Mother's Day Storytime

A major problem that has followed me throughout my life is that my mom is infinitely cooler than I am. She has impeccable music taste, an endless capacity to solve people's problems, an uncanny ability to stay current, and - not that this matters - but she's absolutely beautiful. I have a sneaking suspicion that some of my high school friends really just hung out with me to spend time with her. 

So, for this Mother's Day, I'd like to share my some of my most memorable Mom Quotes from over the years, plus a bonus quote from her mother, my grandmother. Enjoy, and I love you, Mom.

5. Sassy Mom

My mother majored in German and minored in French at UT Austin, though she claims to have forgotten all of it. She actually spent a summer living in Germany doing the 1960s version of study abroad, which turned out to be a month as a scullery maid (she is now an expert at peeling potatoes). After her job ended, she met up with her boyfriend, who was doing the same in a different German town, they bought a VW Beetle, and spent the rest of their time driving around Europe. Yeah I know - I told you she was cooler than me. 

When I was younger, she taught me how to count to ten in German, and one time while driving I asked her if she remembered anything else. She responded with, "Denkst du daß, ich bin eine dingbat?" which translates to, "What do you think I am, a dingbat?" This remains the one (very useful) German phrase I know.

4. Punny Mom

My mom HATES puns. My father and I have subjected her to far too many over the years, and she tries to pretend they aren't happening, to no avail. 

As a child, my long, thick hair and time spent outdoors meant I contracted lice a couple of times, during which when my mom come very close to murdering our entire family. Using the special shampoo on all of us, combing my lion hair with a tiny comb as I whined, washing everything I'd come in contact with, and of course, the idea that there were bugs living on her daughter's hair, was all a bit much for my mom. So imagine her delight when one time, she noticed my scratching my head and discovered I had lice - while we were on vacation. 

So, we had to perform all of the above steps, but from some cabin in the woods where she was supposed to be relaxing. As we were packing up to leave, my mom turned to us and said, "Well, that was a louse-y vacation."

You'll never live that one down, Mom.

3. Wise Mom

When I was in college, I spent a good amount of time dating someone who wouldn't fully commit to me. After he graduated and went to medical school in another state, my parents were the opposite of pleased to find out that we still talked every day and I made plans to go visit him. On that first visit, he asked me, "Does it bother you that I don't love you?" which broke my naive little heart. 

And of course, who do you call with a broken heart but your mom. I was telling her a seemingly insignificant marriage joke I had made to him that he had shot down, and my mom stopped me with the most poignant relationship advice that stays with me today (even if I am too hard-headed to take it sometimes): "Erin, you should be with someone who jokes about marrying you."

2. Stupid Fights With Mom

My mom debated for a long time about whether or not to join Facebook. I was extremely against this idea, as I had all of my college drinking pictures online. When she finally pulled the trigger in 2009, the first thing she did was send me a message saying, "will not ask to be your friend!" So, I thought that was that, and continued living my life in Italy.

During our scheduled Sunday Skype calls, I could tell that my mom was pulling away and seemed upset with me, but I couldn't figure out why. Finally, my dad clued me in that while SHE would never ask to be my friend, she was upset that I had not asked HER to be my Facebook friend. I wish I could say the story ended there, but I was 24 and extremely stupid, because she HAD PROMISED. But finally, after a lot of untagging, we became friends. And now she hates Facebook and never uses it.

BONUS GRANDMOTHER STORY

My grandmother was the sweetest Southern lady you could ever imagine. The strongest language I ever heard her use was, "Durn!" which she would say as I mercilessly beat her at card games while flagrantly cheating (yes, I was an only child, why do you ask?). I stayed at her house every other weekend, and she'd spoil me with McDonald's, popsicles, chocolate chip cookies, and blueberry pancakes (and somehow I don't have diabetes). 

One of her quirks was that she would always hum to herself, and when my mom asked her about the tune, she said, "Oh, I didn't realize I was humming at all!" This sent my mother into a quiet panic, as she thought my grandmother was coming down with early dementia.

When my grandmother was tucking me in during one of our sleepovers, I asked her what she hummed. "Oh, I just hum little tunes. You know, I'm know that I'm humming - and I only do it to drive your mother crazy. Let's keep this our little secret." 

1. Unconditional Love Mom

When I was very young and still trying to figure out right from wrong, I asked my mother what they would do if I committed a crime. "Well, honey, we'd be disappointed with you, but we'd still love you." 

"But what if I killed someone? Would you still love me?"

"Of course we'd still love you. We'd find the best lawyer in the country."

Luckily, lawyers haven't been a major part of my life (yet), but it definitely taught me the extent of unconditional love. I'm so lucky to have that in my life. 

Thank you, Mom. 

This is us having Christmas dinner in Italy. And if you'll excuse me, I'm late for Mother's Day brunch.

Storytime Wednesday: Saying Yes and No in Athens

My natural state does not have the "say yes to everything" mentality that seems to be so popular these days. Some of my more extreme type-A friends (and my mother) may argue this point - Erin, didn't you go full-time freelance and figure everything would work out? Don't you go on vacations by yourself and figure everything will work out? Didn't you move to another continent assuming everything would work out? 

Well, yes. But there is someone who taught me to be like that: My best friend from college. 

KT has this crazy, positive, say-yes-to-adventure attitude that I've always admired. In fact, she moved to another continent first, studying abroad Australia and regularly calling me drunk before my 9 a.m. differential equations class during summer school. I think her secret is that even if things don't go the way she has planned, she shrugs it off and parties on, and this zeal for life makes her the kind of person everyone wants to be around (leading to even more escapades for KT). She is the embodiment of this idea that saying yes amplifies your life. 

I'm naturally more of a cynic. I'm in my own head a lot (hey, it's an interesting place), and I'm overly responsible. I'm the one who never gets so drunk she loses control, never forgets obligations, never forgets people watch when she dances. I do put myself out there on occasion, especially now that I'm older and give fewer fucks, but when I was younger, letting go required a lot of effort. And I think people could see that, so as much as I wanted to be like KT, I never quite shone light like she does.

***

It was time to leave Italy. My boyfriend had cheated on me, my parents missed me, and I was tired of the constant dreariness in Milan. It was a period of my life where I was forced to say yes out of loneliness and necessity - you can't exactly move to a new place and build a life from hermiting yourself away. But it was wearing on me. I planned one final (solo) exploration of Europe in my last months as a resident, and I wanted the exact opposite of Milan - so I chose Santorini, an island in Greece.

The only flights available on my shoestring budget were atrocious - arriving in Athens around 9:30 p.m. and flying to Santorini at 5 a.m. Getting a hotel for those precious few hours seemed silly, and online research promised that lots of people spend the night at the airport. Though this sounded horrid to me, I tried to embrace the KT spirit on this trip. I was still brokenhearted and trying to generate any positivity I could.

As people gradually stopped filing onto the plane from Milan to Athens, I had the blissful optimism that I would have a row to myself. Then, minutes before we pulled away from the gate, two men in disheveled suits came blustering aboard, speaking rapid-fire to each other in a strange language and, of course, squeezing in next to my window seat. The man next to me was the burlier of the two, a bit older than me, with short curls falling around his face. After arranging himself in his seat, he asked me in English about the book I was reading, which I soon put away because this was clearly the kind of seat mate who was going to give me his life story.

He explained that he and his friend, who clearly did not speak English, had just come from doing business in Germany. They were from Athens originally, and he expounded upon all the virtues of his city, like visiting the Acropolis at night, with only stars overhead. When I shared that I was sad to be spending the night in the airport, he seemed actually offended. "No, that will not do," he said, and after a short burst of words with his friend, "You will come with us. We will make it a night to remember!" Thinking of KT, I said yes. I wanted that kind of night.

