Category: Uncategorized

I wouldn’t describe myself as having a sweet tooth, but lately I’ve been fascinated with all things dessert.  I found this recipe for Magic Pumpkin Bars, and since I opened a giant can of pumpkin last week, I’ve been trying to find ways to incorporate it into my meals this week (which is hard, since there are about three foods that exist that currently appeal to me at any given time).

Pumpkin Magic Bars

Ingredients:
25 gingersnaps (which I meticulously counted out, even putting the broken ones together to make wholes)
5 tablespoons butter, melted
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 cup white chocolate chips
1/2 cup chopped pecans
1/4 cup shredded coconut
1/4 cup toffee bits
8 oz. sweetened condensed milk
1/4 cup pumpkin
pumpkin pie spices to taste (cinnamon, ground ginger, cloves, nutmeg)

I am not a huge fan of white chocolate but bought the chips anyway.  I cut back on the chips and added more toffee.  I used a little more pumpkin than the recipe called for in an effort to use it up and omitted the sugar.  I also used almonds instead of pecans because I had them on hand.

Preheat oven to 350.  Crush gingersnaps in a food processor until ground finely.  Add the sugar and melted butter and press into a 9×9 pan, lined in foil and sprayed with Pam.  Once the gingersnap crust is set, add chocolate, then nuts, then coconut, then toffee.  Whisk the condensed milk, pumpkin, and spices and pour over everything.  Bake for 30 minutes.

My pan was not 9×9 (probably a little smaller) so I knew it would take a little longer to cook (plus I used more pumpkin).  They’re very sweet. One or two bites is all you need (unless you’re looking to completely indulge and then spend the rest of the day laying on the couch feeling ill).

Copyright 2014 Anne Mathay

This week, someone remarked to me that it was hot.  Yes, it was hot.  But it’s also September.  It’s still summer.  It’s supposed to be hot in the summer.  The idea that summer ends on Labor Day has long been a point of soreness for me.  Having a birthday the first week in September makes me a summer baby.  By the time I’m blowing out my candles, people have pumpkins and mums on their front stoops.

Isn’t it our natural tendency to look ahead, though?  Don’t we thrive on anticipating what’s next?  Technically, December 1st is still autumn, but everyone has winter on their minds.  In high school, spring sports started on March 1- but this was winter (and yes, we were outside, smacking around tennis balls and shivering).  We’re always focused on what is ahead instead of what is going on right now.

I distinctly remember (mostly in college) on Sunday nights, saying to myself as the thought of full time school, a few part time jobs, papers, projects, and tests swirled around in my head, “just let me get through this week.”  What happened the following Sunday?  I gave myself the same pep talk and another week had flown by with me wishing myself through it.  Of course I enjoyed the moments along the way.  But how would my memories or experiences be different if my outlook was “just let me enjoy today?”

Sadly, sometimes that “what is going to come” never comes, and you realize that the time you were waiting to pass has become the stuff your memories are made of.  I’m not saying I need to stop focusing on the future, but it would do me a little good to stop every once in a while and focus on today, not on tomorrow.

After all, life moves pretty fast.  If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it!

Copyright 2014 Anne Mathay

I’m in the middle of one of the worst breakups I’ve experienced so far in life.  It’s so bad that I caved and called my mom and pretty much sobbed to her during my entire 45 minute ride to work today.

I’ll tell you that I’ve been dragging my feet on setting up a not-for-profit organization in memory of my son, Hank, but in reality maybe I just wasn’t ready to do anything about it until now.  Sure, we’ve done a March of Dimes walk, we’ve got a Facebook page and a twitter (@HanksHope), and we have Hank’s Hope t-shirts.  We have no signature project- that is, until now.

I set this challenge for myself, for my 32nd birthday (7 September, for those of you keeping track).  I think this stems back to my 30th birthday, which ended up being a depressing, disaster of a day, completely unrelated to actually turning 30.  I decided to take a picture every day for 30 days prior to my 30th birthday of something that made me happy.  Some days were easier than others.  Some days, at 10pm, I’d be wandering around, trying to find some simple pleasure to photograph.  I’m sure I was overthinking it, but at the time I was working through a major bout of depression, so finding something soothing and happy at the end of the day often times would put me into a slight frenzy.  But, as usual, I digress.

