There is one problem, though: I simply can’t find a favor box that fits the shot glasses. I know that this problem could easily be solved with favor bags, but for some reason I’m really set on boxes for the favors. I’ve seen table settings with both and I just think boxes look cuter. So I set out on a crazy mission to make my own favor boxes. I found a great pattern on Style Me Pretty with four different prints, and I used Photoshop to adjust the sizing and color for our wedding.

I’m using the standard generic cardstock from Michael’s to print these out on our home printer. I’ve printed 30 in each print and plan on alternating them on the table (there’s eight people per table so it works out perfectly for there to be two of each pattern per table).

I then cut the printed patterns out and use a straight-edge and bone folder to create creases where the boxes need to be folded. Then I fold them and, finally, glue the edges together before inserting the favors with a decorative little piece of white tulle. It takes a long time. A really, really, really long time. So long, in fact, that when my terribly-behaved cat decided to pee on 50 of the cut-out patterns, I had a conniption fit and just about disowned the little bastard entirely.

But then I realized that things could be worse. He could have chosen to pee on the already-folded ones with the favors in them. That would have been a true disaster. And as bad as he is, I really love that bastard cat.

A microwave potato. Or as the package calls it, an “Easy-open Micro Baker Potato” providing “oven-baked potato taste from the microwave in just minutes.” Oh. My. God. I exclaimed over this incredible invention and pondered aloud, “What have they done to this potato to make it so microwavable, so easy? Is it pre-baked? A special breed of potato, perhaps?”

I peeled back the informational sticker to learn more, to discover the secret that led to this patented potato breakthrough. And to my amazement, I found: nothing. It seemed to just be a regular old potato sealed in plastic wrap. Baffling. I immediately called everyone I knew to try and get to the bottom of this. They must all know about this incredible advancement in spud science. And then my mom told me a wondrous thing: all potatoes are microwavable.

“No mom, no. This potato is special. It says so on the package.” I attempted to sell her on the wonder of oven-baked potato taste from the microwave in just minutes, but she was unfazed and continued to deny the superiority of my miraculous microwavable potato, rambling on with her crazy talk about all potatoes being microwavable. Yeah mom, sure. Whatever.

But I was intrigued and decided to continue my investigation by testing her theory. I got home and washed a normal, clearly inferior potato and wrapped it in a damp paper towel and plastic wrap as she had suggested (after poking it with a fork a few times to make sure it cooked evenly). Apparently some people skip the paper towel and just use plastic wrap, but something about enshrining my food entirely in plastic and nuking it kind of freaks me out. At least the towel provides some sort of barrier between the chemical toxins and the edible stuff. Just don’t try tin foil. Trust me.

“Here goes nothing,” I exclaimed, anticipating the five minute microwave joy ride that would lead to this poor potato’s destruction. Strangely, nothing happened. The potato didn’t explode or pop or liquify or turn into a poisonous gassy substance. I took it out and cautiously placed it on a plate, prodding it with a fork to make sure it didn’t try anything funny.

“Okay, well there’s no way this thing is gonna taste good.” I braced myself, clutching my ketchup like a shield. I was totally prepared to drown the disgusting taste if need be, but I could not let this poor little spud go to waste. I hesitantly took a bite of my nuked potato, chewing like my tongue was going to fall off or evaporate. And then, incredibly, I didn’t die. I put down the ketchup and dropped my guard enough to actually taste the thing. And it tasted…like a potato. Like an oven baked potato.

My life will never be the same. And maybe, from now on, I’ll listen to my mom just a little bit more.

Image credit: David Garzon

It’s taken me a long time to write this post. I’ve started it several times and deleted it, not wanting to come out and be “that girl.” That girl who was abused. That girl who was helpless. That girl who you feel sorry for. I talked at length with the fiance today about the negatives versus the positives of telling my story and it came down to this: I don’t want people to treat me differently. I hate that in the past I’ve been handled with kid gloves by people who know what I’ve been through. But in light of the recent Chelsea King murder, I also understand the power of information. And I feel that the “positives” of my story could be life-changing. Maybe life-saving.

Seventeen year-old Chelsea King went for a jog a little while ago in the hills of Rancho Bernardo, and she never came home. I know the area well; I pass by the lake where she was murdered every day on my way to work. I saw the news choppers and vans the day they found her body and I knew what must have been discovered. I pictured her last moments. I called it “disgusting” and terribly, painfully, “preventable.” I feel sick, I feel sad, angry and worried – I feel all the normal reactions to her horrific death. And then I feel something I can’t describe. Something personal. I see her murderer’s face on television and I feel regret. I feel a tightening in my throat because every time I hear a sickening story like this, I see the face of my own attacker and I know that could have been me.

From age three to age twelve, I was molested daily by a close family member. I was raped, I was beaten and I was discarded. I was made to believe that I was crazy, that it was my fault, that I deserved nothing better. I knew that it made me feel bad. I knew I wanted it to stop. But I also knew that he was my family member and that everyone trusted him. The very few times I did threaten to complain to my mom, he said that I would ruin the family, that without him we’d all live on the streets and go to hell and suffer from the “horrible, ridiculous leach” that I was. I understand now that it isn’t an entirely logical argument, but I was eight or nine and I believed him, so I didn’t say anything until I was 16 years old – long after a divorce had already split him from the family.

What does this have to do with Chelsea King? Actually not a whole lot, except that her murder has sparked a movement to warn children and inform them of the danger in this world. I’ve read, discussed, and heard a ton of thoughts on the topic. Children MUST to be protected. Your children need to know what’s out there. But please, I beg you to warn them of the risks that are everywhere. Not only among strangers. People they love – people you love – can do this too. The signs are usually there, but child molesters are excellent actors. They’re charming and they seem trustworthy. They’re your neighbor, they’re your soccer coach, they’re your real estate agent and fellow church congregator. Mine was all of these things.