We continued talking for the rest of the flight, with him excitedly describing the things we could do for my one night in Athens - where we could go drink wine, what streets to explore, and how no one would sleep until he dropped me safely, and punctually, at the airport. I found out he had a daughter with an exgirlfriend, and he told me bits and pieces of their relationship while I conveniently glossed over the transgressions and impending doom of mine, to demonstrate that I was a taken woman. I started becoming a little uneasy at the degree of intimacy this conversation had garnered, and the number of times he called his exgirlfriend crazy. Shortly before the plane landed, he turned to me and said, "You know, with your curly hair, you remind me of my exgirlfriend." And that was what ended the magic for me.

I realized I didn't know this man, and I had just agreed to spend an entire night under the shroud of darkness with him, in a city I did not know and he knew very well. They waited for me as we disembarked, his silent friend who had seemed leering before now felt like more of an ally than this man who thought I looked like his crazy ex. I started to sweat. I was worried about being impolite - He was so nice! He had offered to show me his city! - and missing out on an adventure with locals. I wanted to say yes.

I made it out to the parking lot, with the man's constant chatter telling me how his friend would go home, and we would go to his house to shower, and then he would show me the city, but when we arrived at their car and they started loading their suitcases, my sense of self-preservation kicked in. I was not getting in the car with strange men. I was going to say no.

I said it many times, in fact, as I was backing away from them and apologizing. "Erin!" he called after me, "Are you sure?" 

Despite the fact that I did not get one wink of sleep while uncomfortably positioned on a coffee shop booth, one hand locked protectively around my suitcase in case the group of Danish girls that I should have been making friends with were more sinister than they seemed, despite the fact that I am fairly sure KT would have gone with them, and despite the fact that I might have missed out on those rare, magical nights making an innocent connection with someone in a beautiful city, I have zero regrets. I am absolutely sure I made the right decision to stay alive, and sometimes, it's okay to say no to protect that.

Storytime Wednesday: Moving to San Diego...Wait No, Italy

When I graduated from college, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life (not that I do now). I had majored in biosciences, because I thought it looked better than English, which was "too easy" (lololol). Apparently, you were supposed to have your shit figured out by first semester junior year, and after my summer working with tigers, I pretty much nixed the idea of doing anything with my degree. So, while my friends had already received their signing bonuses at Bain and JP Morgan, I graduated (barely - story for another time) with a BA in Biosciences and no clue.

So, I decided to move to San Diego.

I'd always romanticized California - most of the colleges I applied to were out there, but expensive - and it seemed like nothing was holding me back from finally making the move. I flew to San Diego and found an apartment and a job in four days, then flew back to pack my worldly possessions for a cross-country move with my trusty Honda Civic Si, Pearl. 

On the first night of my drive to San Diego, I stopped in El Paso. I was super paranoid about my packed car since, again, it held my entire life, but luckily I could see my parking spot from my room. I spent most of the night glued to the window. When a coyote trotted into the parking lot (the first I'd seen!), I ventured out and put the leftovers from my room service salmon out for him. Finally, I figured I should actually sleep before an 8-hour drive, but I checked my email one last time before bed and found a mysterious message from Italy.

The general theme of my relationship with Italy is, "I have no idea." I studied Italian for three years in college (God knows why I chose Italian), and my last semester, our teacher told us about an internship in Italy that I applied to (no clue why I did this). I don't think I even understood what the internship entailed, something about cultural exchange. I had almost completely forgotten about it, however, this mysterious email was telling me there were 20 internship spots and I was #21, so if someone dropped out, I would be called up. Yeah, sure, but what kind of idiot is going to turn down a paid trip to Italy?

Well, me, as it turns out. By the time I got to San Diego (the day before I was supposed to start my first job, in fact) I had another email from the Italians - they had expanded the internship to 25 people, so congratulations, I was in! The internship, it turns out, was through the state of Lombardia - I would be the on-site native English speaker for a school.

I had just moved my entire life across the country to my favorite city, but here was an opportunity to move across the globe. I sought the counsel of my mother, who basically advised me that unless I stayed at my first job for at least a year, no one would ever hire me again. With these considerations in mind, I wrote an email to the Italians saying that I greatly appreciated the opportunity, but I wouldn't be able to accept the internship that year and I hoped to apply again the next year. 

I hit "send" and was immediately awash with, "OH GOD, WHAT DID I JUST DO?"

Luckily, no one in Italy spoke English. The response I got was, "I'm sorry, I don't understand - does this mean you want to start your internship in January?" 

"Yes, that's exactly what I meant," came my immediate response.

And so, in January, I was in Italy. 

Recap: I am alive! My legs are not.

According to my records I have not done a recap since February. Oops! I have written a lot of #content since then! Some of it was good!

Most of my time lately has been focusing on working out a lot. I've gained some weight since the new year so I'm trying to be more committed to making the good kind of #gainz, plus, there's something about my body's looming mortality (it's all downhill from 32, right?) that makes me want to appreciate its strength while I still can. Yesterday I did a weights yoga class, then this morning I went on a 2.5 hour hike with friends (my first on the Greenbelt, despite the fact that I'm from here), followed by a soccer game in the evening. Super excited to see how that feels tomorrow. 

Here's a funny/sad story: I can't really do headstands in yoga anymore. I mean, I can do them if I'm against a wall - I don't touch it, but it helps knowing that the support is there if I need it. I used to be able to do them fairly consistently, if shakily - the first time I ever did one, I drove directly to my exboyfriend's house to show him and make him take a video of me going upside-down. But then we broke up. 

When I finally took a break from staring at the ceiling and silently crying, I dragged myself to something that made me happy: yoga. I went to a packed class with my favorite teacher, and about 10 minutes in she asks us all to get up into a headstand. I'm feeling surprisingly confident, so I get upside down, but something is off and I lose my balance. I come crashing down and knee myself directly in the face. Everyone in class is staring at me and my teacher is kind of laughing, because people falling down is funny, and I just run to the bathroom and completely lose it from the pain, frustration, embarrassment, and general breakup misery. My nose didn't break or bleed and I slunk back in to finish the class, but I haven't been able to do headstands since then. I know it's totally a mental block - I'm much stronger now - and I look forward to taking back ownership of that part of my mind again. Even if I need a crutch for a while.

THINGS I PUBLISHED "RECENTLY:"

22 Austin Hot Spots for the Perfect Girls Night Out (Eater Austin)
Go have some lady fun!

14 Best Upscale Boutiques in Austin (Andrew Harper) 
For when you need to take your fancy fashionista friends shopping.

How to Eat Pizza for Every Meal in Austin (Eater Austin)
Breakfast pizza? Lunch pizza? Happy hour pizza? Late night pizza? I HAVE COVERED ALL THE PIZZAS.

6 Austin Influencers on the Future of Their City & What They Love Most about It (Austin Way)
Gaze into the future of Austin through the eyes of these various awesome people.

Your Guide to Dining Outdoors in Austin This Season (Austin Way)
Enjoy the weather before the outside air becomes 50% mosquitos and burns like hot fire!

6 Austin Restaurants Serving Up Insane Cheese Plates
Reference for people who need to take me on dates.

 Where to Get the Best Eggs Benedicts in Austin
For when you're tired of breakfast pizza, for some reason.

 Best Places to Hold Every Type of Meeting in Austin
This was written as a "where to meet up during SXSW" guide but has other uses too!

 Austin Manses with Lush Gardens & Greenery Perfect for Springtime
Sadly my condo did not make the list, despite the fact that I have an aloe vera plant outside that I have kept alive for a record 1 year. 

 Austin-Based Wedding Experts Discuss This Season's Top Trends
Vocabulary that I learned from writing this article: "invitation suite."

 7 Things You Need to Know about SXSW Before You Go
I guess this article is kind of moot now, but if you are a TRUE FAN of my writing...

INTERESTING THINGS FROM OTHER PEOPLE:

The Sense of an Endling (Longreads)
I keep thinking of this haunting essay about last-of-their-kind animals. 

Touched (Aeon)
Honestly, I think the best way to understand me is this sentence: "We are social beings, and to no small extent, we define ourselves by whom we touch and whom we let touch us."

This is Almost Certainly James Comey's Twitter Account (Gizmodo)
If you are like me and consider cyberstalking a fun pastime, here is some next-level shit for you to learn.