This year, I decided to give myself 38 days (August 1 to September 7) to attend 32 yoga classes before my 32nd birthday.  I have been practicing yoga fairly regularly (2-3 times a week) for the last six months or so, and in case you don’t know me, I don’t really have a “gradual, let’s ease into this” mentality.  What better way to spend the month before my birthday than holed up in a yoga studio, bending and twisting my evenings away?

There are two main yoga studios I frequent.  The one in Glen Mills is hot- like, almost 90 degrees hot.  You sweat out of your nose pores, that’s how hot it is.  For 65 minutes you hold 26 positions.  Sometimes I’m dizzy, sometimes I teeter and fall, sometimes I move from one asana to the next with little effort and steady breath and a serene feeling.  I love it because it never changes- it’s the same thing every day, every time, every teacher.  The studio in Wilmington is also heated, but it’s vinyasa, so you flow pretty quickly from one posture to another.  It’s not quite as warm but it’s still pretty freaking hot, and it’s 75 minutes, and you’re moving the entire time.  There are a few other places I go (when you’re going every day and work full time 40 minutes from home, you need to be a little flexible), but these two places have been my mainstays for a while.

Anyway, I had planned on doing a double today (that would be a class before work and a class after work).  I woke up this morning and just couldn’t do it.  No big deal.  I’ll just go tonight and make it a one-class day.

Well, here I am- 7:39pm.  On my couch.  Face washed, comfortable clothes on, contacts out.  This lovely look is also known as I’m not leaving my house.  And, of course, the feelings of guilt set in.  I can’t help but look at the calendar as I’m in the kitchen, knowing that I should be five or six classes ahead of where I am actually pacing, that I should have just taken some Advil to rid myself of my headache and just gone, but I didn’t.  When I was telling one of my yoga teachers about my challenge recently, her advice to me was twofold- never do more than two classes in a day if you’re doing them hot, and LISTEN TO YOUR BODY.

Forget my body, I think.  My body does what I tell it to, not the other way around.

Tonight is a night where I’ve finally made the correlation between my mind and my body, outside of the yoga studio.  My body says sit down, relax, and, hey, while you’re relaxing, there’s a whole bowl of lemons so why don’t you make some lemonade?  Which is exactly what I did.

To me, yoga is all about connecting the breath with the body, the mind with the body, and a higher level that gets thrown into that mix.  Above it all, my mind is always in charge.  Tonight, though, my body is for a change- and I’m listening.

Copyright 2014 Anne Mathay

    Ever see those things like “Questions To Ask Each Other Before You’re Married?”  Yeah, me too. The other night, as we were laying around doing nothing, I came across a questionnaire online and asked Noah if he wanted to play along.
    After the second or third question, we stopped- partly because we already knew each other’s answers, but partly because not every question could be answered easily and I wasn’t looking to have a gigantic discussion at 7pm when no one had even mentioned dinner yet.  Is it important to know if you want children, or what religion you want to raise them, or whether or not you believe in an afterlife?  Yes, and you should make sure that you know some of these answers prior to tying the knot.  But people change their minds, and their goals, and their perspectives.  What your answers may be at a young, 24 year old with eyes wide open may not be the same when you’re a tired, jaded, worn out 48 year old.  So, the question shouldn’t be “do you want to have children?” but instead “if we go through fertility treatments and money and a miscarriage and a stillbirth and then more infertility and money and grief and loss and anger and sadness and a little more anger and sadness, do you still want to be married to me in spite of it all?”
     Take these quizzes with a grain of salt.  You should generally be on the same page, but expect those pages to turn, and, if they do, do you still want to keep reading the book?
     Oh, one more thing- two MAJOR questions that were omitted- how many ice cubes should you leave in the tray before you fill it up again?  Who is going to set the mousetraps or get the dead snake out of the garage?

