She's in Frou Frou

Su

My friend Melissa and I once had a conversation about Pulp and she said, "Well, some people liked Suede and others liked Pulp." Suede? I thought.

From there, I searched and found Suede. A forerunner in the Britpop movement, with some influential and critically successful albums to their credit, they're albums are listed amongst NME's 100 Greatest Albums of All-Time and Q's In Our Lifetime: Q's 100 Best Albums. They've found a sweet and lush niche with an unforgettable and incredibly ethereal lead vocalist: Brett Anderson. Although at first it seems little too niche-y, so to speak, I often found that I'm drawn to listen to songs like, "She's in Fashion" over and over and over...which is usually a strict no-no for a musical snob/turd like myself.

After a period of separation, their current incarnation will be playing at Coachella in June 2011.

Unless I'm able to amass the 3.2 million dollars for a ticket to Coachella to sit in the lawn, use porta-potties, and not be able to bathe for days, I won't imagine that I'll be seeing them any time soon.

For me, Suede is a lovely embodiment of Frou Frou. When you're able to successfully liken a woman to "the shape of a cigarette," without:

1. Making other women feel bad about their bodies.
2. Allowing people to envision things like lung cancer and emphysema.

Then you've successfully mastered Frou Frou.

To channel the wild musings of a senior citizen for a minute, what happened to bands like this? We're forced to listen to things like Ke$ha and Wiz (fucking) Khalifa on the radio, but we can't even see Suede unless we're trust-fund hipsters? 

Oh yeah, and get the hell off my lawn.

Peanut Buttery Love

As a young child, I was allergic to chocolate. Ingesting even a slight amount would lead to wheezing...ingesting an even greater amount could lead to a full-on asthma attack. This devastating allergy allowed for things like Easter baskets full of Skittles and Payday bars (*sigh*), and my mother's willingness to pay for my halloween candy so I could buy a toy that would help ease the pain of a chocolate-less childhood.

By puberty, I had grown out of this allergy and I was happy to see it go. In college, my Gram asked me what cookies I wanted her to send me in a care package, and I was happy to receive Peanut Butter Blossoms. This recipe is known my many names (Kiss Cookies, Peanut Butter Kiss Cookies, etc.), but our family has known these tasty treats as Peanut Butter Blossoms since I can remember wearing one of my Gram's cobbler aprons and it hanging down to the tops of my shoes. A delightful peanut butter cookie with a Hershey Kiss plopped on top. So simple, so tasty. The cookie bottom is slightly short and the Kiss is slightly soft...ooo dang. 

After my Gram passed away in 2008, one of the things I was the happiest to receive was her recipe box. Looking through the cards of the things that I had remembered tasting and loving as a child, I found the Peanut Butter Blossom card. 

Peanut Butter Blossoms

(this is a double batch, because making less than that would be ridiculous)

1 cup sugar

1 cup brown sugar

1 cup oleo 

1 cup Jif (substitution=death)

1/4 cup milk

2 tsp. vanilla

2 eggs

3 1/2 cup flour

2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

Extra Sugar  

Kisses

Cream sugars and oleo. Blend in Peanut Butter, vanilla, milk and eggs. Stir in dry ingredients. Shape into 1" balls and Roll in sugar. Bake at 375 degrees for 10-12 minutes. Take out of the over and quickly press Kiss into the center of each cookie. Cool on wire rack.

These recipes are not for the faint of heart or for the kitchen novice. The directions are sparse and the methods are implied: a sort of family short-hand that makes me feel even closer to my grandmother after her passing.

In mid 2010, I found that my asthma (that has been controlled with medicine and supervision) wasn't fairing so well in the day to day. Not wanting to medicate myself into $90/month pharmacy bills, I thought about my diet...and I realized that chocolate could very well be the culprit. After swearing off of it for a month, my asthma got better and I had to break the news to myself that I was "back off the stuff."

I was devastated to find that I could no longer enjoy the Peanut Butter Blossom with the zest and vigor of my college years, but I knew that I could enjoy the taste sans Kiss. Much like life without my Gram, you learn to cope in ways that still make life sweet. Even so, you're aware that it's just not the same.

That Peanut Butter cookie is awesome, though.

For the love of Tom Selleck

Before I admitted to myself that I had a real thrift-store addiction, my favorite activity was second-hand shopping. Whether it was books, records, knick-knacks, tschotskes, fancy shoes, kitschy handicrafts or general junk, I wanted it and I wanted it to be in my home to make me laugh.

Photo after photo of my previous apartment was full of dusty shelves of beret-ed dogs, Hindu statues, and Spongebob Squarepants...among other things. These things were like my own private trophies of the conquests of the thrift store hunt.  

I still regret, even after four years, that I didn't purchase that framed headshot of Tom Selleck from what looked like his Magnum PI days. Just think of how it would've classed-up the bathroom. I would've gone right next to this beauty that I managed to leave on the shelf, as well.

I still have to wonder if this has been taken from a Colt 45 ad.

At some point, I had a purging session to end all purging sessions. Out with the red, wrought-iron Asian-inspired roosters. Out with the velvet painting of the puppy writing a letter (how he held a pen is beyond me). I still kept the records, though. I'm only human.