Mosquitoes, Get Ready For Your Close-Up (The Atlantic)
Some of my favorite essays are interviews of people talking about random shit they are super interested in, and this is a great example of that. 

OBLIGATORY RANDOM PICTURE OF ME:

Did you know my cat is approximately 1000x better at modeling than I am?

But sometimes we make a good team, too :)

Storytime Wednesday: Meat Cake

We all have that one friend who vehemently defends his stupid ideas, even when he himself does probably not believe them. These people are fools, and they must suffer.

One night in college, probably after a few adult beverages, a heated discussion emerged when a friend insisted that any two foods that are good separately are even better together. My friend KT, who is sane, pointed out that this could not possibly be true, giving the example of meat and cake together. Insane Friend said that sounded delicious, and we decided to call his bluff.

We made a night of it. KT spent a lot of time making an extremely elaborate meat cake - to a base of Betty Crocker Chocolate mix (with frosting, obviously), we added ground beef, cut up hot dogs, and I'm pretty sure there was some bacon in there. We topped it with a fried egg. 

We cut a piece and put it on a plate for Insane Friend (because #manners). I would not like to thoroughly describe to you what ground beef looks like poking out of a chocolate cake, but it definitely resembles worms. We all watched this spectacle with bated breath and turned stomachs.

Insane Friend didn't even hesitate, digging right into his slice. We didn't have to wait long for the verdict: "Oh MAN this is good!" he said, mouth full of meat cake, reaching for another forkful. He kept eating the cake while KT and I turned steadily greener, and eventually tried to get other people to sample the... (dessert? food?) "creation." One of his friends finally took him up on the offer, and insisted that it actually wasn't bad, but KT and I declined to sample for ourselves.

Years later, I attended a Copper & Kings dinner at Freedmen's BBQ, where the dessert was a red velvet cake made with brisket fat. The smokey, fatty flavor was a delicious undertone to the sumptuous dessert. Kind of makes you think...maybe I should have tried the meat cake.

Storytime Wednesday: A Boy Would Like To Offer You A Drink

I realize that, despite my best efforts, I might as well change the name of "Storytime Wednesday" to "Erin's Hilarious Encounters with the Opposite Sex, Usually Involving a Language Barrier." But delving into why these stories are the ones I remember is a topic for another day. This is about Málaga.

After wonderful visits to Barcelona, I wanted to explore another part of Spain, despite the elaborate pantomimes necessary as I clearly do not speak the language*. A friend suggested Málaga, and I highly recommend it for those who haven't gone: there's fascinating architecture (it's one of the oldest cities in the world!), a lovely beach, and vibrant colors everywhere.

One of the things the Spanish and I do not necessarily agree on is food. I don't really understand why dinner happens SO LATE, and many of the more prominent flavors - sea insects, garlic - are not my cup of tea**. So, on the last night of my trip, I decided to revisit a cafe I’d liked for tapas, but make it a "treat yo' self" evening. 

I was initially paired with a waiter who, upon realizing I didn't speak Spanish, ran away terrified and was replaced by a waitress who spoke halting, but good, English. I sat on the patio by myself, ordered some tapas and cava, and then dessert and, what the hell, some more cava. It might be worth noting that I am a ridiculous lightweight, particularly when it comes to sparkling wine, so with two glasses of cava I was having myself a little party. As I relaxed, stuffed from the meal and pretty tipsy, the frightened-rabbit waiter came out and started speaking to me in Spanish, which I obviously still didn't understand, so he enlisted the aid of the waitress once more. 

"A boy," she said, "would like to offer you a drink."

This hasn’t happened to me a lot, so I was actually pretty intrigued. "What boy?" I asked. 

Indicating that she was supposed to keep it a secret, she replied, "I don't know! A boy!" 

I really did not want anything else to drink, but temptation of free booze was too great, so I got another glass of cava. Having already finished my entire meal and dessert, I just sat there, sipping awkwardly and looking around wondering who the culprit could be, until a several minutes later "the boy" sat down across from me and started speaking to me in Spanish.

This man was WAY too old to be talking to me. I was 25, and based on the white and grey in his beard, I would guess he was at least 20 years older, and not in the sexy George Clooney kind of way. He had apparently missed the award-winning charades display I had put on earlier in order to understand the menu, so when my response to his rapid-fire speaking was a completely blank, gape-mouthed fish-face, he managed to eke out some English. I would put his vocabulary at a maximum of 10 words, creating the rare situation of him speaking less English than I speak Spanish. We proceeded to stumble through the most awkward, stilted conversation of my life. The only part I clearly remember is him saying he thought I was Scandinavian, which still wouldn't explain why he thought we would be able to understand each other.

After what seemed like an eternity, he clapped his hands together and said that he had paid for my dinner, and that he would like me to join him and his friends at a bar across the street, something I would rather be lobotomized than do. I don't know what part of our - and I am using this word VERY loosely - "conversation" indicated to him that spending more time together was a good idea.*** I bought some time by saying I had to go to the bathroom, and was literally pacing inside, trying to figure out if the window was too small to escape through. 

Finally I emerged and ran into frightened-rabbit waiter. "The check is…okay?" I asked. 

"Yes," he said, "And the other door is that way." Thank you, rabbit waiter. 

I don't know if sober Erin would have been so bold as to do this, because I still have that terrible girl complex that I "owe" someone if they buy me things, but treat-yo-self, three-cavas-deep Erin literally exited the restaurant and sprinted the fuck back to the hotel, where I spent my last night in Málaga holed up, blissfully alone.

*For those of you who say Italian and Spanish are basically the same: Yes, but also, NO.
**That being said, I will eat the shit out of some jamón.
***We couldn't even communicate basic thoughts like, "Why are you doing this, you creepy old man," or "Why do you stupid Americans come to other countries without speaking the language."

Storytime Wednesday: Why I Didn't Drink Bourbon Until I Was 27

The tooth fairy was very generous in my house. I know some kids would get quarters under their pillows, but I got cool coins like half dollars, Susan B. Anthony dollars, and even $2 bills. So, losing a tooth was an exciting experience and something that I was maybe a little overeager to do, sometimes. 

(Though now, the worst nightmares I have, and I have them often, are that my teeth are falling out. Why is this so common?)

When I was in third grade and probably close to my last rounds of losing teeth, I had a wiggler that was being stubborn. I was watching TV with my parents, fiddling with it, until finally I decided I'd had enough and went to the bathroom to yank it out. Big mistake. It immediately started gushing blood, so I fled to my mother to fix it, as eight-year-olds are wont to do.

At this point, I would like to assure you all that my mother does not drink TOO much, something I wrote on a "What I'm Thankful For" card for a class project elementary school, which thrilled both my mother and my teacher. But, despite her badassery in the modern business world, she's still a bit of a Southerner at heart, so her response to my mouthful of pain was to assume that third grade was definitely time to start on the hard stuff. She handed me a capful of Jack Daniels and told me to rinse my mouth out with it.

Now, as a kid, this was a huge deal. Sure, I'd had sips of their margaritas, but your parent handing you a shot of whiskey is obviously an important rite of passage for any Texan. I felt very mature for getting such a privilege while still in elementary school. I ran to the bathroom, super excited, with my shot of whiskey. It smelled amazing. I tipped it into my mouth, swished, and...

SPAT ALL OF THE BURNING LIQUID OUT IMMEDIATELY. What the hell was that??? Why did adults like this? My confusion mounted as I frantically tried to rinse the taste away with water, which somehow only made it worse. I don't remember my mother's response - I want to say she was sympathetic, but also kind of laughing at my extreme reaction to a half shot of whiskey.

I spent the next 15 or so years avoiding the stuff, which was not a problem while I lived in San Diego and Milan. However, within literally weeks of moving back to Austin, I was out with some friends and said to myself, "You know what, I could really go for a whiskey ginger right now." I don't know if my Texan genes were kicking in or just that enough of my tastebuds had died so I could appreciate it, but bourbon is one of my go-tos now.

This whole experience taught me a valuable life lesson that I still use to this day: if you avoid your problems for years, you can totally overcome them.

