While in High School, I dated a guy for about 5 minutes. On one of our few dates we went to a neighborhood Italian place (where he inhaled a giant meatball sandwich), and then back to his place to make out (classy, eh?). We fell asleep tangled up on his twin bed and a couple hours later when we woke up, he leaned over and open-mouth kissed me with his garlic/meatball/ass breath and that's pretty much all it took for me to want to break up with him. Maybe I mentioned this to a girlfriend and word got back to him because the next day I came home from school, and at my front door was a single, long-stemmed red rose accompanied by a small card that simply read call me written in gold calligraphy. I wondered how many times he practiced writing call me with his calligraphy pen before getting it right. (Remember how hard it was to hold those things so the flat side was at ye olde perfect slanted angle?!) After momentarily being impressed by his calligraphy balls, I steeled myself, dialed his number, and then broke up with him over the phone. Ugh. I'm awful. But that breath was Bad News Bears, you guys. Anyway. That was the most memorable floral delivery I've ever received.

Until now.

The delightfully nice people at The Bouqs sent Joeycake (me) some gorgeous flowers! Have you heard of The Bouqs? You know when you have to send flowers to someone and you kinda freak out? Because let's say they live far away and you have no idea where to order them from? You could choose somewhere local that you're just pulling out of thin air via a quick google search, but are they gonna be good? Or do you go with some FTD situation that feels homogenized, somewhat impersonal and usually downright cheesy? There is another, much more kick-ass option: The Bouqs offer sustainably-grown, super-fresh flowers (grown in rich volcanic soil) at really cheap prices ($40 out the door). Bonus: they last longer than most high-school relationships. The roses they sent me lasted a full 12 days. They were so great looking for so long that we started to become suspicious of them. The Bouqs have a beautiful, chic selection, they ship directly via FedEx, have flat-rate shipping and zero hidden fees. I can't rave about them enough. They just might be good enough to make someone forget your sour meatball breath.

You can check out their website here. They're always having deals but today there are some special Cyber Monday ones too.

Happy Monday!
Hope you had a delicious Thanksgiving weekend:)
xoxo
jolie

P.S. FYI: All opinions posted by me on Joeycake are my very own and I would never rave about anything here that I don't stand behind.

baked zucchini fries

Hello darling people:)

We just returned from a decadent week-long Colorado mountain vacation. It felt so nourishing to be in that crisp mountain air and see such blue blues and green greens. And the trees! And the meadows! And the clouds! (Oh, how I wish Los Angeles could get itself some dreamy, cottony clouds. Can someone get on that?)

So now we're back to reality and business-as-usual. Case in point: DP and I said a teary goodbye to the gargantuan king size hotel bed and are back to slumming it in our queen. Last night I woke up in a panic when my foot ventured out .0001 millimeters from my side and hit a husband.

We're also (sniff, sob) back to not eating french fries every day. Which is a travesty.

I was Lutheran for a few childhood years (long story) and when I was 7 or 8, our church sponsored a Cambodian family of refugees who had escaped horrible conditions in their country. Somehow they wound up in Boulder, Colorado to attend our little church and I remember our family having a handful of social interactions with them. Once, we introduced them to McDonald's to show them how Americans eat (have you ever?). I will never forget the pained looks on their faces while they inspected and gingerly tried the food, trying to be polite. It was SO foreign to them and so small-minded of us to not only let fast food represent an entire country's cuisine, but assume they would be delighted by it. As a little girl, I remember showing the kids how to dip a french fry into a pile of delicious ketchup while they looked at me like I had three heads. Politely, they followed my lead and proceeded to hate it. One of them had to spit it out in a napkin. And as a 7 year old I could not wrap my head around the notion that a.) someone had never tried a fry with ketchup before and b.) they didn't like it.

That experience is so burned into my memory that I pretty much think of it every time I dip a french fry into ketchup. And seeing how many fries I ate last week, it's like that Cambodian family was right there on vacation with me.

So, okay. These baked zucchini fries aren't truffle-laden or even potato-laden but trust me when I say: they are seriously good. I think even new-to-the-USA Cambodians would like them.

Bonus: they smell SO good while baking--Like a pizza scratch-n-sniff sticker. Another thing that would be really odd to explain to Cambodian refugees. But you guys get it. I know you do.

