about or heard of before, but that could very well be due only to ignorance on my part. Her thought is: the tan sole is a dealbreaker.


Not because there's anything wrong with tan, but because she was taught that tan soles are for daytime wear, while black soles (or Louboutin-red soles, for the extravagant) are for evening. The conjecture here is that wearing black stockings with tan-soled shoes looks awkward and undermines that whole "evening glamour" thing that you're going for with the fancy shoes.

Is this a thing? Have you heard of this? Am I a heathen for not knowing about this rule? Is there a "no nude soles for evening shoes" gospel?

I have a counter-point, however.
I think that if the sole-color debate is based on the assumption that one wears black stockings for evening, it's a false premise. I can think of very few situations in which I've worn black stockings (sheers, that is: opaque black tights are a daytime/all-the-time sort of legwear from December through February), and I'd argue that for formal occasions, few women bother to wear stockings at all. When we do, they're most often flesh-toned, and the contrast between stocking color and sole color is therefore a non-issue. The peep-toe option throws more confusion onto this, as peep-toes (more so with formal strappy shoes of all sorts) make wearing stockings awkward. (There are definitely ways to wear tights with peep-toes and look awesome, but I think all those ways are pretty much a daytime look or a casual thing.) I know you can get toe-less tights to expose one's toes in a peep-toe shoe, but that sort of defeats the purpose, I'd think. And strappy formal shoes: what then? Clearly, stockings aren't an option, so do strappy shoes get a pass on the sole-color rule?

Here, for comparison's sake, is a line-up of my more formal shoes. I can't think of many ways in which black satin pumps (center shoe) are daytime shoes, but the sole color remains resolutely beige. The black-soled contenders here are the tricolor satin peep-toes and the black patent peep-toes. Hmmm. The peep-toe component totally throws me for a loop.

What say you, fancy fashion people who know these sorts of things?

rykiel recap

This past Saturday, I schlepped to the Michigan Avenue H&M to peruse, pet, and purchase some of the Sonia Rykiel for H&M collaboration. Am I a sucker for pseudo-Parisian lingerie? Do I own more robes than a choir? Am I mildly obsessed with the idea of owning only matching sets of underthings?
Yes, yes, and yes.

And I know this is late, as the collection has been out for several days now, but it seems like there's not a lot of crazy excitement about this capsule collection, so your H&M has probably not been overrun by frenzied Rykiel hoarders. (You'd think that the Michigan Avenue H&M would have been a mob scene on Saturday, yes? It wasn't at all: I was one of maybe four people shuffling through the Rykiel racks. Racked NY seems to have had the same experience.)

I tried on nearly everything, because this is one of the few times in my life H&M has actually had a full rack of options with every size available. Good sizing news: the bras go up to a 38D! Bad sizing news: they run small. Euro-bras, maybe? In reality, they probably top out at about a 36D or 34DD. (The band sizes seem much smaller than indicated.)

As far as construction, I was pleasantly surprised to see how much silk was involved, in lieu of the all-polyester-all-the-time I was expecting. The stripey chemise was 100% poly, though, which saddened me. A girl can never own too many slightly impractical chemises, I feel.

And on the "impractical" note, I couldn't bring myself to get excited about the rosette bras, no matter how adorable they are. (They are, in fact, seriously adorable. Very Blair Waldorf.) If only the rosettes were detachable, I'd have seriously considered them, but the lumpy-boob look wasn't something I was looking forward to rocking. And the sheer black silk pajama pants vex me. They're not so much "slightly sheer" as "completely translucent". Why bother with pants at that point, really? As I assume they are categorized under "lingerie you wear solely to look hot", but at that point, I'd argue that simply not wearing pants is a far sexier choice than wearing baggy black see-through pajama pants.

That pillow is for sale. I have no idea why you'd buy it.

The collection also has these microfibery bras that looked totally promising: until I saw the rhinestone detail. No. Just say no to bedazzling. The sparkly appliqués say "belle", which is less awful than "sexy" or "hottie" or something equally nausea-inducing... but still, no. Don't do it.