I was significantly younger than 3rd grade in this picture, but look at those curls!

Storytime Wednesday: The Strangest Thing Anyone's Ever Said To Me

This is going to be a short one, because I'm crazy busy at the moment, but I have a stock of stories for later.

Once while I was walking down the street in Milan, a vaguely creepy (not Italian) man was walking in the other direction was staring at me. Normal, for Italy, used to it. But then, when our paths crossed, he said, "Ma mangi solo la crema?" (But do you only eat cream?)

I still have no idea what that means. 

Storytime Wednesday: Why I Can't Be Trusted With Chocolate Pastries

My students in Milan had told me that breakfast in Sicily was golosa - gluttonous, rich - but a must-try indulgence. Despite the rush of traveling, I parceled out time to stop for breakfast before departing Catania, putting aside dependence on my beloved guidebook to stop in a nondescript bar by the bus station. I ordered what one must in Sicily: an almond granita and chocolate brioche.

As with most food in Italy, breakfast is subject to a bizarre but ironclad set of rules, and accepting them without meddling in details like “scientific facts” is key to enjoying the culture. Italians define their morning meal less by food and more by espresso beverage. Eggs are considered unthinkably heavy for morning, yet cake is a regular occurrence and the cream cheese brownies I made my first host family were served as breakfast. But a brioche AND a granita? That radical indulgence is reserved for those gluttonous Sicilians.

A granita is essentially a more refined snowcone. Using the simple ingredients of water, sugar, and flavoring, the western part of the island freezes and scrapes the mixture to keep a granular, icy texture, while the eastern side, where I was staying, uses a gelato machine to ensure smoothness. Eaten as a dessert, snack, or yes, for breakfast, granitas are essential to staying refreshed in the unrelenting heat of Sicilian summers.

I never saw another person order a granita and brioche, despite its supposed tradition status. Granted, my mental setting of vacation-mode meant I generally arose just in time for the tail end of breakfast at my hotels, so I wasn’t regularly partaking with locals. But even on this, my last morning in Sicily, when I dragged myself into the bar something far less than bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I got strange looks from the waiter as I placed my order at the bar. He brought out a still-warm chocolate brioche and set a small coupe of almond granita next to it, the judgment clear on his face.

After one taste I did not care. The American granita I was used to had an icy, grainy texture to them, but this was cool silk. I exhaled the nutty, floral notes in a reverent bliss before taking a bite of the brioche. As flaky morning pastries require a great deal of skill to make, most bars in Milan relied on an Italian version of Sysco, meaning the same standard, stale brioche were found at every bar. This was different. I felt the warm chocolate smear on my face, but in my sugar rush there was no time to be a delicate lady. I alternated between the impossibly creamy granita and the flaky, gooey pastry until there was no more.

Satisfied, I leaned back from my feeding frenzy and the barman slid a napkin dispenser towards me. I touched my face in horror: it was like I had gone bobbing for apples in chocolate. The sticky mess covered my mouth, chin, cheeks, and nose - the napkins were futile and the barman laughed at my attempts. I finally gave up and headed to the bathroom to wash my face and salvage some of my dignity.

When I returned to the bar chocolate-free to collect my suitcase and head to the bus, the barman commented, “Goloso, eh?” Even he thought my breakfast had been wretched excess. “Si,” I replied, thinking of the 10 minutes I just spent shamefully cleaning my face in the bathroom, how my jeans already felt tighter, and, wistfully, all the mornings wasted eating cake at a hotel when I could have had granita, “Ma se vale la pena.” It is worth it.

Storytime Wednesday: Worst Drink Ever

The worst drink I've ever had in my life is when my Rice friends came to visit me in Florence and, not understanding the Italian labels, made cocktails of pineapple juice mixed with what they thought was vodka, but was actually anise (licorice flavor + pineapple = "GET IT OFF MY TONGUE!"). But this next story is a close second.

When I should have been old enough to know better, I met two of my friends near Sixth Street for dinner and afterwards we opted to hit the bars. If you are not familiar, Sixth Street in Austin is where 21-year-olds go to drink carefully crafted cranberry vodkas, and generally is a place where bad decisions are made. We made our way inside Barcelona, a basement locale with sticky floors and pulsating EDM music. I texted another friend to come share the joy of this experience with us, and for some reason he agreed and said he would be over soon.

Satisfied with this development, my friends and I headed to the bar and ordered drinks, when one girl realized her parking meter was about the expire. My other friend agreed to accompany her to her car, leaving me alone at the club, holding all the drinks we just ordered, in case the person I invited showed up. So here I am, awkwardly standing alone at the bar, with three drinks, in a club full of people too young to know what hangovers even are, and the bartender comes over and says, "You need a shot." Who am I to disagree?

So he puts a bunch of stuff in a shaker, does bartender stuff, and pours a shot for me and one for himself. We say cheers, and then I throw down what I immediately identify as the most horrible shot I've ever had in my life. It tasted like purple cough syrup gone horribly, horribly wrong. Like a grape Jolly Rancher had been mixed with Windex and been left to marinate in the sun for a while. DJ Screw would have spit out this shot. Unable to even try to conceal my displeasure, I turned to the bartender with, "What the hell is this?"

"Statutory Grape," was his response.

Can we all agree that:

1) That is a horribly inappropriate name for a shot, in general

2) It is definitely an inappropriate shot to give a girl BY HERSELF AT A BAR

3) Why are you giving rancid Dimetapp ("grape")-flavored shots to someone who is 30

4) Seriously, why are we making jokes, much less drinks, out of statutory rape

I took my armful of drinks and escaped far, far away from that bartender. 

Storytime Wednesday: The Dominican Cab Driver

In what would turn out to be one of the only high points of the year, I decided to splurge on a lavish tropical vacation for my 30th birthday (booked before both the loss of my beloved car and one of my traitorous organs). All I wanted was to sit on a warm beach and relax, maybe get some writing done. I settled on the Dominican Republic after being influenced by two of its countrymen (Junot Diaz and my exboyfriend), and opted for what I thought was the best of the island for my trip: resort-heavy Punta Cana and actual city Santo Domingo. 

I knew basically nothing about the country except what my exboyfriend told me, which was that there were places where you could snorkel and see starfish for miles (essentially fulfilling all requirements I had for the trip, which were: 1. must have beach 2. see point #1). I booked a round-trip flight to Santo Domingo, thinking that, since it was an island, it was probably small and navigable. So imagine my surprise when I found out that the two cities I chose to visit were actually something like three hours apart. I changed my flight in to arrive in Punta Cana, and figured that surely the Punta Cana - Santo Domingo route would be traveled frequently and there would be easy transportation between the two cities.

I arrived in Punta Cana and despite the fact that I was definitely the only non-honeymooner at the resort and heard, "But you're here...by YOURSELF?" about a hundred times, I had a truly wonderful stay.

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Drink of the day is in a coconut. I'm pretty anti-selfie but I feel this is warranted.

A post shared by Erin (@theduckiest) on Jun 10, 2015 at 10:44am PDT

See this Instagram photo by @theduckiest * 24 likes

The night before I was due to leave, I talked to the concierge about my travel needs, and he seemed to think that there was a bus I could take to Santo Domingo. Great, no problem. 

Morning comes, and I visit the concierge desk again to check out and finalize my transportation. This concierge, who speaks much better English than the night concierge, indicates that there might be a problem and spends the next hour on the phone trying to find a way to get me to Santo Domingo. It turns out, I would need to take two buses which, given I was a solo female traveler with toddler-level-at-best Spanish, was too daunting of a prospect for my taste. We tried to arrange a taxi to the second bus station, but then realize there's a strike in that city and I can't take the bus. The only viable option is to take a taxi the entire three hours to Santo Domingo, which, after much haggling by my concierge, would run me about $200. Well, crap. 

(The concierge also transforms himself from friendly to creepy at this point by telling me that he wishes he could transport a beautiful lady like me to Santo Domingo himself, foreshadowing the rest of my experience in the city. But that is neither here nor there.)