Baked Zucchini Fries
serves 2-3

2 medium zucchini
2 eggs
juice of half a lemon
black pepper
1/4 t kosher salt
3/4 cup panko bread crumbs (FYI: here is a great gluten-free version)
1 T flax meal (ground flax seeds)
heaping 1/3 cup grated parmesan
1 T salt-free Italian seasoning (like Trader Joe's 21 Seasoning Salute)


Preheat your oven to 425F. Line a baking sheet with foil, drizzle with olive oil and smear it around evenly. Trim the zukes, cut them into fry-size wedges and salt them generously. Set aside. In one shallow bowl, beat the eggs and add the lemon juice, a heavy dose of black pepper and 1/4 t salt. In a different shallow bowl, mix the bread crumbs, flax, parmesan and seasoning. In assembly-line fashion, dip the zucchini wedges first into the egg mixture, next into the bread crumbs, then onto the baking sheet. Bake for 15 minutes (no need to turn them) until golden brown. Taste for salt and then serve immediately with ranch dressing or warm marinara. (OR KETCHUP!:))

xoox
jolie

P.S. Shout out to the Cambodian readers of Joeycake!

how my fifth-grade self helped me on my fertility quest

{This article also appears in The Huffington Post}

One night while David and I were watching the Olympics, my memory was jogged by the name of a Chinese ski jumper. I had all but forgotten that in the fifth grade, I was cast as the title role in Ah Wing Fu and the Golden Dragon, a children's play adapted from an ancient Asian folk tale. In the story, Ah Wing Fu becomes bored with life and goes out into the world to seek truth and beauty. At the end of the story and as a result of this quest, Ah Wing transforms into a beautiful butterfly. One thing you should know: Ah Wing Fu was an old Chinese man.

This news did not go over too well with fifth-grade me. There was another school play being cast about a group of exotic animals and I had my sights set on the cute little kangaroo. What little girl dreams of becoming a disgruntled Chinese man? That was NOT why I got into the theatre. I pouted for a day or two but rallied remarkably quickly. I don't know if it was naiveté or some deep-seeded knowing that The Show Must Go On, but I climbed on board. And even managed to have fun.

It didn't hurt that my ingeniously crafty Grandma made me a fabulous costume. She MacGyvered a red satin coat so that when I stuck my hands into the pockets, I could pull out these giant, flowing butterfly wings. They were magic. Along with my coat, I wore old-age makeup and a long black wig that was combed into a single fat braid. I may have also sported a man-voice complete with Chinese accent. I'm a little horrified to imagine my little-girl-self doing this but I think she fully went for it. (I've blocked that part out and maybe it's for the best.)

All these Ah Wing Fu flashbacks got me thinking about how we're full of big ideas on how things "should" go and hell if they ever truly go that way. They pretty much always go places that feel way off course.

Case in point:

I've always imagined having kids. And I always thought that when I was ready to be a mother, it would happen in a snap. Especially after years of panicky sex with boyfriends during which I was thoroughly convinced I'd get knocked up. That thought was unfathomable--I had way too much to do before becoming a parent. I eventually married a man who shared the same feeling so we enjoyed our life together and didn't give it a second thought until, a decade into our marriage, we felt ready. We excitedly began trying and nothing happened. Well, something happened: I couldn't get pregnant.

Over these last four years, my baby quest has led me to gynecologists and reproductive specialists and endocrinologists. It's led me to fertility hypnotherapists (I know) and internet articles entitled Cervical Mucus and You (for reals). It's led me to write journals, read infertility books and see psychics, nutritionists, acupuncturists and kinesiologists. It's led me to painfully uncomfortable probes and procedures and way too many people peeping into my vagina (and my spirit-vagina) than I care to count. It's led me to arduous baby showers and forced smiles when I'm told by yet another friend she's with child ("We weren't even trying!").

I've learned (the hard way) that the best answer to "Do you have kids?" is a simple no. And I've learned to pray the asker doesn't follow up with an impolite "Why?". I've learned to not flinch when asked, "When are you guys gonna have kids?" as if children are a foregone conclusion for everyone or that our childlessness is our choice. And God forbid I've chosen to share my predicament, for everyone has a method or a doctor or a story or an answer. I've learned that my friends with children are often miserable and exhausted. And that's made me question how hard I'm fighting for something that may often make me miserable and exhausted. It's led me to wonder how badly I want children. Or if I'm even meant to since it's been so difficult. It's strained my marriage to the brink of divorce.