Copyright 2014 Anne Mathay

Our homegirl Juliet famously said “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet.”  In her case, because she and Romeo had different names (and therefore different worlds), they could never be together.

So, what really IS in a name?

Take me, for example.  I am writing this post anyway.  I was born with a first, middle, and last name.  I was never addressed by my first name, my parents for whatever reason choosing to call me by my middle name (my brother has the same deal).  When I got married, I wanted to drop my first name since I didn’t ever use it, but because it was my first name it was technically considered a legal name change.  Enter an add in the paper, lots of state-mandated paperwork, a trip to Social Security and Motor Vehicles and, a few hundred bucks and a court date later, the illusive “Emily” was no longer a part of me.  As a little tribute to my former self, to this day when I initial something, I use the initials that I had at birth.  Call me crazy, but I like the ambiguity of it all.

Over a few (not really, more like many many) drinks this weekend, my friend Mary Kay was filling me in on her high school reunion she attended in Washington State.  She spoke about how some people referred to her as Mary, even though she goes by Mary Kay.  I remarked that I was Annie as a kid, but when I was eight or nine and therefore an adult in my mind,  I made a declaration that I was now to be addressed as Anne.

I’d like to go back to Annie.  I like the ability to reinvent myself, or change myself depending on the situation.  If you’re a Michael, you can always be a Mike.  If you’re a Robert, you can be a Rob (or a Bob, or Robby, or Bobby, or maybe even a Bert).  When you’re an Anne, you’re an Anne.  That’s it.  So, maybe I’ll be an Annie- it smells just as sweet, after all.

Ever have a moment where you realize you’re sort of getting older?  I’m only 31, but was recently introduced to what is arguably the biggest pop single of the summer, Blurred Lines, via NPR.  Subscribing to Spotify is both a blessing and a curse (I can listen to the same ten songs over and over and over again but am not introduced to new music unless I know what I’m searching for) and since I don’t listen to the radio anymore, I’m out of the loop.  As I’m listening to people my parents age discuss a pop song and it’s come-and-get-it lines and video that objectifies women and erases all of the work women have done for equality, I’m feeling ancient.  I should be telling these people what’s hot, not the other way around.  But, I digress.

I dial up the song and am immediately hooked- to the point where I’ve listened to it probably 30 times today (I did already admit to being slightly obsessive and repetitive with my music).  While the song lyrics are controversial, the video is even more so.  If you’re not humoring me and clicking my hyperlinks, I’ll fill you in.  The song (which samples Marvin Gaye’s Got To Give It Up) is chauvinistic and refers to a woman as a bitch while the video shows nearly nude women parading around, purely for enjoyment.

I like it.

Sometimes it’s fun to be sexy, to have attention because of your physical appearance, and to walk into a room and have eyes on you.  It feels good to look good.  It’s empowering, not degrading.  And yes, sometimes we, as women, “want it.”  We all do.  We’re humans, after all.  We have sex, and most of the time for fun.  It’s what we do on Saturday nights, or Sunday mornings, or while we’re waiting for the dryer to stop running or the kids to wake up from their naps.  We do it with our spouses, our boyfriends, and yes, we do it with strangers via one night stands after partying. 

Yes, I understand the critics who express the concerns with this song and video.  The women are nearly naked in the unrated version, scantily clad in the safe for work one.  The men are fully clothed.  These women are here for fun, clearly.  But why is that always bad thing if you’re a woman?

Women should always be in control of their power and their sexuality and unfortunately, sometimes they’re not.  Sometimes lines do get blurred to dangerous results.  But sometimes the lines are blurred because we want them to be- we want to be beautiful but smart.  We want to be flirty but intelligent.  We want to look good and feel good.  Blurry lines aren’t always a negative.  We, as women, blur them ourselves because we can.  We have that power and we have that control.  And that makes us for sure the hottest bitch in the place.