So I get in the cab with the taxi driver, and due to language barriers we quickly realize communication is going to be stilted, which is always fun for a long car ride. After about ten minutes of leaving the resort, we start driving through these insane dirt roads with no signs of any kind, pedestrians inches from the passing cars and extremely burdened mopeds with laundry, livestock, etc. Every intersection was some elaborate game of chicken, and though my driver was flying through with extreme skill and speed, I was cowering in the backseat actively reassuring myself that I was not going to die. Finally, the dirt roads turned paved, and then suddenly we were driving down a modern multi-lane highway like we had never passed a moped precariously carrying two people and four dining room chairs. With the threat of death lowered, the taxi driver visibly relaxed, then began to flip through some CDs. He asked me if there was anything I wanted to listen to, and I said he could choose.

To practice for my upcoming trip and get used to hearing Spanish, I had been listening to the Latino radio station in Austin. My strategy absolutely did not work in terms of helping me with any kind of useful language, but still, I was excited to hear what was on the radio in the DR because I might know some of the songs. 

With one last look in the rearview mirror, the driver pulls out a CD and pops it in. After my stay at the extremely whitewashed resort, I was ready to hear some bachata, some merengue, and see if I could pick out some words. But I was absolutely dumbfounded when a familiar flute sound started flowing sweetly from the stereo. Was that..?

Céline

Fucking

Dion. 

Oh yes. And when the ending notes of "My Heart Will Go On" (seriously) turned into the Archies' "Sugar, Sugar," it became very apparent to me that my driver had chosen his "white people mix." It was surreal to hear the soundtrack to a 20-year-old movie while in a tropical country with palm trees flying by, but not wanting to offend his musical sensibilities, I didn't say anything. Until we were about 30 minutes outside of Santo Domingo, when the CD restarted and when "My Heart Will Go On" started playing again. I lost it. The driver noticed me laughing, and asked, "Ah, te gusta esta musica?"

"NO!" I choked out, unable to even pretend.

He was genuinely surprised at this, and I explained as best I could that I had been expecting actual music in Spanish, like I listen to at home. He started making outraged noises and said I should have told him, and I realized we'd spent the majority of the trip listening to songs we didn't like out of politeness for the other person. After a good laugh, he played me some bachata for the brief remainder of the car ride, before dropping me safely at my hotel in Santo Domingo.

Recap: Happy New Year!

Welcome to 2017 everybody! I assume you didn't start without me, right? 

As mentioned, I rang in the new year watching fireworks on the beach in Rio de Janeiro. It was my first time in South America, and despite the fact that I have an entirely new appreciation for air conditioning and I still am not convinced Portuguese is a real language (it sounds like Martian to me and I kept laughing uncontrollably every time I heard it which is, as you can imagine, not very conducive to making friends), I had an amazing trip. If you thought you would get through this without pictures, you were wrong.

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Last caipirinha before leaving Brazil 😢 This one had cashew fruit!

A post shared by Erin (@theduckiest) on Jan 10, 2017 at 5:02am PST

See this Instagram photo by @theduckiest * 27 likes

Next up I am headed to San Francisco and San Diego to really make use of my time as a member of the funemployed (Shiloh is very supportive of my joblessness but does not appreciate when I am gone). 

In other news, I got a new computer. I was working with a 2010 MacBook Air which was riding the struggle bus pretty hard (we're talking 10+ minutes to open my email sometimes), but since it wasn't broken and I do not have a regular source of income, I was having a hard time committing to such a big purchase. Ohmygod, greatest decision of my life to finally take that plunge. So pumped to make some changes to this website now that my computer is faster than my phone. 

THINGS I PUBLISHED RECENTLY:

I hope you guys are enjoying Storytime Wednesday! Here are things I published on other outlets. 

19 Spots to Indulge in Wine and Cheese (Eater Austin)

Useful information for dates, girls' nights, or just general joy.

6 Restos on the Outskirts of Austin That Are Totally Worth the Trip (Austin Way)

Inspired by my trip to Api's over Thanksgiving which was honestly one of the best meals I've had in a while. I'm going to their new pizza offshoot, Sorellina this weekend and I am super pumped because you can never have enough pizza. 

Romantic Ways to Celebrate New Year's Eve in Austin (Austin Way)

OK, so maybe this isn't relevant anymore, but I wrote it and if you are a true superfan of my writing you should read everything, right???

5 Rejuvenating Spa Getaways to Start the New Year Fresh (Austin Way)

If you can't go to exotic tropical destinations like me, the spas on this list probably the next best thing.

6 Spots for Healthy Lunches That Don't Skimp on Taste (Austin Way) 

Again, this whole article was an excuse to write about my love for Flower Child at The Domain. Also, if you have diet restrictions, you should definitely check out Citizen Eatery - I had a soup there that is the absolute perfect thing for cold weather, not that we ever get that in Texas.

Austin Chefs Weigh In on the Top Food Trends for 2017 (Austin Way)

WHAT DOES THE FUTURE HOLD??? READ AND FIND OUT!

INTERESTING THINGS FROM OTHER PEOPLE:

I've been trying to read more of...those things...you know, with the paper? Books! Yeah, that's what they're called. Started off on an intellectual strong point with Dave Barry's Best. State. Ever.  (but like, actually, it's kind of incredible the amount of reporting that go into his stories about, say, a search for the Florida version of Bigfoot). I'm also really liking Olive Kitteridge, a tapestry of stories in a small Maine town - plus, it's apparently an HBO miniseries now. On a recommendation, I read The Other Side by Lacy Johnson (Rice professor! Go Owls!) in approximately four hours because I was so hooked in the (true!) story of her kidnapping by an abusive ex-boyfriend.

OBLIGATORY RANDOM PICTURE OF ME:

Because why break tradition? 

This is a caipirinha, the one word in Portuguese I learned how to spell, at Puro restaurant. For full envy experience, please visit my Instagram.

Storytime Wednesday: The Naked Prude

(Programming note: Storytime Wednesday took a break last week since I was in Brazil. Not sorry bout it.)

It was a typical weekend in college and I was participating in wholesome activities with my friends (beer pong). I noticed an attractive gentleman at the other end of the table that I hadn't seen before, and after engaging in coy conversation over Solo cups filled with Miller Lite, I found out that he did not attend my university, and in fact was in only town for the weekend visiting someone I knew and trusted. He was very nice and very cute and I was very interested.

Our flirtation led us to team up and play a game of beer pong together, which we lost shamefully due to his complete ineptitude at the valuable skill of throwing ping pong balls into cups. Somehow he was attractive enough for the insanely competitive part of me to overcome this and keep talking to him. I'm sure you can see where this is going: Our sparkling conversation led us to sneak off and find somewhere to make out.

We ended up in a room in the basement of my dorm that had been furnished with couches, but could be accessed by anyone who lived there. After briefly making out on the couch with my suitor, I got up to turn off some of the lights to really enhance the "dorm basement" atmosphere. When I turned back around from this task, I was surprised to find the guy lying on the couch Burt Reynolds-style, completely naked.

Honestly, I have to respect the superhuman speed at which he freed his body of clothing, but given that 1) The door to this room definitely did not lock and 2) We had made out for like one minute and 3) I was still fully clothed, my first response to finding a completely naked dude on the couch was to blurt out, "We are NOT having sex!" 

"Ohmigod," came his response, as he shifted into a position I associate with teenage girls talking on the phone (lying on stomach, chin in hands, legs crossed at the ankles). He continued, completely seriously, "I'm so glad you said that. Are you a prude? Because I'm a prude too!" 

Irony, folks. 

EPILOGUE: We continued to have a conversation about prudes and sex while he stayed completely naked and I internally stressed about our clothing inequity. Noticing that I was not touching him, he finally dressed and we returned upstairs and parted ways. The end.

NOTE: Yes, he probably was the inspiration behind The Naked Man on How I Met Your Mother, though the incident happened years before that episode and the strategy obviously did not work out this time. Someone is stealing my life stories and owes me a LOT of royalties. 