So, yeah. Off course.

Now I've been trying for so long I've become a cliche: yet another infertile woman, well aware of the fertility statistics facing middle-aged women (hint: it's not pretty). I've resisted writing about it because it feels like admitting failure and frankly, it's a downer. I also don't want it to define me: The Woman Who Can't Get Pregnant. And it feels like a topic scads of child-free ladies have written about and I wonder what I could possibly add to the already-heaping pile.

But here's why I am. Because I am a seeker (just like Ah Wing Fu!) and I seek to get to the bottom of something. Everyone I know has at least one sticking point in their life, one area that isn't working. Maybe it's relationships or money or career or health or a yearning for a baby. And these are basically happy people who are blessed in so many other areas (including me). So how do we knock it off? How do we figure this out?

You're holding back the best parts of yourself from any relationship when you are wishing it were something else. That's true of all relationships: the ones between you and others, you and your career, you and your bank account, or you and your lady parts. Not to say we shouldn't wish for things to change, but if we're miserable where we are, we'll never get there anyway. We're too busy looking for what's not working. And as freaking frustrated as I can get about things not being how I want them to be, it's become more important to me to not be a diminished version of myself.

So I've taken to having these kinds of conversations:

Ok, God/Life/Angels/Universe, show me how to do this gracefully. Show me how to either find my way to a child or accept my life the way it is right now. Or preferably both. Show me the playing-a-Chinese-man version of not being a mother yet. Help me get on board. Show me I'm going to be okay. Show me how to have courage and do it full-on. Show me how to love myself more.

Maybe it's my foolish optimism (I'm an actress accustomed to rejection after all) but I really do somehow still feel like our child is on its way to us. And if I'm being honest, while this four year journey has led to a shit-ton of pain, it's also led to a tremendous amount of good. It's forced my marriage to expand to a new, fiercely loving place that couldn't have happened otherwise. I've been blessed with introspection and growth and acceptance and patience and a million other qualities that will make me a better mother if I'm so lucky. And if not, absolutely a better, more compassionate person.

What if the things we think are not working are actually working in perfect order to get us to a place that the higher part of us yearns for? It simply might look differently on the outside than we envisioned. And maybe we shouldn't rush to take score. Whether this is true or not, doesn't it feel better to believe it? I wish this peaceful perspective for all of us.

So I look to my fifth-grade self and learn from her guts. God bless that little girl who became an old Chinese man with aplomb. I love her more than if she'd gotten to play the easy ingenue, the expected role. I can see her now in her transformation scene, proudly pulling out her magic butterfly pocket-wings and running around in her Chinese slippers, long braid flapping, believing she was airborne.

xoxo
jolie

 P.S:

the jv club podcast!

Hello Lovelies:)

My cool friend, comedienne Janet Varney has an awesome podcast called The JV Club (where she interviews women about the highs and lows of adolescence) and I was lucky enough to be her guest on yesterday's episode! Tune in if you want to hear about my super bad fashion choices and a few of my crazy nannies.

Here's the link.

And here's the cookie recipe we discuss on the show:)

And how about that head-to-toe white lace outfit I wore to 7th Grade Winter Formal???  Jealous?

Happy Friday!
love,
Jolie

love in a mexican restaurant

When I was 15 I had a wicked crush on the head waiter of a Mexican restaurant. I know how that sounds so allow me to clarify: he was hot. Not just hot: sexy. Like Latin-Lover sexy. And seeing how I was one big, raw, 15-year-old hormone walking around, my mind and body were sent into a tailspin by his manly la testosterona (despite the fact that the sex of the word testosterone in Spanish is feminine).

He was probably in his late 20s (that added tremendously to his appeal) and his sexy uniform included tight acid-washed jeans, a tight white t-shirt, and a tight, shiny black mane that leaned more mullet-y than I care to admit to you now. It was most certainly hairsprayed. Or gelled. Or both. God, this sounds bad in hindsight but you must TRUST ME (or at least 15-year-old me): he was SEXY.

You may be asking: why did I spend so much time in a certain Mexican restaurant developing a burning infatuation for one of its employees?

