For a Good Time Call me. lol jk.

As you may or may not know, solitude can oftentimes lead to super fun and sexy times. I'm living in an unattached single this semester, and over the past three days, I've read books, wrestled seven giant boxes of assorted schmutes into exquisite order, homemade prescription sunglasses, watched Harold and Kumar go to White Castle alone in the dark while hula hooping in my underwear -- it's been like camp. . . except all alone and actually not at all like camp. This newly appreciated freedom to do whatever the swear word I want has leaked through the cracks of my nice, red, automatically locking door and sometime in between strolling the lamp-lit streets of New Haven -- a large bar of high proof chocolate in one hand and a glass bottle of low proof ginger beer in the other -- and reclining on an ivy-shaded gravestone reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I rerealized that my own company is maybe one of the best things. And not in the 'I'm doing my best to cope with my debilitating friendlessness' way, but rather the 'I now actively avoid the rest of humanity. Seriously. **** people.' way. Not quite, but hear me out: I'm totally into all of the weird things I'm into; I'm always up to doing or not doing whatever I want to do or not do; I never stare uncomfortably to the side when I mention unemployment or heinous acts of porcine mutilation (I bet just reading that phrase made you ask 'dear heavens what is wrong with this girl?' I didn't ask that when I wrote it. I was totally non-judgemental). It is excellent. I don't want to end this with some pitiful insistence that you 'Be Your Own Best Friend!' You do whatever you want; attach yourself to as many people as you fancy and spend every waking moment holding pinkies with them. Just know not to despair when you find yourself in the wilderness of human independence, because (to use the immortal words of the title of that one Tyler Perry movie) you can do bad all by yourself.

Notes from the Missionary Training Center

Last Thursday we got our travel plans! We leave next Tuesday morning!!!! And by Tuesday morning, I mean an ungodly time before anyone anywhere should really be awake. They've asked that we arrive at the travel office - luggage and all - no later than 2:00am . . . . Huzzah! 

Yesterday, item #1 on my MTC bucket list was crossed off. It all started when our District Leader suggested we take a field trip outside of our classroom for district meeting. He suggested we meet at some tables at the far end of campus, and we all agreed without much thought. We started walking, haplessly, and he said "actually, maybe we should meet in the room of requirement." A little more intrigued, we followed him into a building, and started down a large staircase, and another, until we found it: The Pillow Room. As far as the eye could see, pillows, pillows, and more pillows. They lined the walls and covered the floor in huge, black trash bags. Taped to the side of a table, we found a little note - welcoming us to the pillow kingdom and warning us to keep it secret, and to return everything to its proper place before exiting. We quickly reevaluated our agenda for district meeting and chose to devote a significant amount of our meeting to a bonding activity, namely jumping into the piles of pillows. It was a good decision. But really. Amazing.

I love you like woah!

-Sister Tillemann-Dick

Life hack your risotto

I hate rice. You can ask Premal, it brings him great sadness that at best I refrain from eating the fluffy white stuff, and at worst I basically refuse to cook it. I'm like the cat in the hat guy from Green Eggs and Ham. I do not like rice,with my curry, I do not like it in a hurry. I will not eat it in a soup, I will not eat things that resemble choleric poop... You get the picture.

I do have an exception to my "no rice" rule, unfortunately--though perhaps predictably--it's a labor intensive one. Risotto. But between me and these creamy waves of grain lays a lot of stirring, and grating, and stirring, and many bubbling pots, and also stirring.  Consequently, risotto has been relegated to a column in my diet labeled "strictly restaurant fare." But a recent craving (bolstered by some virtual encouragement from my kitchen-philosophy-crush Mark Bittman), and somehow all of my rice/risotto related rules began to resemble mere suggestions.  So, I was off to the kitchen to stir my life away. Luckily, the results were really, really good, and along the way I discovered a few tricks that may just make risotto a staple in my kitchen....

If you only eat one thing before summer's end, eat this.