Storytime Wednesday: My Life is Covered in Cat Hair

Four years ago today, I adopted the adorable ball of fluff you may have seen around my blog looking very sassy. In honor of her adoptiversary, here is the story of how we met. 

I wasn't even ready to adopt a cat. I had just moved back to Austin and found a new job. I had my own apartment for the first time, but instead of a couch I had a pile of pillows and instead of a table I had a plastic box. It was an extremely classy period of my life. 

I come from a long line of crazy cat people: when my parents got together they had nine cats, growing up we always had four. Knowing that I wanted to adopt eventually, I went down to the animal shelter with my dad to check out the situation. We were walking around and I spotted this little bundle of joy. 

Mad Shiloh.

Wait no, that's not right. Here she is when she first saw me. Tell me if this doesn't look like love at first sight. 

She was seven years old with long silky fur, one orange leg, one black leg, and soft white socks. Even in her tiny cage, she was obviously H.B.I.C., and was way too elegant for this shit. I just...I don't know, I just knew. All the adorable little kittens in the world and I wanted this seven year-old lady cat. One small problem: I was flying to San Francisco for New Year's in two days. I went to the reception desk and asked if I could put her on hold until I got back, but since she was ready to be adopted, the longest they could hold her was 24 hours. And that is how I adopted a cat before I had furniture in my apartment.

Shiloh was not the type to run and hide under the bed when I first brought her home. She lumbered around, poking her pink little nose into every corner before climbing up into my lap. Even that first night, she slept in my bed on my feet, belly up, purring the whole time.

If you know me or even glance at my Instagram, you will know Shiloh is absolutely the light of my life - and she knows it. She was surrendered after seven years with her first family due to "allergies" and "alpha behavior." They also declawed her, which is basically amputation and cruel. Whatever, she lives in the lap of luxury now. Despite not having claws, she has a Scratch Lounge that she LOVES, fancy food, toys, and unlimited pets.

Shiloh is basically the best cat ever. She absolutely loves people, she "talks" a lot, and will jump right into your lap and demand attention. She still sleeps with me every night, either on my feet or snuggled up in the crook of my arm, and though I used to struggle with laying awake at night, her warm, purring body always puts me right to sleep. 

Despite looking regal a.f. at all times, Shiloh is actually pretty bad at being a cat. Her balance is terrible, it takes her several attempts to complete a jump, and she totally sucks at hunting. She found a cricket once, and after five minutes of following it around and swatting it, the thing was not even injured. She does not let this get in her way of being incredibly sassy at all times, and has more than once intimidated a dog into submission for invading her space (which left me feeling simultaneously proud and embarrassed). 

The thing about having a cat is she has given me a home. Before having her, I bounced around a lot - one year I moved nine times in 12 months - and would jet off for a trip without a second thought. I could wear clothes without having to question if they had an inappropriate amount of cat hair. I could vacuum less and didn't have to clean up poop or vomit. I didn't have to reject romantic interests for being allergic (because there is NO WAY I'd give her up). I could work without being interrupted by a thing reminding me that it loves me. I would come home to an empty house, as opposed to the excited chirp of my little furball. I didn't have anything to miss back home, and didn't have to ask the petsitter for pictures to brighten my day. Shiloh fills my condo with fur and scattered litter, but it's lifeless and empty without her. She provides me with a constant source of happiness. I love her more than words can say and am so glad that I am a part of her life.

Storytime Wednesday: Trap Queen

Although 2016 as a whole trumps (intentional) 2015 for "Shittiest Year Ever," the summer of 2015 was real bad for me. The first omen was when I wrecked my beloved 2007 Fiji Blue Honda Civic Si, Pearl. Pearl was a gift from my parents when I graduated college; she was fast, badass (i.e. manual transmission), and most importantly, a vibrant shade of blue. I loved the hell out of that car, and I was more than a little saddened when she met her untimely demise thanks to an uninsured driver running a red light.

Ultimately though, as one of my least sentimental students told me on our last day of classes together, "When the pope dies, you get a new pope."

I already had a pretty good idea that I wanted an Acura TSX, which is basically a more grown up version of a Honda Civic. So, I did a search for blue Acura TSXes in Austin, and there was one in the entire city. I didn't know at the time that you are supposed to call ahead to the car dealership, so I took the day off work and just showed up shortly after they opened. After waiting for like, ever (to be fair, it was probably 9:30am on a Tuesday, not exactly prime car-buying time), I finally flagged someone down and was handed off to a salesperson, let's call him Milton (because he looked pretty much exactly like a Milton).

Milton was a paunchy guy in his 50s with white hair and a bristly mustache. He reminded me a lot of The Simpsons character Gil: he seemed kind of down on his luck, which was sad, but he also had the personality of warm ham. I'm really mystified as to how he got into the car-selling game, much less why dealership management paired him with me, a fairly vivacious girl in her 30s. So Milton pulls the blue TSX around, and we get in and drive, making the incredibly awkward chit chat that I would generally make with someone my father's age. I'm pretty sure we discussed my college major and responsible budgets interspersed with him awkwardly trying to sell me the car by saying things like, "It really goes, huh?!"

Anyway, so after about 20 minutes of stilted conversation, we finally arrive back at the dealership and are sitting in the parking lot when Milton decides to pull out all the stops to make the sale. "Check out the stereo on this thing!" he said, eagerly reaching over to crank the dial. The radio, which had been inaudibly playing in the background, was set on a local rap station, and when Milton decided to get the party going, the stereo started blasting "Trap Queen." 

If you are unfamiliar, Trap Queen is basically an ode to drug dealer girlfriends*. Milton and I sat there, too stunned to move, as this rap song, that I am 100% positive Milton did not know the meaning of, blasted from the TSX's truly impressive stereo. Every fiber in my body wanted to reach over, turn the music down, and make this sad attempt at a connection end, but I didn't know if that would just be more embarrassing to him. After an interminable 90 seconds of enduring a rap song playing way louder than I am comfortable with normally, much less with my awkward-dad-salesperson in the car, I just turned the car off and said, "Yeah, that sounds great!" 

Milton did not make the sale that day. In fact, I take my silver TSX (Sheba) to a dealership on the opposite side of town for the sole purpose of avoiding Milton for the rest of my life (also: because they give me cookies while I wait) (it is very easy to keep me happy). 

As much as I never want to experience that awkwardness again in person, I do think of "Trap Queen" as Sheba's theme song. Whenever it comes on the radio, I chuckle to myself, then reach over to turn it up. For Milton.

*(If you are one of those people who didn't know what a Trap Queen is, FOH. Pay attention to the context clues!)

Storytime Wednesday: Let's Not Consider the Lobster

My first boyfriend in Milan spoke impeccable English, refused to eat fruits or vegetables, and though he was a rare specimen of Italian man that did not live with his mother, he never went out. I know that in the US staying in and binge-watch Netflix is an acceptable lifestyle, but in Italy it's pretty weird. Unfortunately, it's one of those quirky habits I didn't realize until we'd been dating for like a month. 

I was in Milan to teach English, halfway into a five-month internship that paid 500 euro a month. Despite the meager paycheck, I wanted to experience all that Italy had to offer (Read: the food. I wanted all of the food.) and I had yet to have dinner at a restaurant. Italian Boyfriend was the kind of person who did not understand why someone would go out for gelato when you could buy a carton of it at the grocery store for the same price, but eventually he saw that I was losing interest due to aforementioned hermitude, and offered to take me out. He chose a Sicilian restaurant, which I was super excited about because I'd heard they had excellent desserts (unlike the rest of Italy but that's a story for another time).

We go to the restaurant, and it's very nice, and I open to menu to find that Sicilian food is almost 100% seafood, which I do not like. Now, I understand that will cause me to lose some friends or maybe some respect as a food writer but seriously, the ocean is full of either sea snot or giant, strangely crunchy insects drowned in butter to hide their true flavors. Except crab. Crab is delicious. 

