Me?
Anyer?
Uña?
Anyong?
Excited?
Yes. That isn't a typo. Some of it might have to do with the raspberry mojito I made a few hours ago and am still tasting (I have a lot to learn from Philou of Big Balls / La Comtesse - I'm not gonna lie), but most of it has to do with this meeting I have tomorrow in Santa Monica. I'm going to put on a power suit and dig a brief case out of our storage room. Actually, I'm not going to do either of things but I did paint my nails so I at least look mildly presentable. I even got a hair cut this afternoon.
Which brings me to tangent number one. Why are even the best hair stylists incapable of cutting just a little? I haven't necessarily intentionally been growing my hair out since the Bordelais Maiming of '09, but it's obviously manifested to some degree. Until today, my hair hadn't been so long since... I don't even know. High school? (Eww.) I kind of was digging the long, slightly tamed curls. They made me look younger, for one, which helps my ego a tiny bit. My chiropractor "Dexter" (I wouldn't kid you about that) was genuinely shocked when I told him I was not 22 but indeed a few weeks shy of 26. So today when I went back to my new(ish) hair guy and told him I wanted to keep the length, and he nodded, I.. uhh... expected to keep the length. Or at least most of it? Jason (hair guy) is a middle-aged Japanese man who grew up in Hong Kong and most of his clients are wealthy middle-aged Chinese ladies, but despite the discrepancies in background, I know we understand one another verbally and hair-ily. The last time I saw him he spent over an hour just cutting my hair. Like, straight up got on his hands and knees so he could examine it from all angles. Which I appreciate tremendously. I also appreciate that he recognizes I am not a chatty Cathy, and doesn't force idle conversation out of us. So today we were enjoying our mutual silences, and then I did something silly. I said, "if I hadn't told you what I wanted, and you could do anything, what would you do?" He paused to reflect, and then he said: "I'd make it shorter. A bit shorter. You know, for the summer, and also for your face. You have such nice skin." (I'll take cheap flattery where I can get it. See: Turkey.) I said "hmmm." And then we resumed silence.
And then HE STARTED CUTTING MORE AND MORE. And now my hair just reaches my shoulder. And there's no way I look 22. And my hair is gone. And I miss it. And I'm kinda pissed. But it's not as hot, and I'm confused and conflicted, and bah. At least it doesn't include a mullet this time around.
And he is right... it is summer. Which brings me to tangent two. A letter. To summer.
Dear Summer:
I fucking hate you. But you're also kind of awesome. Because you do this:
What is that, you're wondering? It is:
4-5 strawberries from my strawberry patch
4 big shredded mint leaves from my aggressively growing mint bush
1/2 a Meyer lemon's worth of juice from our Meyer lemon tree
a teaspoon of raw cane sugar
sparkle water
mix these things together and you get fruity, minty, summery deliciousness. Fee free to insert a more special sparkle too, if you wish. There are no rules in my beverage book.
Except that you enjoy what you put in the ol' pie hole.
Last night saw a new, very old culinary experiment. My tomatoes have been so robust this season and it was only with great restraint that I hadn't plucked one until yesterday when I saw their reds had reached maximum... redness. Just so you know I'm crazy (instead of merely suspecting it), I'm one of those weird people who pets her plants, and talks to them. My tomato vines don't have names, but I do touch their leaves and the little fuzzy stems. It's weird. I know. But why not. I have a theory that if they know I love them, they'll love me back. Right? Probably not, but whatever.
So. Perfectly ripe homegrown tomatoes + beautiful homegrown basil + lightly toasted French bread + olive oil + balsamic vinegar + one mystery guest?
= GOD'S FOOD. Seriously. You all know by now that I'm pretty staunchly atheist, but if there is a creator or an Adonai / Allah / Jesus Christ Almighty figure around, I guarantee you this is what he eats at snack time. The glass of white wine he might pass on in favor of something better (mango lassi? Absinthe? cappuccino?), but this is his favorite light meal.
The most tomato-ey tomatoes I've ever tasted, neither mealy nor tough. Firm, tender, and sexy.
Sweet, tangy basil. Neither overpowering nor demure.
And mystery guest? That's burrata, mozzarella's hotter, more intelligent, and pudgier daughter. Google it. If I tell you what it's made of, I'll feel guilty. And guilt is not something I want to associate with that taste of awesomeness. Besides, if my fictional concept of God the Creator can get behind it, we don't need to count calories.
All these things - hair cut, strawberry mint lemonade, and divine Caprese - brought to you by that cruel mistress, that sweaty vixen, that unforgiving season Summer. Thanks.
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