The kimono robes were the far-and-away winners, in my mind. Perhaps because a robe can't really "run small", so the issues of fit were moot? Perhaps because they were 100% silk and had perfect kimono-detail sleeves that were awesome without being overly floppy? (You don't want to know how many times I've accidentally dragged the sleeve of my actual kimono through a bowl of oatmeal in the morning. I keep forgetting that the sleeves hang like two feet below my arms.)

(All images via H&M)

The peach long robe with the black trim is gorgeous. So, so gorgeous. But it is also far more money than I want to spend on a robe, even if it is 100% silk. I was sorely tempted, but the static-cling issues I was having while in the dressing room with this robe thankfully tipped my opinion to the "you don't need this" side.
The short black kimono robe, however, is another thing. It's hanging out in my bathroom, looking perfectly drapey and elegant and let's face it, a thin silk robe isn't exactly winter lounging wear, but I don't care.

Things I thought I'd go nuts for: lace underthings, 50's-glam satin matched sets, silk robes.
Things I actually loved: silk robes.
Things I just don't understand: seriously, a rhinestoned velvet pillow?

getting pinned

While Skinny Bone Jones gets crafty with a too-big ring and a scarf, I get crafty with a strip of stretchy black fabric and a $2 brooch from the thrift store.

1) wrap fabric around head like headband, tie.
2) wrap small strip of fabric crosswise around the knot.
3) pin brooch to this spot.
4) pretend this wasn't a last-ditch attempt to dress up an otherwise nondescript ensemble.

glutton for...

My fondness for butter, bacon, cheese, and other sundry cholesterolicious delights has not gone unremarked upon, either here on the blog (bacon chocolate chip cookies, what what), or while standing at my closet this morning and realizing that many of my clothes no longer fit over my Hibernation Belly.
Oops.

And this weekend, a friend said "no, I don't really like bacon". No, he's not a vegetarian, either.

In the interest of proving myself to be more than a one-trick high-fat pony, I made an accidentally vegan side dish for Thanksgiving, and damned if it's not really tasty, despite the lack of pork products or cheese or, I don't know, foie gras.


It was far more photogenic when made on Wednesday evening, btw.

Roasted Beets with Hazelnuts and Lemon
3 lbs. red beets
3 lbs. yellow beets
1 cup hazelnuts, lightly toasted, skins removed
2 meyer lemons
2 tablespoons olive oil
salt & pepper to taste

If you've got to toast the hazelnuts yourself, put them on a jelly-roll pan (y'know, a cookie sheet with sides. What, am I the only person who calls it a jelly-roll pan?) and pop into the oven at about 350 degrees until they're lightly browned: about 10 minutes. Let them cool a little bit, and then roll them around with your hands in a kitchen towel so the skins will peel off.

While the hazelnuts are toasting, peel the raw beets. Cut off the stalks and any tough spots, and use a vegetable peeler to remove the skin. If you peel the red ones first, and then the yellow ones, you'll minimize the eventual magenta tint of your palms.
If you really want to go for the bi-color effect (which is why I got two different colors of beets, after all), you'll want to keep them separate until after they're cooked. If you don't care, put all the beets in a large bowl and prep them to roast all at once. If you really don't care, just get one color of beets and roll with it.

Otherwise: take the two meyer lemons and juice them. Take half this juice and mix it with salt & pepper to taste and half the olive oil. Toss the red beets in this mixture, and put them in a large enough pan for roasting. Cover the pan with foil, and roast at 400ish degrees for about 40 minutes. Remove the foil, and roast for about 20-30 minutes more, depending on how large the beets are, and how tender you like them.
Set the beets aside to cool.

Do the same thing with the yellow beets in a separate roasting pan, if you're fussy enough to keep your food sorted by color. Except! While the yellow beets are roasting still covered in foil, cut up the meyer lemons you've already juiced. Yeah, you're basically cutting the rind into pieces, and it's not pretty, but so what. If you're hell-bent on making them pretty, though, get two new pristine meyer lemons and cut those up. Add the lemon slices to the pan of yellow beets to cook, uncovered, for that last 20-30 minute stretch of roasting.
Cool the yellow beets.

Slice each color of beets once they're cool and layer them together in a pretty pattern in a serving bowl (or your sole 9x13" casserole dish, if you're me). Sprinkle the hazelnuts between some of the layers, and on top.