Growing up, we had friends who's grandparents owned a sorghum farm. It's an old grain that among other things, is used to make a very sweet molasses-like syrup. I used to love the stuff. It's an unusual flavor, but one I'm rather fond of. I recently found a bottle and decided it would be the perfect finish to one of Yoni and my favorite summer treats of peaches and burrata (mozzarella's dreamy cousin who I fell in love with when I lived in Italy).  Since the peaches are *finally* ripening around here, the timing couldn't be better. If you don't have any sorghum on hand, try honey instead!

Grilled Peaches and Burrata

2 peaches
1 ball of burrata
greens (these are from Kimber's garden)
sorghum
sea salt (optional)

Slice peaces in half, removing pit. Heat skillet to high, placing a little sorghum or white sugar where you'll place peaches. When sugar starts to melt, place peaches on top. Allow to brown. Place greens in hole left by pit and heap burrata on top. Serve with crusty bread. Serves 4.   

The People Behind Sex In The Media

Ladies, ladies, ladies.

Since Sunday, my social media outlets have been atwitter with people aghast at a number of performances (one in particular) that took place at a music awards show this past weekend. It seems like every third person I am connected to can't stop talking about how disgusting, distasteful, degenerate and deviant the behavior is.

But can I tell you something? The reason why that stuff gets on television is because whenever someone does something that is sexually explicit or obscene, whatever new sex video or scene or scandal happens, that's all anyone seems to be able to talk about. How disgusting it is, how wrong it is, how it degrades women. But if we didn't talk about this stuff, if we didn't reward people by clicking on their articles, buying the magazines with x-rated covers, by posting their names or watching--and sharing--the youtube clips; guess what? That kind of media would disappear.

The reason there is so much sex in the media is because of us.

So if you want to see wholesome media, consume it. Next time you see a story about something good, share it on twitter or facebook or your blog. Next time you respect something, share that. Because no matter how disgusted you are, sharing dirt just makes things dirty. Sharing light brightens things making them of value to advertisers and businesses.

On that note, here's a beautiful little video on perspective I found on upworthy from upthink.tv. While I don't directly visit the site too much, more often than not, the links I click on go there.

Vote with your clicks! Vote with your links! The media will follow what you do. The power is literally in your hands. 

Interculture part deux

^^^only your siblings know what parading around in matching star-spangled shirts feels like^^^

Last Diwali I mentioned that Premal and I were trying to figure out how we would navigate the blending of our customs--especially when it comes to festivals and celebrations. Well, we're back for round two of our little experiment, and it's a good one.

Rakhi is the Hindu celebration of protective siblings. Traditionally, sisters give their brothers little bracelets to thank them for their guardianship, and receive sweets and gifts in return--because sisters are treasures, and should be treated as such. I'm all for being a treasure, but you can, of course, count on me to make things a bit more gender neutral. Because you have never seen a more protective mama bear than sweet Charity Sunshine up against a prospective beau (I'm pretty sure she once told Premal she would cut his hmm-hmm off if he ever hurt me). And there have definitely been times when I watched over Shiloh like he was a peony in full bloom.

So instead, we've chosen to celebrate by taking a few moments to reflect on how awesome our siblings are, and to thank them (by sending a little friendship bracelet in the mail) for all they do to ensure that we grow to meet our greatest potentials.


^^^ it gave me a great excuse to whip out my long dormant bracelet-making skillz^^^

So, here goes nothing.

Thanks for reading to me, and reading with me, and giving me great books to read to myself. Thanks for the sweet hand-me down t-shirts (and the not so sweet hand-me-down leggings). Thanks for teaching me how to cook and fight and whistle and fish. Thanks for driving me places, and driving me crazy. Thank you for the punches you've thrown (and taken) on my behalf. Thanks for teaching me about music and not freaking out (too much) when I dated your friends. Thanks for giving me a shoulder to cry on when I needed it, and a bop in the nose when I'd sobbed you soggy. Thanks for believing in me, and inspiring me to be more like each of you. I'm so lucky to have each of you in my life. I love you. Happy Rakhi.

xoxox,
Libby

^^^look at my dreamy model. look at him!^^^

Now I have to actually stick these buggers in the mail....