When I was in phase 2 of my childhood (the vegan phase) my mother and stepfather were constantly traveling for work. Because of this, over the years my brother and I had various nannies. It began when we were ages 9 and 13 and even though we were pretty self-sufficient, they were our supplemental parents: they whipped up breakfast smoothies and drove us to school and dance lessons and Marie Callender's and the mall. They also provided good guidance and mentoring. For example: field trips to Mexican restaurants to lust after the mulleted-yet-sexy staff.

My nanny at the time (we'll call her K) was awesome. She was only 5 years older than me and despite being moderately kooky, she was a legit role model who celebrated her weirdness while encouraging mine. K wore little dresses with no underwear because she wanted to feel "free" and was constantly drinking giant cups of coffee and journaling dramatically about things she was passionate about (everything). When we weren't making up our own songs, we spent hours driving and singing to musicals at the top of our lungs in her extremely used and temperamental honda. K had come to us via upstate New York and while we were in her charge, Southern California gradually seduced her into becoming blonder and tanner. Our family owned a tanning bed (I know) and it lived permanently in the room designated for nannies. Some of them used it and some didn't. [Our nanny T, for example, was borderline goth and never set foot in there. I don't think it was out of health concerns, though, since she had that pull-out-your-own-eyelashes disease that screamed self-destruction.] K spent more time in the tanning bed than all the other nannies combined. She may have even broken it. I've never seen a browner white person. At her tanorexic peak, she was so tan that the whites of her teeth and eyes could blind you in one flash.

Her sense of self-expression rubbed off on me in the form of a blazer I picked out while shopping with my mom. It was navy blue and had props attached to it. No joke: there was a thick watch chain that led to nowhere, and a pair of auxiliary eyeglasses sewn into the chest pocket to make it appear the wearer had casually hung them there in a rush. They were only attached by one hinge so they flopped around a little if you happened to break into a light jog. A drycleaner's nightmare, this blazer also featured a permanent silk pocket square that had a paisley motif. It should be revealed that the full effect of its charm was the accompanying wardrobe, the uniform of the early-90s SoCal young lady: a t-shirt with removable shoulder pads, pleated too-long jorts, scrunchy socks, and white LA Gear high tops. I wore this blazer often because it made me feel grown up.

Anyway.

There was a little house on the property of this Mexican restaurant and K's best friend Missy lived there with the owner. Missy was many years his junior and he had an old man name that didn't help the age gap. It was something like Walter or Hume or Orville. Anyway. We were always visiting. And hanging out in the restaurant. That's where I saw him: the waiter of my dreams.

One thing a lusty 15-year-old doesn't wield is subtlety, so I made blatant 15-year-old googly eyes at my sexy Latin waiter every chance I could. He was good-natured and a big fat flirt and would give me his charismatic smile and linger with the eye contact. Although he did this for everyone, I imagined it was just for me. It's no wonder I developed a keen addiction to enchilada sauce. I'd always order extra for the possible stray brush of his acid-washed leg on my arm as he delivered it to the table. I'd inhale as he set it down in hopes of catching a whiff of his crunchy hair gel. I had a huge crush before I even knew his name but after multiple enchiladas over several visits, I finally learned it was Jo Jo. I went home that night to lie in bed and whisper it over and over (music to my ears!). K bought me a fresh journal (she always encouraged my feelings) and I wrote entry after entry about my lovesick heart and how Jo Jo was the only cure. All I wanted was to kiss him. Why should we (or our lips) be kept apart? I knew the age difference was a hurdle but if I waited at least six years to be fully legal like Missy then perhaps it was possible. I mean, look at her and Herbert, I thought. They lived in their very own dumpster-adjacent casita! I cried to Air Supply's Greatest Hits and wrote poems and burned incense with my bedroom door closed until I developed a hacking smoker's cough. After a couple weeks of this, I learned his name was actually Georgio. He was just saying it really fast with his thick accent and sexy Latin tongue. All my American ears heard was Jo Jo. It took one solid afternoon of back-track journaling (including a whole bottle of Wite Out and several loops of Air Supply's Greatest Hits) to replace all the Jo Jos with Georgios.