Hey! It's vegan! I totally didn't plan it that way, either.
It pretty much fills a 9x13" pan, so it's however many servings you think it is. I don't know: I have no way to gauge how much you like to eat your vegetables.

it's amazing that i'm not yet morbidly obese.

Unofficially, I have a rule for myself.
I'm not allowed to have eggs, flour, sugar, and butter in the house at the same time. This is for my own good, as if I have pastry basics lying about (do you know how many times I've made late-night-drunken pâte à choux or pâte brisée? yes? you've seen this in action? then you understand), I will start pulling out mixing bowls and looking for some heavy cream and suddenly I've made a tower of cheese puffs or cookies or an apple tart and eaten the whole thing while standing up in the kitchen and eyeing the pile of dirty dishes guiltily.

That is to say: I'll do things like this.


That is a plate of bacon chocolate-chip cookies, and it pleases me. I stole the idea wholesale from Mindy Segal at Hot Chocolate, where magic happens. (I live too close to Hot Chocolate for my own good.) The internet, as always, guides me: I used the recipe from Pete Bakes!, as my mother's chocolate chip cookie recipe, though amazingly delicious in its own right, involves margarine and vanilla pudding mix, and that just seemed wrongful in this context.

Essentially a batch of Pig Candy chopped up and mixed into the Toll House cookie recipe, this is damn good. But it could be better, oh yes. I'd cook the bacon for slightly less time so it doesn't flirt with overly crisping when baked with the cookies, and also pour the reserved bacon fat into the cookie dough before putting in the chocolate chips and bacon chunks. Hell yes, bacon fat plus cookie dough. I did that for this batch, and yeah, I pretty much freaked out with joy.


Next time- and oh, there will be a next time!- I'm going to use the 72-hour chocolate chip cookie recipe and then add in my own layer of bacony extravagance.

To bastardize the ironic-punk-rock slogan seen on bumper stickers of my youth: bacon's not dead, it's just really cool now.

bulletin

I do not get it when people remark on my outfit and say "oooh, you're so dressed up!"
Not really. Not at all. Do you realize how much easier it is to get dressed in the morning when you just slip into a dress? One-stop shopping, people. Wearing pants means that I have to find a belt, and that belt has to coordinate with the shoes, and what shirt can I wear with these pants, and does it need to be tucked in, and what if the shoes that go with this shirt don't work with these pants, and so forth.
Wearing a dress? Dress, shoes, potential jewelry if you're fancy, and done.

This was especially needed this morning, when I got up at 4:00 a.m. (yes, you read that right) to be at work at 6:15 a.m. for a big special event that started before 7:00. A dress is the only right choice to make at dark o'clock.

Brown tweed dress, Ann Taylor; burgundy wedge-heel boots
(they are so, so comfortable, and they make me easily 6'1"), Aerosoles.

Kiss Of Death pendant, Culp Baubles; gold multi-strand necklace, Maude Vintage in Columbia MO.

thank you for being a friend

You should know Laia. And if you already know her, you love her, because she is a bad-ass pixie with great tattoos, a laptop, and a serious brain, and fabulous access to NY Fashion Week.

She, in addition to being a wonderful person who scoured NYC newsstands for me last summer to procure a copy of "the black issue" of Vogue Italia when none were to be found in Chicago, is blowing up the internet with her writing and photos and general goodness.

I'm pretty sure that her initials don't stand for Laia Garcia, but for Le Greatest. I mean, this is the girl who can nearly convince me to pull a Gaga and wear hot pants in public.

Dossier:
Worn Fashion Journal's q&a / confession of adoration
Laia's personal fashion blog, Geometric Sleep (fashion week braniac!)
her blog for POP magazine (whoa.)
her 'zine, Holy Child
her blog for Oak
her band, Ivory Coasts

(my god, girl is busy.)

Edit: oh and NOW she's all up on Refinery29's "Street Seen", looking killer. My gawd.

treasure trove

I can't think "treasure trove" and not think of that horrifying White House Correspondents' Dinner Karl Rove rap from 2007. And then "Karl", which becomes "Carl", which becomes "Carl and Lenny", which then becomes "Lenny & Me". I am going somewhere with this, I swear.