Copyright 2014 Anne Mathay

     When studying literature in school, I remember learning that Jane Austen originally wanted to call her book First Impressions, but for whatever reason she settled on Pride and Prejudice instead.  Although I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t remember the story very well, I do know that first impressions are important- but are we wrong or right about our first read of people?
     I met someone recently, and knew within the first thirty seconds that they weren’t what I was looking for.  Jane Austen whispered to me to keep getting to know them and not be so dismissive, so I continued (I always listen to my inner Jane Austen).  Although thirty minutes later I still knew this person wouldn’t work, I did have a very enjoyable conversation and made a new friend.
     It’s so easy to judge someone, especially at first.  Chances are, our gut instinct is right.  But gut aside, even if the person aligns with our preconceived notions, they’re almost always worth getting to know.

Copyright 2014 Anne Mathay

     We decide to wait until the warmest day of the summer so far to go stand out in a field and pick fruit at our local “PYO” farm (pick-your-own for those not involved in any 4H in high school).  In our case, we drive ten miles to a farm to gather our own harvest and pay twice the price for it.  But, it’s a fun activity, something to do together, and a reason to get out of the air conditioning (which feels stifling and confining until you leave it, and then you realize why it’s running in the first place).
     Peach and blueberry picking was described as “excellent” so we decide to be crazy and go for dual fruit.  Peaches take all of three minutes to pick our previously decided three dozen, so then we set off for the blueberries, which involves taking a little hayride out to the field. 
     The entire area is covered in what looks like mosquito netting as to not let in berry hungry birds.  You slip through the net at the beginning and then you’re in a world of fruit.  We decide on the divide and conquer method, leaving our flat in the middle of a row and each of us taking a quart container.  It’s easy to get lost in the mazelike quietness.
    After my quart is full, I’m wandering around, simultaneously looking for Noah and for the flat, and I’m aware of a father and his sons that are around the same area I am in.  Dad is a typical dad- big floppy hat on, cell phone strapped to his belt, dressed head to toe in what he probably considers to be outside, rugged clothing.  My first thought is When did berry picking become an adventure sport? but I silence my thoughts in my continuous effort to only think nice things.  I’m now standing in front of Dad, and he says loudly “you’ve got some big ones!”  It takes me a split second to realize that he is talking about the blueberries in my hands.  I give him my polite laugh and continue walking.  I listen to Dad and sons banter back and forth- the kids are about ten or twelve, old enough to be at the beginning stages of parental embarassment.  Dad suddenly realizes that his wife is nowhere to be found, and the boys dart back, retracing their steps.
    Finally, Mom appears- slightly out of breath, face flushed, wearing ankle length pants and sweating bullets.  Mom is clearly not having fun.  She is hot, she is tired, she is finding nothing entertaining at all about being in this patch of bushes and embracing all of the places on your body that produce sweat in situations like this.  Mom can’t figure out how to cut through the bushes, or go under the nets, or pick very much.  The boys are both frustrated at Mom’s inability to keep up, and proud that they’re able to do things she can’t.  Dad’s exasperated cries of “Joyce!” over and over make me smile at this whole scene.  Finally, Joyce’s complaints subside when everyone thinks they now have enough blueberries, so they head for a break in the netting to wait for the next retrieval hayride and the creature comforts that are so desperately needed at this moment.
    I assume that Dad and Joyce and their boys made it safely back to their 72-degree house without any heat-related illnesses.  I think about sweat, and how it is the body’s way of cooling off itself from exertion.  Traipsing through a field with your kids may have been effort for Joyce, but I can’t help but compare how I relished the sweat from doing something fun with someone fun.
    Tonight, after dinner is made but not yet eaten, Noah and I are on the deck, reflecting back on how hot today was, how we skipped the hayride back to the farm and opted to walk up the hill in an effort to take in the views, and how excited we both were that our respective deodorant/anti-perspirants were not only tested but passed.  I ask him, jokingly, if he noticed that I didn’t complain once today about being hot, or tired, or thirsty, or sweaty, or overall uncomfortable.
     He smiles and says, “Yeah, I did notice.  You weren’t a Joyce!”
     “Don’t be a Joyce,” I echo.