One night as we were leaving, Nanny K ran behind the restaurant to pick up something from Missy and Ebenezer's while I waited outside and guess who was having a smoke break? (Or maybe brushing his hair? I can't remember. Nevertheless.) We had never been alone before and my hormones went extra haywire. I was absolutely certain this was the last opportunity I'd ever have in my entire life to seize this kind of romantic moment. It was MEANT TO BE. All the crying and journaling and incense had paid off! It had led to this exact moment and I had to act! He extinguished his cigarette on a tree stump (or set down his hairbrush?), propped up one acid-washed leg on a nearby planter and turned, flashing his intoxicating, dazzling smile at me. Next thing I knew I leapt into his arms and pressed my lips against his. I had to stand up high to reach but my LA Gears had a reinforced toe that didn't let me down. Thank GOD I'm wearing my blazer! I thought. Maybe I can pass for 17! Well. That darling man had the kindness to kiss me back (not sure he really had a choice) and it was the most amazing kiss of my young life.

Afterward, he gave me the biggest compliment. "Where did you learn to kiss like that?" He asked. In hindsight I see he probably meant, "Where did you learn to cover 8 feet of patio in .00006 seconds and throw yourself into the arms of a much-older waiter of a Mexican restaurant without snagging your fake glasses on anything?"

Either way, I just kept quiet and smiled.

A minute later I saw K's teeth coming toward me through the dark. We climbed into her honda and headed home to do some serious journaling.

xo
jolie

P.S. this.

whipped sweet potato casserole

After my Mom married my Vegan Stepfather, a steadfast tradition was born. It involved going around the table during special-occasion meals for everyone to take turns saying nice things--either what we loved most about the person-of-honor (Birthdays), what we were grateful for (Thanksgiving), or what inspiring thing we learned (every single other time we ate together, ever). They meant well (I do love the sentiment) but as a teenager this was somewhat hateful.  Not only did the food always get cold, but what 13-year-old likes being put on the spot?

**Backstory Alert: During this time my Mom and VSF ran a pretty huge personal development business that involved lots of travel. They were home much less than they were away (that's probably why they were hungry to create meaningful memories in the rare times we were all together as a family). While we stayed home with a (usually unstable) nanny, they worked and traveled with an entourage of staff, a mostly normal/lovely bunch comprised of many tried-and-true loyalists and a handful of newbies who circulated in and out, revolving-door-style. This entourage was around A LOT. All this to say: it was not uncommon to play the around-the-table game with loads of people at their frequent work-related dinners. Inevitably someone would cry during their turn and this really upped the ante for everyone else. And it sucked being one of the unlucky souls to go last; it was like grasping at straws to not repeat something nice that had already been said ("Um...I'm also so grateful for my health!"). Or try coming up with a brilliant nugget when you're dragged to a Birthday dinner honoring a brand new entourage joiner ("Congrats on your toupee being hardly noticeable!").

One year our family hosted an Orphans' Thanksgiving and there were upwards of 100 people dining in our living room (entourage and nanny included). The furniture was cleared out and replaced with rows of rented tables swathed in polyester linens and a buffet with multiple chafing dishes featuring all manner of vegetable-based dishes. It literally took over an hour to go around the table(s) while 100 of our "closest friends" pontificated thankfully. And bad idea of the century: we had all visited the plant-based buffet beforehand. I sat there watching my rubbery Tofurkey get tepid and my mushroom gravy get gelatinous and even as a kid I thought: this is bullshit. Its no wonder my brother Josh had the sense to flee to the neighbors' house down the street. Too bad I was such a good girl.

You'd think that particular incident (or much of my childhood, for that matter) would've scarred me for life but now that I'm a grown-up, I adore Thanksgiving. It's my most favorite. There are no presents to buy, it's just about gratitude and togetherness and food and family. I have, however, created some new rules for myself:

1. Food is eaten hot
2. Turkey is happening
3. Gratitude is imperative yet personal

Whipped Sweet Potato Casserole
serves 6-8
recipe from Epicurious

This is so freaking decadent. Plus the topping has CORN FLAKES in it. Genius. Do yourself a favor and remain in denial about the copious amounts of butter and sugar here. It a Holiday, right?:)

22 oz. red-skinned sweet potatoes (yams), peeled and cut into 1" pieces
6 T unsalted butter at room temperature
1 large egg
6 T sugar
1 t pumpkin pie spice
pinch sea salt

Topping:
1 1/2 cups cornflakes, crushed
1/2 cup chopped pecans
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
6 T unsalted butter, melted

Preheat oven to 400. Bring a large pot of water to a boil and cook the sweet potatoes until tender, about 15 minutes. Drain. Transfer to the bowl of an electric mixer and add the butter, pumpkin pie spice, salt and sugar. Beat until creamy. Taste for seasoning and then add the egg and mix well. Spread/pour the mixture into a greased 8x8 baking dish (Note: the dish can be made into advance up to this point. Cover and refrigerate and then bring to room temperature to continue.) Bake uncovered until the edges begin to brown, about 25 minutes.