So I'm looking at this menu trying to find something - anything - that will be a form of seafood that I can tolerate, when the waiter comes over. He says that the special of the evening is "Linguine all'astice," a word I do not know. I ask Italian Boyfriend and he says astice is a fish. Promising! Pasta! I love pasta! Fish! Fish are filled with fish glop (official biological term) but I can like fish. The waiter comes back and I order linguine all'astice, and Italian Boyfriend does too. "Excellent choice," the waiter says, "L'astice ancora camina" (The astice is still walking). Oh! I think. What a cute way to say that the fish is very fresh! I am very pleased with myself for picking up on this subtlety of the Italian language.

Italian Boyfriend and I are continuing on whatever conversation a doomed relationship has, when the waiter comes from behind me and, with a flourish, places a plate of pasta in front of me with a giant dead insect on it, its creepy little legs and eye stalks just dangling there. Even better: the giant dead insect is split in half so I can see all of its cooked insides artfully poofing out. Of course, at this point I realize that astice is lobster and that not only have a) I ordered something I do not like, but b) I have ordered a very expensive thing that I do not like c) I have no escape since Italian Boyfriend ordered the same dish. 

I am not allergic to giant insects or anything so I trudge through, eating the pasta and occasional chunks of giant insect (to be fair, the giant insect did not taste terrible despite it being a former prison food, but I still didn't like it). Italian boyfriend is happily eating like I would ever kiss an mouth that ate eyestalks again. Afterwards we get cannoli, which almost makes everything better.

We have taken five steps outside the restaurant when I turn to my boyfriend and demand an explanation for calling astice a fish when it is so clearly not a fish.

His response: "It lives in the ocean! It's a fish!"

My response: "IT'S A FUCKING CRUSTACEAN." (Side note: the Italian word for crustacean is crostaceo so this really isn't a translation problem.)

We broke up shortly after. 

Weekly-ish Recap: Festive Edition + Programming Announcement!

I'm just going to go ahead and put this first since it's the most exciting thing I have to say:

GUYS, I GOT PUBLISHED ON TEXAS MONTHLY!!! 

Sailing Around the World in Her Seventh Decade (Texas Monthly, 12/5/16)

I met Linda via my work with Central Texas Education Funders and I feel very fortunate that she shared her adventure with me (if you want to see how absolutely insane she is, watch this clip of her on the Today Show). Getting published on Texas Monthly is a huge accomplishment - I mean, it's the National Magazine of Texas - and it's especially meaningful since TM has been a kind of second home for my family. My mom started as secretary to the founder and after 35 years worked her way up to president, and TM was where I had my first internship. The people there are so wonderful and it feels very affirming to have them publish something I wrote.

[Plus, my friend (a "real writer") had an article published on the same day, and my article got more likes/shares than his. (What, me? Competitive? Never.)]

THINGS I PUBLISHED RECENTLY:

Austin's Top Sommeliers Share Their Favorite Holiday Wines (Austin Way)

Drink like the experts! Featuring comments from some of my favorite people, John Roenigk of Austin Wine Merchant and Rae Wilson of Wine for the People.

Best Boutiques to Shop for Gifts in Austin (Austin Way - PRINT!)

This is my first time getting published in an actual magazine in several years. You can read the online version via the link above, or pick up a copy of the Insta-Austin issue and turn to page 109 to see my name! There's also a great interview with friends @eatingatx - a pair of very nice sisters who will make you very hungry. Plus, they do all their photography with iPhones!

Kellie’s Baking Co. to Reopen Cookie-Filled Store (Eater Austin)

If you haven't eaten a cookie with your Instagrammed face on it, you haven't lived. Everything I've had from here has been fabulous, plus, after talking to her I found out 1) Kellie is awesome and super nice 2) She makes an effort to hire people re-entering the workforce, so bring on the holiday feels!

INTERESTING THINGS FROM OTHER PEOPLE:

The Last Unknown Man (The New Republic) 

A naked man is found by a Burger King dumpster, with only a few scattered memories of his life. Who is he? 

Make Your Own Pruno and May God Have Mercy on Your Soul (The Black Table)

This is an oldie but a goodie: "Open the can of fruit cocktail and dump it into the bag, along with your own emotional cocktail of nihilism, depression and crippling boredom."

PROGRAMMING ANNOUNCEMENT:

You may or may not have heard that I am currently among the ranks of the unemployed. It's cool, it wasn't unexpected, I'm grateful for the time off, and I have a bunch of projects in mind to be productive with my time and keep me from going slowly insane (but hey, if you know of any jobs - contact me!). For one, I'm in the process of building a new website (hence why it took me so long to update). But more exciting: I'm going to start a new thing called Storytime Wednesdays. A couple of people have told me they miss hearing me write just for me, so each Wednesday I'm going to share one of the exciting adventures from my life. It will basically be like going on a date with me. I hope you enjoy.

Obligatory random picture of me!

Taken immediately after my haircut because I definitely am not capable of looking like this on my own. Remi at Aces is the absolute greatest.

Weekly-ish Recap: Trying Real Hard Not To Talk About Some Things

Hoo-boy. It was not supposed to take me this long to update my blog. It's been a busy month - I kept saying, "Oh, I'll update when THAT article goes up" and then get 17 more assignments to do. Then last week some things happened (an election, you may have heard) and I had some feelings. While this is in no way the time or place for me to be discussing those feelings (plus, I am not the best at political debates), it also seems wrong to just gloss over it and dive right into all the articles I've published. So, I just want to acknowledge, yes, that happened.

A couple months ago, while discussing The Oatmeal's comic about being perfectly unhappy, I said that I considered myself a fairly happy person. My friend asked me what my secret was, and you know, I honestly think part of it is that I love eating so much. Meals are an opportunity to get something I want three times a day (maybe two, given how I've been eating lately). It's a simple pleasure, but it's meaningful, for me - the very act of giving yourself sustenance to keep going. Anyway, I hope you make time for something that makes you meaningfully happy. We all need that now. 

THINGS I PUBLISHED RECENTLY:

Strap in, I've been busy doing things with words.

IHTM: I Served on a Jury for a Domestic Violence Case (xoJane)

Spoiler alert: People are awful!

21 Must-Try Cookies in Austin (Eater Austin)

You may remember I have a thing about cookies. This list was updated to include places outside of lunch range. Important update on that front: Walton's Fancy & Staple is one of my new favorites!

Keep It Special With These 33 Private Dining Rooms (Eater Austin) 

Info for Christmas party season, or for those of you who (like me) can't possibly be bothered to dine with ~regular people.~

5 Luxe Cocktail Rings for Every Holiday Occasion (Austin Way) 

Oooo sparkles!

Where to Eat Delicious Handmade Pasta in Austin (Austin Way) 

My backup true love (second only to chocolate chip cookies...but a close second).

6 Day Trips to Take from Austin This Fall (Austin Way) 

If I hear you say that you can't find fall foliage in Austin, I will assume you haven't read this article and therefore we are not really friends. (Because friends read all of my articles. ALL OF THEM.)

18 Most Comfortable Travel Shoes (Andrew Harper)

Nothing ruins a vacation like blisters. Plan in advance! 

INTERESTING THINGS FROM OTHER PEOPLE:

Ummm a lot of the stuff I have been reading is about the election and I really, really don't want to talk about that here. But, in a similar vein, go ahead and read the greatest thing ever written by Dave Barry. 

My friend Melissa has been posting about her battle with Lyme disease - if you think it's something three weeks of antibiotics will cure, check out her story.

Also (and I won't do this every time):

AMAZING FOOD I'VE EATEN LATELY:

I get to go to a lot of food events, and have been to some particularly awesome ones lately. If you follow along on my Instagram, you already know about these, but just in case:

Red Ash

We got to try @redashatx - new Italian place focused on wood-fired grill. Take a look at this thick-cut #ossobucco and tell me how you think we liked it. . . . #eeeeeats #foodstagram #meat #italian #meatporn

A photo posted by Erin Russell (@theduckiest) on Nov 3, 2016 at 1:20pm PDT

The aroma that wafts from this place indicates you're in for something special before you even walk in. Specializing in grilling (they have an array of wood-burning toys), the stars at our table was the wood-grilled octopus and the thick-cut osso buco. 