Perhaps the most blatantly discriminatory review on airbnb ever.

Some of Yoni and my new friends, clockwise from Top Left: actor Jim Carrey, food activist Haily Thomas, civil rights leader Terrence Roberts, historian Dr. Rita Roberts and quantum physicist and environmental activist Dr. Vandana Shiva, Ryan Beatty and his coolio guitarist, entertainment manager Josue Sejour, wordsmith and hip hop poet J. Ivy, Our resident urban yogis, The Nanny Fran Drescher, CEO of Special Olympics Tim Shriver, rapper Talib Kweli, Philanthropist and community activist Erica Ford, rock n' roll photographer Mick Rock, Magic Wands and Rathborn. Look how we all loving' one another and stuff...   

I just got back from a conference hosted by Deepak Chopra. I met Catholics, Jews, Baptists, Muslims, Hindus, agnostics, spiritualists, atheists, Mormons, Nondenominational Christians and general humanists. It was a fun cross section. So imagine the comic irony of returning to find a review for my flat on airbnb.com stating the following:

" One thing that we found odd was seeing The Book of Mormon left out on the coffee table (probably not intentionally) but I'm an atheist and so I found that quite confronting and in poor taste...

In my profile I clearly state my religious views so people are aware. It might be good if you do the same. Our anti religious stance is very strong and is a factor in the places we choose." -- Valda R.

I would like Valda R. to know that my Mormon faith is similarly central to my life. I would also like her to know that it absolutely does not factor into the places I choose on airbnb or the people I allow to stay in my home. I love my faith and chances are, there are a lot of things about your faith that I love to. Whether that is a specific religion, faith in God, family, community or the potential for good in humanity. But people like this woman give atheists a bad name because most atheists I know aren't religious bigots.

While I'm at it, I want to clear something up. It's commonly quoted that more people have died in the name of religion than any other way. This statement is just untrue. The majority of conflicts that have taken place in the world are and have been political and/or ethnic conflicts.

Hitler: economic and ethnic Fascist, not religious though he almost killed off the Jewish people
Stalin: Marxist. Not religious.
The Crimean War: Territorial, not religious
WWI: Not a religious conflict
Pol Pot: Socialist, not religious though he killed a lot of religious people.
Darfur: Racial genocide -- both groups were generally the same religion.
The Civil War (US): Political/racial/economic
Armenians in Turkey: Ethnic genocide
The Rape of Nanking: Ethnic genocide
Mao: Political

I could go on, but it's gonna get too depressing. The short(er) version of the story is, hateful, self centered, opportunistic people are the reason why a lot of carnage happens. It's when we don't do business because someone is Jewish or gay or Mormon or atheist or Muslim or Catholic or evangelical. When we make others among us. That's when the problems begin. When we think it's acceptable to mark people with a star or a book of mormon against their will to warn others about their beliefs. Religion isn't the problem. Hateful, angry, people who are unable or unwilling to show love or tolerance to those who look different, go to a different church or believe different things are the problem. If you find yourself doing that, well shame on you. And if I find myself doing that shame on me. And if you find me doing it, please say something. Because to paraphrase Rabbi Jachim Prinz, the greatest sin we commit against humanity is silence in the face of injustice. So speak up. Sing out. And hopefully, one day we'll all get along.

Do you have any stories to share about discrimination in your life?

Update: Since writing this post, airbnb took down the final sentences of the review. Still not satisfied. But I feel better for having written this little note.

Just Grand

I can't think of a lovelier way to end the summer than a minitrip to Grand Lake. That's a lie. I can think of one lovelier way to end the summer: a minitrip to Grand Lake with the Pitcher-Davis family. No internet, unpaved roads, bad cell service. It was perfect. All you could do was read, talk, kayak, and yell at moos(e(es?(ii?))). . . sometimes I wish my whole life was like that. There are more lovely things to say about our little venture out west, but I'm too tired to write any of them out just now. All I can muster at the moment is gratitude for the opportunity to bask in the exuberant serenity which suffuses every niche in that beatific corner of earth. 