After that, our move required even more purging of the countless oddities that seemed to chronicle my husband and I's relationship. My neighbors took some furniture and toys for their young children, and I often see them walking down the street from the Chinese restaurant where they work...and I hope that they're enjoying "my pretties" as much as I did. Our communication was definitely minimal with the language barrier, but we always wave at each other and share that common bond...of second(or third)-hand treasures. 

Girl, pull down them drawers

My parents have had a junk drawer since I can remember. The drawer is located to the right of the sink, above the cupboard that houses the breakfast cereals. Everytime I go there, I open the junk drawer and it's layers astound me. Like an onion, the layers of the junk drawer are complex and pungent. On the top is usually the candy, crackers and treats from various gift baskets, sales and lunches my parents have amassed over the last few months. After all of the best treats are taken, the next layer buries the one before and the treat cycle begins again. On the bottom of the junk drawer...after all of the high fructose corn syrup, is the fun stuff. The homeless keys (I could probably find a key to a Dodge Dart if I had an afternoon to get to the bottom of the seemingly endless drawer abyss), the random twist-ties, the button that went to that shirt that you gave to the thrift store six years ago and a matchbook from my cousin's wedding in 1991 (she's had three kids and gotten a divorce).

Junk drawers are better than any three-thousand dollar scrapbook that a bourgie stay-at-home-mother can create with her seven-hundred dollar die-cut machine and her hand-pulped paper made by Indonesian amputees that she bought at a fair-trade scrapbook expo. Just like a family's heirlooms, a junk drawer takes time to ripen and hold the secret treasures of a slightly unkempt family. 

My husband and I have two junk drawers. A kitchen junk drawer:

And a bedroom junk drawer

The kitchen junk drawer is full of coupons, lists half listed, doo-dads, Christmas cards and general kitchen-ry. It's layer upon layer of the things that never found a home, but we cannot possibly part with. Our trashy "heirloom" Frou Frou.

If you look close at the bedroom junk drawer, you'll see a pair of underpants (with stars. Pre-ssejica underpants that made me wince when I saw them for the first time) that I thought my husband had long put out to pasture, but here we are...the beginnings of our family and the beginnings of a nostalgic piece of our lives. A layer to our junk drawer.

When I was a kid, I often asked myself, "Why don't you just throw this stuff away? It's just thrown in this drawer." But now, the thought of living a life without a junk drawer, however small, seems like tearing up every photo you own. When I'm sixty, I hope my junk drawer's layers are excavated and we find out exactly what kinds of keys we didn't need in 2011, but somehow...we couldn't have lived without them.

Favor-ites

One of my favorite things to do (besides watch documentaries) is to use my vintage dishes. I have some great Pyrex and "Pyrex-like" dishware, as well as some ridiculous serving pieces full of kitsch and entertaining glam. Instead of just staring at them through the glass doors of my storage cabinet, I decided to have a brunch.

Inviting people over for a meal always provides the opportunity try out recipes, including these scones that were amazingly delicious...even without the forty-two pounds of butter that invade seemingly every scone recipe I've ever seen. I added a glaze that provided a bit of sweetness and flare.

Here's the recipe: Orange Yogurt Scones


Scones, breakfast strata, mimosas and avocado salad are one thing, but for me, the difference between having some friends over for a meal and having an event is one Frou Frou element: The Favor.

Favors are a way of saying, "when you take time out of your schedule to come to my house, even for a free meal, it's a big deal."

I kind of take favors seriously. How many wedding/baby shower (let's be fucking honest, theses two events are interchangeable) favors have you taken home with you and then said, "What in the bloody hell am I going to do with a miniature, clear plastic shoe filled with strawberry-flavoured potpourri?"

Favors have to be amusing, thoughtful and practical. After a particularly delicious brunch, what would be more useful than...



Gum.

It ends a meal. It freshens your breath. It makes you kissable.

It's a bit of Frou Frou your friend can take with them and every time they have a piece they remember that you like them and want to spend time with them.

The favor itself may only last as long as the gum holds out, but the thought lingers well after even the last chew.

What is Frou Frou Shit?

frou fgMy boss at the candle shop gave me a new product to try. I said I liked it. He said, "Yeah, you like all of that Frou Frou Shit."

Sir, you're darn tootin'...

Translating six month's worth of watching documentaries, making baked goods and missing my husband into a relevant and interesting blog is probably a completely impossible and incredibly annoying endeavor. I thought about writing. I thought about not writing. I thought, "who the hell do I think I am for thinking that anyone would even be remotely interested in my self-indulgently droll take on humanity?" But that's it, isn't it? That's Frou Frou.

Frou Frou's definition basically translates to heavily ornamental and overly elaborate. It's more than rumba panties, crushed velvet tube tops and gold lipstick, though.

The ornaments of everyday living are the bizarre, unsavory, sad, wonderful, whimsical, horrifying, moustacheoed, and tarnished details. They're completely overly elaborate and

that's what makes life worth living.

It's Frou Frou that keeps any even slightly intelligent person from ripping down the walls of their cubicle and blowing their head all over their Dooney and Bourke shoulder bag.

So I guess I am Frou Frou, I live Frou Frou, and I love Frou Frou. Now...I write Frou Frou.