Flower Child

A photo posted by Erin Russell (@theduckiest) on Nov 11, 2016 at 1:49pm PST

Hello, World!

I was not expecting to love this healthy salad place as much as I did (please see above post about osso buco) but everything we had was DELICIOUS. I loved my Thanksgiving-in-a-salad "Winter Sunshine" with butternut squash, arugula, goat cheese, cranberries, oranges, and almonds, and the avocado toast was perfection. (Plus, the decor is ADORABLE - Flowers everywhere!) If I lived in the Domain I would go here every day. 

Salty Sow

A photo posted by Erin Russell (@theduckiest) on Nov 13, 2016 at 7:28am PST

I have two favorite restaurants in Austin. One is Cafe Josie, the other is Salty Sow. Given how amazing their food is ("Holy Trinity" of appetizers = Brussels sprouts, duck fat fries +egg, and fried chicken + biscuit), I don't usually make it to dessert, even though I know how good their bananas foster beignets are (especially when served with nutmeg ice cream). This time, after restraining myself on the apps (though I dove into our pork tenderloin entree so tender we didn't need a knife), I was able to power through. Oh my god. So worth it. 

Brewer's Table

Technically not open yet, Brewer's Table will be offering chef-prepared cuisine paired with excellent beers. If their inaugural event and all-star team are any indication, this place is going to be awesome.

Mac n Cheese Festival

A+ presentation on this one.

Source of my random selfie of the week! My three favorites were District's version with duck confit (of course), Forthright's version with rosemary and pork belly, and No Va's just-enough-kick green chili version. Was really surprised at Schlotzsky's finish as the judge's second favorite - just proves sometimes simple done right will win!

Actually...one more picture. 

Don't blame me...that's all I'm gonna say.

Weekly-ish Recap: "How do you stay thin?"

I still feel weird calling myself a "food writer" but I certainly do a lot of it. And as such, I get invited to various dining events, occasionally at an alarming pace - and when a restaurant is trying to show off, they're not going to serve you salads. 

So, since I take many, many (terrible) pictures at said events, a question I get asked a lot is some version of "How do you stay so thin?" or "Where does it all go?" Which is weird to hear because, while I am definitely happy with the way I look, I don't think of myself as "thin" (#soccerlegs). But, to respond to the question, the answer is fourfold:

1) Genes (Thanks Mom and Dad!)

2) I eat pretty healthy outside of my restaurant tastings (which really only constitute three meals a week, max).

3) I am allergic to garlic and have an extremely sensitive stomach, so sometimes there is not a lot of "digesting" going on.

4) I work out more now than I ever have in my adult life. 

I'm always a little confused when people are surprised by #4 because I think I talk about my relationship with yoga fairly often (or maybe it just seems that way because I feel like one of *those people* every time I talk about yoga). I go three times a week and play soccer every Sunday, but this seems to be one of those things that is incongruous with my personality and so people don't remember. I don't really post sweaty selfies, so maybe it's just an "If a tree falls on social media and no one Instagrams it, did it really happen" sort of thing.

And while I know people are trying to be nice, it also annoys me the TINIEST bit when they ask why I'm thin - I worked for that shit! Many hours of squats and sacrifices were suffered through to look the way I do! I am almost never available for happy hour or drinks because if I'm not going to a food event, I'm burning one off. 

That said, I love what I do and the opportunities I get, and I am very thankful for this brief moment of having strength and a killer bod before everything goes to hell due to the inevitable death march of time. 

THINGS I PUBLISHED RECENTLY:

13 Austin Bars Where You Can Eat Well (Eater Austin)

My first for Eater Austin (!!!), this is a list of places you can take your fancy alcoholic friend.

These Are the Hottest Singles Scenes in Austin (Austin Way) 

I did a Facebook poll asking people where to meet singles in Austin, and the most common response was "move to another city." So thanks for helping out, guys.

6 Spiced Cocktails to Usher in Fall (Austin Way) 

It's been in the 50s here at night, which is basically the frigid cold of winter, so be sure to partake in these cocktails while you can.

If you are waiting on an explanation of my sads, it was published! On the deadline I set for myself! But I'm not going to link it publicly because #employers! 

INTERESTING THINGS FROM OTHER PEOPLE:

How a video game about sheep exposes the FBI's broken FOIA system (The Daily Dot) 

It starts with The Daily Dot questioning why the FBI felt the need to make a computer game using a sheep (or goat?) in an attempt to counter religious extremism and really only gets better from there. 

My First Gulfstream (Vanity Fair) 

A billionaire's hilarious journey of buying a jet. By the end of this article you will be like, "Well, OBVIOUSLY you had to spend $36,000 for two flat-screen TVs" and then you'll see the article was written in 1998 and realize the whole thing probably looks super tacky now and cry about life before the tech bubble burst. 

Here's Why You're Still Single Based on Your Myer's Briggs Personality Type (Elite Daily)

I reference this article on a weekly basis so I really should share it. Fun fact: I do not have a conclusive MBTI. 

Glittering garb at NY Fashion Week may spell the end of normcore (NY Daily News)

"This September's Fashion Week looked like a Michaels shopping trip on speed, in a very amazing way." Legit LOLs while reading. 

Obligatory random picture of me! 

This is me from ACL with some rad people. Do I smile with my mouth open like this all the time? Yes.

Weekly-ish Recap: Realtalk

I lied to you a few weeks ago. I'm sorry. 

First, let's just all acknowledge that these recaps occur every other week/whenever I have published the necessary amount of new articles to constitute a post. But Weekly-ish sounds cooler than Bi-weekly-ish so I am keeping it. (Plus maybe I will publish that much someday! #goals).

Okay, so the lying. You may have noticed that my writing has been different lately. I haven't published a personal essay in a long time, and the reason for that is threefold: 1) It's harder to find places that publish your personal essays for $$$ b) I am on the job hunt and having your potential employers read about how you're scared you won't have babies is kinda weird iii) I have been...sad, lately. For a while. And it is hard to write when every time you try, your eyes water and you can't see the screen anymore and then you have to go hug your cat and she just in general is not conducive to working and then you go watch Netflix to make your brain turn off. It's also a lot easier to do that than sit around and think about why you're sad. 

I feel really unprofessional saying that I'm sad. But saying I'm happy isn't a problem. Weird?

Every word I write that isn't an assignment feels like I'm slogging through mud with a rope that attaches me to a large water buffalo. Sure, there is some progress, but it's ugly. I keep waiting for the fog to lift but it hasn't. I think I'm supposed to write about it, but I don't know what kind of story has the ending "...and I still feel that way and don't know what to do." I don't know. We're going to find out together. I gave myself a deadline. 10/5. And then you can read about all my problems. Yay?

Anyway, I'm sorry to air my personal life on my portfolio blog. Here is what you came for. 

THINGS I PUBLISHED RECENTLY:

7 Can't-Miss Events Happening in Austin This Fall (Austin Way)
Everything from concerts in castles to a Satanic Panic Room, assuming you have the energy to get off the couch and enjoy life, which I do not. (JK - See you at Weekend 1 of ACL)

Must-Visit Breweries in Every Part of Austin (Austin Way) 
This inspired some heated debate on my Facebook page, but sorry, I made my choices and I'm sticking to them.

6 Restos Locals Don't Want to Tell You About (Austin Way) 
Including a restaurant that I'm pretty sure even natives are completely unaware of! 

INTERESTING THINGS FROM OTHER PEOPLE:

The World is a Thriving Slaughterhouse (The Atlantic)
To go along with the general uplifting theme of this post. 

Scandals! (New York Magazine)
Not so much an article but an issue that I am slowly working through. 

Last weekend I was in Maine for the wedding of one of my best friends, and our photoshoot made it into a Huffington Post roundup! We're #15 :) 

Random photo of me! This is from the Austin Way party at the Domain. Because you know what helps sadness? Stuffing your face with cookie shot glasses. 

And because I know you'll ask...that amazing dress is from ModCloth.