Mix the cornflakes, pecans, butter and sugar until well incorporated and top the cooked sweet potatoes evenly. Bake an additional 10 minutes, uncovered, until golden brown and crisp.

xoox
jolie

P.S.  Happy Thanksgiving!  I'm so grateful for you that I'd get up and say it in front of 100 personal-development vegans!:)

chicken soup from scratch(ish)

In my family (during the super fun vegan years), it was not uncommon to hear things like, "Did you eat a cold?" Instead of referring to a cold as a thing you'd "catch", it was attributed to toxins in the food you ate. Nowadays it's common knowledge that your diet has a huge bearing on your health but imagine being asked that as a 13-year-old with the sniffles in the late 80s. My brothers and I would roll our eyes at each other and then secretly I'd recount my last several meals and wonder what specific morsel did me in.  

The psycho thing was that eating "vegan" in our household included things like (my hand to God) frequenting the McDonald's drive-thru as a family and ordering a Big Mac without the meat or cheese. (That was a real treat, hearing your parents order that from the back seat and dying a little bit when they had to repeat themselves to the poor pimply teenager manning the window.)

And for us kids who were squeamish about most vegetables, being vegan in our house meant consuming staggering amounts of carbs. The tator-tots, the pasta, the toast! We had one nanny early on, Dora, who made us french fries from scratch. Every. Single. Day. And we ate them with buckets of ketchup. It's a wonder we're not obese.

It's no wonder, though, that we ate ourselves some colds.

If you can eat yourself a cold, then I think you can eat yourself out of one too. I swear this is true: pre-Thanksgiving, I came down with the sneaky beginnings of a post-nasal drip, immediately ate a big bowlful of this soup, slept nine hours, and the mother-effer was kicked to the curb! [knocking serious wood]

So if you reach into your purse looking for a pen and instead pull out a dusty, stray Sour Patch Kid*, maybe eat some of this soup for good measure.

*this may or may not have happened to me.

Chicken Soup From Scratch(ish)
yields about 4 quarts

There are definitely quicker methods to making a basic chicken soup but this is the best way I've found to create awesome depth of flavor without starting from total scratch. Plus you're getting a slew of nutrients from those root vegetables.

3 quarts Doctored Broth, recipe follows (this takes about an hour but is key to this soup's success!)
1 brown onion, finely chopped
4 medium carrots, peeled and chopped
3 stalks celery, chopped
1 bay leaf
1/2 t thyme leaves
The meat from 1 cooked rotisserie chicken, shredded with fingers
1 smallish bunch kale, de-ribbed and chopped into large pieces
1/3 cup finely chopped Italian parsley
salt and freshly ground pepper


Saute onion, carrots, celery, bay leaf, thyme and a good pinch of salt and pepper for about 7 minutes, til soft. Add the Doctored Broth and bring to a simmer. Add the cooked, shredded chicken and kale and simmer for 10 minutes, until the kale is cooked. Add the parsley and check for seasoning.


Doctored Broth

1 cooked rotisserie chicken (ideally salt free)

2 quarts store-bought chicken stock (ideally low sodium & organic)

1 quart water

1 onion, quartered (leave the skin on)

2 carrots, peeled and chopped into large chunks

2 stalks celery, chopped into large chunks

1 large parsnip, peeled and chopped into large chunks

1 turnip, quartered
1 head garlic, cut across width-wise (leave the skin on)

4 sprigs fresh thyme

2 large sprigs fresh parsley

1 bay leaf

Remove the meat from the cooked chicken, pull it apart with your fingers and set aside and refrigerate until ready to make the soup. Throw away all the creepy bits and place the bones and skin in a large stockpot. Add the chicken stock, water and all the remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and simmer for about an hour and then strain and discard the solids, saving the broth. At this point you can freeze it, refrigerate it up to 2 days or use immediately.


