I just returned home from the first of two Atlanta trips (where I'm guest-starring on a TV show) and the very first scene I shot required facial prosthetics for my character. Yep, you heard me correctly: facial prosthetics. People assume that being an actress is all glamour and beauty and maybe (probably) for some it is. But for me? I am the actress who constantly winds up looking like a freak. On various TV shows/movies, my afflictions have included:

-going blind due to lizard venom

-bleeding from the eyes

-being overtaken by a flesh-eating virus

-a gut-stab by pocketknife in an alley

-a gut-stab by butcher knife in a living room

-getting my throat-slit in a drive-in movie while wearing a prosthetic cleft lip 

-being pecked to death by a parrot (BTW, this was a comedy)

Some less serious afflictions (mostly just painful infringements on vanity) have included:

-bad "temporary" hair color (it's NEVER temporary)

-creepy wigs

-really bad hair styling

-zero hair styling

-horrifying clothes

-not enough clothes

Glamourous, huh?

Anyway. Back to last week: I arrived to work and reported straight to the makeup chair where the nice people began affixing latex pieces to various regions of my face (using super fume-y solvents and glues and then applying makeup on top) to make me look horribly swollen from a severe allergic reaction. This took nearly three hours. After which, I could not do any of the following:

-eat

-drink

-smile

-open my eyes fully

-talk comfortably

-stop taking pictures of myself

This was physically a small nightmare. Also important to note: It wasn't just uncomfortable for me--I looked FREAKY. Like something was really wrong with my face. When people looked at me they couldn't suppress an involuntary flinch and what followed was a blurted "Oh, wow!" or "Holy mother of God!" Even the makeup experts who had ADMINISTERED the horror were averting their gazes. And did I mention it was my first day? I hadn't met the director or any of the other actors yet. When the time was right I was transported to set with my giant face and had multiple awkward introductions. I tried to make jokes and make people feel comfortable but this promptly failed. (Try making jokes and inspiring comfort in others with one droopy eye and a swollen mouth incapable of mirth.) The show's creator came up to me to say hello and I said, "Thank you so much for having me here!" But imagine the lockjaw, emotionless, creepy-eyed, freaky-person version. I gave up after that. It was a nice serving of discomfort for all involved.

Thankfully, the scene went off without a hitch and after the sweet relief of the latex removal, I made it back to the hotel. It had been 8 hours since I could eat and I was ravenous. I made a beeline for the lobby lounge and ordered a giant glass of wine and a pepperoni pizza. Over the next hour the waitress kept coming over and asking me if I wanted a box. "Nope," I said. "I plan on eating the entire thing." And I did. Sometimes Comfort Eating is imperative. And it's always important to celebrate your normal face. Even if you're rocking a little post-latex chemical burn.

If I'd have been home, I probably would've whipped up a batch of these muffins too. They are kinda perfect for the comfort-eat sweet:

Browned Butter Pumpkin Chocolate Muffins
yields 12

If you like pumpkin and chocolate you will exponentially love these. I can't think of a better accompaniment to a cup of coffee. Plus, you deserve one (or three), facial prosthesis or no.

1 stick unsalted butter
1 2/3 cups flour
7 T packed brown sugar
1 T pumpkin pie spice
1 t baking soda
1/4 t baking powder
1/2 t kosher salt
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips (I had mini ones on hand)
2 large eggs, beaten
1 cup canned pumpkin

Preheat oven to 350.

Brown the butter by melting it in a skillet over medium heat. Shortly after it melts, it will foam and then the milk solids will begin to brown. This will happen pretty quickly (and it can burn easily) so keep an eye out and swirl/whisk often.  When the butter is nuttily fragrant and brown, set aside.*

Whisk together the flour, brown sugar, pp spice, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Add the chocolate chips and toss to coat. Set aside. In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs, pumpkin and slightly cooled browned butter. Combine wet and dry ingredients and stir until just mixed. Divide between 12 paper-lined (or greased) muffin tins (I use a mini ice-cream scoop for this) and bake for 20-25 minutes, or until a tester comes out clean.