Lenny & Me really is a treasure trove. I haven't gotten around to photographing my amazing finds from my recent stop-in, but Lindsey, the shop manager, was sweet and let me poke around with my camera and take these poorly-composed shots of her amazing picks. Her displays are far more aesthetically pleasing than my photos suggest, but the best thing of all? The thing that makes me swoon? Is the amazing inventory.
Seriously, everyone: come to Chicago and go vintage shopping with me here. There are a bunch of great vintage stores up and down Milwaukee Avenue (Store B is another favorite, and oooh, they have a wondrous collection of v ladylike gloves), but I think Lenny & Me is the fairest of them all.

I mean, look at this stuff. For real.

The jewelry cabinet not only seduced me with the pretty glittery things, but also with the collection of gold belts. Why do I not have a gold belt? I need to remedy this. Except with a belt that actually fits my waist, and not one sized for a tiny little lady.

These dresses are pretty much made for Trixie From Toronto of Buttercup Punch.

These shots are crap, but it shows you a tiny slice of the racks of dresses. Lindsey arranges them by decade, and thank god I showed some surprising restraint in pawing through these, or I'd have gone into a purchasing blackout and overloaded my bag with cocktail dresses.
Is it just me, or is the sound of hangers being flicked on racks of clothing a really pleasant and soothing sound?

Oh my god, you guys. There's a suitcase of furs. And then there's the most fabulously absurd fur ever with tiny little fox dolls attached- it's so unapologetically "fur is murder, and it's fabulous, darling!".

I know it's almost October, but I want this swimsuit. Ruching!

AND THEN THE SHOES. This place is shoe nirvana, especially for someone with super-narrow feet and high arches. Vintage shoes tend to run really narrow, which is a godsend for me. They fit like a dream. (Yes, I did buy shoes here this week. But only one pair! And they're mint-condition suede heels from the 50's with the most adorable little tie on the front. Photos forthcoming.)
Those black croc pumps on the top left in the first shoe-display photo are vintage Yves St. Laurent. Good eye. You should buy them.
Are those leopard-print satin heels not crying out for Skinny Bone Jones, guys? Yes, yes they are. They say "give me a good home, please, Skinny!"

They also run a lovely vintage housewares/décor/etc. store farther up Milwaukee Avenue, and I am trying to justify my idea of (re)furnishing my apartment once I move (yes, again) next week. Do I need a honey-blonde side table for my new living room? Well, that depends entirely on one's definition of "need", now doesn't it?

if I'd have known you were coming, I'd have baked a cake

The following is, without a doubt, the gayest cake known to mankind: so much so that it's now referred to as "gayke".

I've wanted to make this since the moment I saw Helen's blog on rainbow foods- but what occasion calls for a six-layer rainbow cake? ALL OCCASIONS, actually. This weekend provided an especially festive diversion with two houseguests, so I decided to take the rainbow cake one layer further and top it with bright pink meringue buttercream for extra ridiculousness.


Step one: use every single bowl in my house to divide batter and tint with food coloring. (Things I should've done here: measured out the batter in truly equal increments between the six bowls, and not just eyeball it after several glasses of wine. Oops.)


Step two: make huge batch of meringue buttercream. Frost cake. Run out of frosting halfway through and scamper to make another batch of meringue buttercream to finish the icing shellacking.


Step three: cut into cake while jumping up and down with excitement. Eat cake for every meal.

Notes: I used a basic white cake recipe from The Joy of Cooking for this, and split the batter between six 8" pans rather than the 3" pans called for in the recipe, and reduced cooking time accordingly.
I froze the layers for a few days, which is totally the way to go when frosting a cake. It was practically crumb-free when I spread the frosting over it.
I wanted something fluffier than a standard buttercream, so I used this Sweet Melissa Patisserie meringue buttercream frosting recipe from Epicurious and dumped in red food coloring until the proper level of ridiculous pinkness was achieved. The first batch of frosting used those pasteurized egg whites you can get in a carton, and although they're convenient, they take foreeeeeeeeeeever to whip. The second "oh shit I ran out of frosting" batch of icing was made using egg whites I separated, and it came together much faster.