License to Give Thanks (and Have Your Whine, Too)

Image credit: Copyright Bettmann

November, for Americans, is a complicated month. Thanksgiving, a holiday beloved by many and taught in primary schools as a day in which Native Americans and settlers held hands and hugged over a great feast, is plagued by historical inaccuracies and, at worst, atrocities.

We are told to be grateful for what we have and to want not, yet the biggest shopping day of the year immediately follows, in which people reliably turn into monsters, and on each other, in pursuit of The Lowest Price. Seriously, everyone. Stay at home tomorrow and spend time with someone, even if that someone is your cat, or yourself. And if you're feeling unexplainably aggressive and consumeristic, punch a pillow and do some online shopping. And don't feel guilty about it. (But maybe keep the punching part to yourself.)

Being an expat has meant giving up my traditional interpretation of most (American) holidays, or at least bending them into a different shape. This will be my third Thanksgiving abroad, and they have ranged from sharing a table with a roomful of welcoming American friends who Get It, preparing a full spread for a miscellany of nationalities (Dutch, Pakistani, Dutch-Pakistani, and Russian), and, now, well, nothing. It just feels cheap to try to cook anything less than a full feast, so I'm not even trying. At the haggard state I'm in, I know better than to be using fire or knives.

Polar

I really hate arbitrary repetition. Like, really, really hate it. But what I'd hate even worse is not pursuing a chance of a lifetime. Scratch that. TEN lifetimes. If you follow me on any social platform or are my address book, chances are you've already received an appeal from me. I have entered into the 2014 Fjällräven Polar competition. Winner takes all. And when all = a spot on a 300km dogsled route from Signaldalen, Norway to Jukkasjärvi, Sweden.
If you voted, thank you from the bottom of my heart. If you haven't, you can do so here. I would be forever grateful, and send you some happy thoughts and deep gratitude from the top of the world.

The mere thought of realizing this fantasy leaves me breathless. Very few times in your life will you have the opportunity to bestow upon someone such a gift, with as little effort as a quick vote. Now, friends, is one of those times. And, should you feel so inclined, share with your social network, whether it's by tweeting, sharing, posting, shouting from your rooftop, or mentioning at the water cooler at the office.

Do it. I triple dog dare you. 

xxx+o,

Jess

Green Literacy

In my ongoing quest to justify my obsessive succulent propagation, I came across a DIY planter at Apartment Therapy (does this guy look like a tattooed Christian Bale, or what?) and knew immediately whose Christmas tree it needed to go (grow?) under. My pal Christine loves her personal library so much that she couldn't leave it behind in an overseas move. Including the books she hates most.

Planter-making means book-defacing, so I knew I'd have to find one she would never, ever, ever need. And with her ever-growing foundation of Dutch, that language barrier doesn't present a viable argument. Thus, I was presented with a challenge. At my neighborhood secondhand book shop, I found an answer to my dilemma: a German-to-Swedish dictionary. Snap.

Speculoos Cranberry Pumpkin Muffins

There's nothing like the imminent arrival of guests to inspire spontaneous housecleaning, which is the main reason I invite people over, and the main reason our house gets tidied up. Win-win. The key is to leave one area laughably messy, so the eye is drawn to the chaos. Then no one notices food caked on the side of the high chair or the dust bunnies convening under the sideboard. It's similar to the deceptive but undeniably effective way I approach personal hygiene.

The other day, a very dear friend showed up with some very bad news. The good old US of A is eating up yet another one of my friends, right in time for Christmas. Bah humbug, times a bazillion. In a last-ditch effort to charm her into staying, I served her my best breakfast burrito, my favorite muffins. Although my pitch failed, at least my house got clean, I got to squeeze one of my favorite people, and she left with a full belly.

An Affable Muse: The Cameraman

Meet Martin Buday. He tended bar at my favorite Greeley haunt, and we became fast pals after a few conversations unearthed a great deal of commonality (innate weirdness and quirky taste in movies). He's a marvelous photographer and credits his love of art and Indiana fried chicken to his grandfather.  Marty's eye for desolately alluring scenes is particularly evident in his ongoing Stay Golden series, which curiously examines and celebrates the man-made environment. Many of the photos were taken in my old stomping grounds, so I revisit the images often to satiate my need for a breath of home.

After his stint in Colorado, he got back to his Pennsylvania roots and moved to Philadelphia earlier this year. You can see more work or pop in to say hoi here.

Stay golden, people.

xxx+o,
Jess

Untitled (Hedges), as featured on FlakPhoto