vanilla fizzy lifting drink

Vanilla fizzy lifting drink recipe

drinks | March 20, 2014 | By

One of the things I miss most from my childhood is bubbles.

Bubbles are awesome and shiny and they float. Anybody can play with bubbles. They aren’t for just boys or just girls. They aren’t fancy or expensive so anybody can afford them. They don’t need batteries or an outlet or instructions or a service plan.

They don’t require software updates. They never get bugs or glitches or prompt you to sign a 2 year contract. Nobody ever calls bubble tech support. Nobody ever needs to order a replacement part for their bubble apparatus. Nobody ever loses at bubbles.


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sloppy joes with buttery hamburger buns

bread, entree, meat | March 9, 2014 | By

In planning my first move to Europe, I had this grand delusion that it would be just like home except with cobblestone streets, architecture older than 1952, pubs full of locals drunkenly singing in unison and exotic-accented men, as those are the only reasons anyone moves to Europe in the first place.

I definitely got the cobbled streets, the historic structures, the quaint pubs and, of course, the exotic men folk to oggle. But it was nothing like home.

Perhaps underneath my cliched expectations of Europe, different was what I actually wanted. Some place new and exciting to invigorate the…

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lemon rakija (croatian limoncello)

Croatian lemon rakija recipe

drinks, ethnic | January 26, 2014 | By

Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.

It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing your face. Last time we met, I saw you eying the twenty something blonde at the next table.

After 6 years together, I’ll admit my looks were fading, the crow’s feet becoming ever more apparent. That can really do a number on a girl’s ego. So I took a leave of absence, while I (or rather, the blog) underwent a major makeover, complete with many necessary lifts and tucks. The unwanted was removed. The good was enhanced. Silicon was implanted.


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my first grape harvest

Croatia | October 10, 2013 | By

I have always wanted to pick wine grapes. 

In my dreams, I was in Burgundy at a beautiful country chateau with gleeming vineyards sprawling in every direction. I spoke French, of course. 

We picked massive bunches of plump pinot noir, sneaking a few into our mouths every few feet as we made our way down the vines. Two for wine, three for me. 

Around noon, we breaked for an overindulgent lunch of roasted meats, marinated vegetables, pastas with lots of cream, and 7 desserts (because 6 just wouldn't be enough). The harvest feast…

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