Notes from the Missionary Training Center

Last week, after writing to you, I went to class. Our instructor was a little bummed because we were all kind of lethargic. His response: wall sitting contest - every man for himself. The record to beat was 5 minutes, and had been set by a sister missionary a few years ago. Our district is comprised of 3 elders and 3 sisters. We got in position, and I waited. My companions dropped like flies, but I knew I had to hang in there -- not just for my pride, but for the integrity of every sister missionary who has ever roamed the male encrusted halls of the MTC. Four minuted dragged by. One of the elders dropped out. At 5 minutes our soccer star elder plopped to the floor. So it was me and the 5ft tall District Leader, who resembles a ridiculously happy monkey. At 8 minutes 40 seconds, I realized that the power struggle we've been in since day 1 would never end if I didn't allow him to win. So I graciously stood up and congratulated him on his hard-won victory. (I don't think I could have lasted another minute anyway...)

*Note from Glorianna: Mercina sent this series of pictures on Monday. I'm not 100% sure, but I think it may show the amoeba-like self-duplication of Mormon missionaries. If you have any other ideas, please share them in the comments section below.

Fresh Air

It might be a wee understatement to say I haven't been quite myself recently. This move rocked me. I haven't known which way was up, and my body responded by mounting a revolt. My limbs were icicles, even though the weather's balmy. My brain was a mushball, no matter that I was feeding it a steady stream of fantastic writing. Meanwhile my tear ducts were in overdrive. And my heart, gosh, that little bugger has been a tempestuous prisoner if there ever was one. Ferociously slamming against the inside of my chest, and trying to crawl up my throat when I'm trying to sleep.

But graciously miraculously, a couple of days with Premal in my Dad's hometown have brought order to my carnal temple. For weeks I tried to exercise, shop, eat, talk, work, meditate and hibernate my stress away, all to no avail. But there's got to be something in that mountain air, because suddenly, finally, I feel like myself again. And it is so, so good to be back.

Altogether far too many pictures after the jump...

Let's Talk Underwire

Pink striped wallpaper and pictures of breasts, butts and bodies that look more Barbie than human are plastered on every surface, figuratively slapping my face with reminders of the body I don't have. A woman in a tight, short black dress with breasts cascading out of her top comes into fit me. Tape in hand, she measures the widest part of my chest. I feel like I'm being sized up for a cheap escort service. I leave feeling somewhat dirty, trying to hide my pink, striped bag from view.

This has been my experience shopping at Victoria's Secret. And it's no surprise. Victoria's Secret was made by a man for men who were uncomfortable shopping for women's lingerie in department stores. Ray Raymond wanted a place men could go to get something sexy for their love interest and feel comfortable.

Les Wexler bought the store later and decided to gear it towards women. As he was nearing 70, he thought up the Pink brand, wanting girls to have more fun with their underwear. To quote The Sound of Music, when contemplating this, "why don't I feel any better." Maybe because it's totally disconcerting and kind of gross that the largest specialty store for women's underwear is masterminded by a bunch of old men.

This past weekend, I finally decided to do something about it. Kimber told me I needed to get fitted at Nordstrom. And I did. And I think it might have just changed my life. It felt so much less awkward going to the same place I buy shoes or dresses to find a good bra. The woman who fit me was friendly and not trying to look like a Victoria's Secret angel. There were mom's taking their daughters for their first bras, sisters picking out things for weddings. The woman who helped me brought me no fewer than 25 bras to try on. The result was positively ... uplifting. For the first time since I was 13, I didn't feel ashamed to buy underwear. I felt happy and pretty and I don't think I'll ever return to the pink walk of shame.  Shopping for body basics shouldn't lead to anyone feeling worse about their body. It shouldn't lead to women feeling fat. It should leave us feeling happy and supported (pun intended).