*here's a great step-by-step to browning butter (with photos!)

xoxo
jolie

P.S. I should've kept the prosthetics on and tried to find this guy in the lobby bar again.

namaste

I know I just wrote about drinking alone but you have to trust me when I tell you: I don't really sit at bars by myself. Like ever. But I'm working out of town right now (in Atlanta) and so to avoid being a recluse in my hotel room, I saddled up to the lively bar in my hotel's lobby last night to have dinner and a glass of wine. I was pretending to care about a basketball game and simultaneously reading a magazine when the bartender slid a second glass of pinot noir my way. "This is from the gentleman across the bar. He wanted to welcome you to town," He said. I looked over to see a GIANT African-American fellow in a long, black, leather trench coat. He raised his bourbon to me and smiled. I waved awkwardly and mouthed a thank you. I'm not quite sure what the protocol is in these situations. I wanted him to know I was appreciative but did he expect something? Was I supposed to go talk to him? Or send him something in return? After another twenty minutes I finished my burger and as I stood up to go, I went to simultaneously say another thank you and also goodbye and my combination-gesture short-circuited. What resulted were prayer hands under my chin and an accidental nod. I gave him a Namaste. A freaking Namaste, you guys. I'm pretty sure he felt my soul acknowledge his soul and that resonated with him because he summoned me over with a curly finger.

Crap.

I hesitantly approached.

"Hey girl." I think he had a pencil mustache. And he was 50 if he was a day.

"Hey! Thanks so much for the wine," I said, "That was really nice. I'm just going upstairs now." I pointed to the elevator and nodded incessantly like a weirdo.

"You should take my number." He put his arm around me and kinda snuggled me into his side. My head came up to his belly button.

"Oh, no thanks. I'm actually married." I tried to gracefully wriggle my way out but he had a good grip going. "Plus, I have an early morning tomorrow. But thanks again!!!" I broke free, ran between his legs and bolted for the elevator.

Namaste.

xoxo

jolie

super cool handwarmers (and why you should always carry knitting needles when drinking alone)

This past weekend I found myself drinking alone in Phoenix. I was visiting a friend but had an afternoon to myself. So I decided to settle in on the outdoor patio of a Tex-Mex place. After a spell, I spied my waiter. He was on his own, taking care of the entire patio and the beads of sweat along his hairline betrayed his forced cheer.

Harried Sweaty Waiter: "Welcome to [Tex Mex Restaurant in Phoenix]! Is this your first time dining with us?"

Me: "Yes. I'd like the Top Shelf Commemorativo Margarita."

HSW: "I really like the Orange Beso instead."

Me: "Oh."

HSW: "It's got fresh orange juice, Grand Marnier and prickly pear cactus juice."

Me: "No offense, but that sounds gross."

He smiles tightly.

HSW: "The Commemorativo is good too."

Me: "Great. I'll take it. And can I order some food too?"

HSW: "Alright, but I may try to talk you out of it."

I think this is the oddest tactic a waiter could employ, especially one that is so busy he's SWEATING. I guess not too busy to spend time judging a customer's menu selections.

Me: "Wow. Okay. I'll take the blackened chicken caesar salad with avocado."

He squints at me for a beat.

HSW: "Hmmm....that's okay. But the crab enchiladas are better."

Me: "Nope, not really into that. I'll stick with the caesar."

HSW: "If you say so."

I'm glad he approves.

The margarita arrives and despite the fact that it is the size of my head, I spend the next twenty minutes burning off at least half of its calories fighting off scrappy pigeons who keep making a run (fly?) for my chip basket. Brazen little bastards.

Sweaty stops by again to make small talk.

HSW: "So, are you here for the marathon this weekend?"

Me: "Yeah. Me and this margarita are gonna try and beat our best time."

He looks at me, deadpan.

Me: "Just kidding. I'm not here for the marathon. Hey, do you always have trouble with the birds here?"

He pauses and looks like he might lie to me but then concedes.

HSW: "Yeah, we do."

He looks over to the table next to mine where a few of them are conspiring to attack.

HSW: "Huh. Ha Ha! That one looks like he was dipped in oil."

I follow his pointy finger to see a greasy, sickly one attempting to choke down a chip triangle. There is not a more vile thing to behold. I hurry down my salad with my right arm while defending it with my left. After leaving me to fend for myself, he comes back a while later with the check and to set down a small plate.

HSW: "We have a dessert for you, compliments of the chef: white chocolate pecan tamales."

Me: "Oh, thanks. How nice."

HSW: "Here. Let me show you how to eat them. I'm really hungry myself so I'll show you."

No joke. He picks up one of my gift tamales, peels off the husk and pops the chocolate into his mouth.

HSW: "See? Just like that."

I wish I'd had some knitting with me. I'd have brandished a couple needles and poked the pesky birds and the irritating waiter. Both needed to learn some serious boundaries.

Thank God the margarita took the edge off.

Aren't these handwarmers great? I whipped up a couple pairs of these for some presents last Christmas and they were so satisfying to make. And so stinking cute with that little thumb hole. I could hardly stand the cuteness.

BTW, I used this pattern and the same yarn, Classic Elite tweed.

xoxo
jolie

*P.S. A group of pigeons is called a kit. Which sounds helpful or organized or fun, none of which are true about those assholes.