Happy Tuesday:)
xoxo
jolie

putting the meat in meatloaf

At age eleven, without any say in the matter, I became an overnight vegan. The short-story reason for this drastic change is that my parents divorced. And after a time living with our Father, my brothers and I moved from the Midwest to California to live with our Mother. She had fallen in love and married a guy who happened to be VERY opinionated when it came to diet and health. Mom had stars in her eyes and love in her heart which made her forget how much she liked pepperoni pizza in her stomach so we all had to go along with it.

I recall an adjustment period for most of 7th grade where I was vegan only at home and in the presence of my Mom and new Stepfather. And despite being the ultimate Good Girl, that didn't stop me from sneaking weekly to Carl's Jr. between ballet and jazz to scarf a Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger. Still, I was so afraid of getting caught that once, while walking home after school with a frozen yogurt on my person, I spied my Mom and SF driving toward me and sprained my ankle jumping into a ditch.

It wasn't just me, either. My brother Josh made fast friends with a meat-eating kid down the street whose family took him in like their own. I found out years later that they used to hold Thanksgiving dinner for him. He'd high-tail it to their house and eat a second Holiday meal after picking at his Tofurkey with mushroom gravy at ours.

At some point I made peace with the vegan lifestyle. Or maybe I was just tired of living a lie. I made my way through High School and then to New York at 19 and kept up the meatlessness without much thought until one night: I was at Ollie's Chinese restaurant when a giant wave of intense meat craving washed over me. I didn't even remember what it tasted like but my body had to have it NOW. I gave in to some General Tso's Chicken and it felt so good, so right.  I was back. From then on, while I was secretly eating meat, my guilt was eating me. I lied to my Mother and SF, devouring cheese pizza and greasy burgers only to eat vegan when they came to visit. I felt terrible. And then? I started taking birth control pills behind their back. AKA evil pharmaceuticals. Some kids had booze, pills and weed. I had whole milk, potstickers and OrthoTriCyclen.

I wrestled with my own food guilt while a few more years passed, and then after 15 meat-free years together, my mom and SF went through a brutal divorce. When the dust had finally begun to settle, a particularly vivid dinner stands out to me, the first we three kids had with Mom alone in years. We met at a place famous for its delicious roast chicken and without discussing it, each of us ordered a 3-piece-meal with sides. My brother Tyler broke the silence when the food arrived. "I never thought I'd say this," he said, "but...how's your chicken, Mom?"  

We laughed for ten minutes solid. And that was that.

I don't feel guilty anymore for what I eat. Sometimes it's vegan and gluten-free, sometimes it's seriously not. I love cooking and eating it all. I'm equal opportunity all the way. So today I give you a recipe involving meat AND dairy AND gluten. Loud and proud. No apologies. You won't see me jumping into a ditch about it.

Turkey Meatloaf

You can also make this with lean ground beef.  It's delicious either way.

1 large yellow onion, finely chopped
2 stalks celery, finely chopped
2 large carrots, peeled and finely chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
2 bay leaves
1 1/2 t finely chopped fresh thyme
1/2 t kosher salt
a few twists of freshly ground black pepper
2T extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup finely chopped fresh parsley
5T ketchup
3t worcestershire sauce
1 1/2 lbs. ground turkey (not all white meat or you'll be bummed)
1/2 cup milk
1 cup breadcrumbs
2 eggs, lightly beaten
3/4 t kosher salt
pepper
additional ketchup for squeezing on top before baking and also for serving


Preheat oven to 375. Line a baking sheet with parchment and drizzle with olive oil.

Saute the onion, celery, carrots, garlic, bay, thyme, 1/2 t salt and pepper in olive oil over medium heat for 5 minutes. Turn the heat down to low for another 5 minutes. Stir often. Remove from heat.  Discard the bay leaves. Stir in the parsley, ketchup and worcestershire sauce. Set aside.

Mix the ground turkey with the milk, breadcrumbs, eggs and 3/4 t salt and pepper. Add the cooled vegetable mixture. Form into an oval-shaped loaf on the prepared parchment, zigzag some ketchup all along the top (alternatively brush it on if you lack a squeeze bottle) and bake for 50-55 minutes or until a meat thermometer inserted into the center reaches 170. Let sit 10 minutes before serving. With leftovers, use a nonstick pan to saute individual slices in olive oil until hot. Serve with more ketchup.

xoxoxo

jolie