What are your most traumatic underwire stories?  

Notes from the Missionary Training Center

Just maybe the best worst first date story ever ... ... ...

I was jet lagged. I'd arrived from Tel Aviv that morning and I was on a date with this really nice guy but I knew nothing would come of it.

We went to dinner and I was ready to go home. I told him this, but he insisted we go out for dessert. It was good. I actually recommend the place. After a few bites, I had to stop. A combination of temperamental medications and sleep deprivation had done a number on my little tummy. I asked for a top and I put in in a bag with the rest of my left overs.

I was really ready to leave, so we went in search of a metro. I thought it was a little cheap of him not to grab a cab, but whatever. We walked and walked and walked. Soon, it seemed like we were going in circles ... ... ... because we were. I realized while very nice, this guy was from the suburbs and had no idea where he was going. If we were going to take the subway, I was going to be the one to find it.

He promised me again he knew where it was and at this point, I'd had enough. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and explained that he was a great guy, I liked him a lot but we were different religions, we had different priorities and different ideas of what life was about. I knew he would be very successful and happy, but I was certain there was no future for him and me. Which for some reason, inspired him to kiss me. And it was amazing... ... ...

Until I realized I was going to throw up ... ... ...

Which I did ... ... ...

Into my little doggie bag... ... ...

And I was certain I would never see him again, but it made for a great story.

This week is the 5th anniversary of that date and now, we're happily married.

Just goes to show, sometimes going in with no expectations is the best way to build something -- vomit and all.

Italians call this breakfast, right?

Back in the 80's, Nutella was kind of a big deal in the TD home. Before you could just pick up a 5-kilo barrel of the stuff from Costco, mom would bring it home when she visited her parents, and whenever our dad traveled to Europe for work, he would lug back entire suitcases filled with Nutella and Ritter Sport. All bazillion TD kids would sit around in a big circle, and mom would dole out tiny tastes with a teaspoon. We would gasp and groan in ecstasy, before the hallowed jar was hidden away on the very highest shelf to await our next bout of uncharacteristically-good behavior.

Now that Nutella's gone mainstream, we're liberated to enjoy it in ways other than straight-up. And we're (obviously) not the only ones. When we were in PEI last month, we picked up an assortment of yummies from the Charlottetown farmers' market, including a Nutella-spiked rice krispie treat. It was pretty epic, so the kiddies and I decided to recreate a batch to send to Mercina. I'd give our efforts two big chocolate-hazelnut-covered thumbs up.

I had a hard time getting a picture before Phineas had his way with them....

 Read on for the recipe!

A nice end to the evening. . .

I'm trying to think of a good way to describe this. . .Carl's dog died that morning. A cherry red Mack truck deprived Rover's shallow grave of most of its due, and the crazy neighbor lady saturated what was left of man(more specifically, Carl)'s best friend with high proof urea. After the poorly attended service, Carl went into the freezer to find his pint of Chunky Monkey empty, with a comforting post-it from his roommate shoved inside promising to "cover the next one." Carl's mother called him that afternoon, wanting to give him some good news over an early dinner -- he was to meet her on the other side of town because she didn't feel like leaving strip mall where she attended water aerobics. An hour and a half later, Carl walked into a suburban Chile's to see her soggy head nestled between the brawny arms of his despised high school math tutor. "Kyle understands my needs much better than your father ever has. Don't you, Kyle? We met at zumba." Kyle and Carl's mother left the restaurant to get some air right before the check came. Carl paid and hightailed it to nowhere in particular. Needing a moment to process his day, he pulled off to pace across a lot simultaneously vacant and threatening. On his third pivot, his nose was greeted by a large flat fist, which then proceeded to introduce itself to his wallet, cell phone, and keys. As he propped himself up to watch his car speeding down the road to irretrievability, Carl couldn't help but say aloud to himself "Damn. Now that's a sunset."This was that kind of sunset.