You need to have an absolutely honest and blunt conversation with your children about boundaries and about what is right and what is wrong, whether it’s between a friend, a family member, a teacher or a stranger. It’s uncomfortable and it can be awkward and scary. But five minutes of awkwardness can save a lifetime of regret. Please keep an open line of communication with your children. And if you need any specific tips on how to broach the topic in your particular situation, just shoot me an email at somedayilllearn [at] gmail [dot] com. I’d be glad to help.

Your built-in bed helps us view stars,
Through traffic jams we see past cars.
From big Grand Canyon to SF Bay,
Palm Springs, Phoenix, and LA!

I always count on your sturdy power,
Through night and day, at any hour.
You ease my life, you carry stock,
Oh trusty truck – you really rock!

What’s wrong with this dress? Aside from the fact that it’s crying out desperately for an iron, I mean…

Yep, the grease stain. I HATE grease stains. They’re practically impossible to get out. This keeps happening. After all the outfits I’ve ruined, you’d think I’d eventually stop cooking without an apron. And I love this dress…it’s super-comfortable, matches any pair of boots (brown, black, even my impossible to incorporate grey boots), and is even stomach-friendly for my “fat days” (you know what I’m talking about…).

Frustrated, I contemplated tossing the dress. And then I had an “Aha!” moment.

This pin has been in my closet for probably five years and for some reason, I’ve never worn it. Now it can get some use and my dress can live another day. And no one will ever know the difference (except of course, all of you guys – but you won’t tell, right?).

Tip: After I went to the effort of covering up the grease stain, someone sent me to this page chock full of grease-fighting tips. I haven’t tried any of them (and I actually think the dress is way cuter with the new addition), but I’ll definitely be using some of these tips on my next stain!

It was raining the other day in San Diego (a more frequent than usual occurrence lately) so Nate’s family and I took the opportunity to watch some TV and make some popcorn – from scratch! My soon-to-be mother-in-law whipped out this contraption and showed me the ropes. It seems that each popcorn popper works a little bit differently, but the concept is the same: heat it up, pour some oil in the bottom, wait for it all to pop, then coat with melted butter and salt. Yum!

Click here to view the embedded video.

I’m sure you could achieve a similar result with a pot/lid over the stove. This popper is really just a big metal bucket over some hot coils.

Whatever you do, be sure to use OIL and not butter to pop the popcorn in. Butter will burn. And as Nate’s mom said, wait until the popping slows to a few seconds between each one – that’s how you know it’s done.

Nate’s line of work requires him to carry a gun, and together we’ve spent hours at the shooting range perfecting his (and my) aim. Now, I know that guns are kind of controversial. I personally have all sorts of opinions on the right to bear arms, gun safety and children, etc., but I’ll spare you my thoughts on that and just say that as a woman, I think it’s a necessity to know how to defend yourself. I feel better knowing that if (god forbid) I ever get into a situation, I know how to handle myself and will – at the very least - give the guy a run for his money.

There is one problem, though: I’m not blonde. And he’s not brunette. So I whipped out my acrylic paint set and went to work.

Nate complained that the silver guns were “too shiny,” so I brushed them with black to make them match his real ones. I also painted the flowers blue to match our color. If we were going for complete accuracy here, his head would be buzzed and my arms wouldn’t be that skinny. But overall, I like this little Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie-ish version of us.

For any other gun-toting, acrylic paint-loving soon to be wed couples out there, the “Super Sexy Spy” cake topper is available at Amazon for $28 + $4.99 shipping.

A few months ago I boldly phoned my future grandmother-in-law and asked what may be the biggest favor I’ll ever ask anyone: Will you help me make my wedding dress?

Of course, she responded with nothing but eager enthusiasm and willingness, even when I sheepishly admitted that by “help me” I really meant “do it all for me since I don’t have the slightest clue how to operate a sewing machine.” She took me to the garment district in LA to pick out fabric and pored over various pieces of different patterns until we got the PERFECT dress. Last weekend, she had me come out to her place in Palm Springs to do a fitting and start piecing it all together.

What, you didn’t expect me to actually posts pictures of my wedding dress before the wedding, did you? My fiance DOES drop in here on occasion.

While visiting, I got to spend the weekend lounging around the pool and catching up on a kajillion little wedding details. Apparently when Nana and Papa got married, she told him she would live anywhere in the entire world with him – from the country to the mountains to “a refrigerator box” – but she would never, ever live in the desert. She must have changed her mind along the way, because the pair are now happily retired in Palm Springs.

I have to say, there is just something about the home of grandparents. My grandparents on my father’s side passed away before I was born, but I’ve always been really close to my grandparents on my mom’s side and their house is AWESOME. It’s full of collectibles from their numerous world travels. They have one room completely dedicated to all their really fancy stuff. I call it the museum room since it’s all kind of look-but-don’t-touch, although my grandma insists it’s technically called the “sitting room.” Whatever grandma, it’s pretty impressive either way. Nana and Papa’s house, of course, also have all the obligatory grandparent trinkets.

Yes, that is a pig sculpture with a handkerchief. And that’s their cat Elsa, who’s held a teensy grudge against me since I tried to pet her stomach two years ago (my cat loves a good belly scratch…apparently not all cats feel the same way!). And it seems that the home of just about everyone born before 1960 has one of those wooden ducks in it, but there’s actually a pretty cool story behind this duck in particular. Papa used to work for a company that distributed these ducks, which are hand-carved by famous artist Tom Taber (these things go for like, $400-$1000!). They’re remarkably detailed. Anyway, Tom and Papa got to know each other and on occasion, Tom would hand Papa a duck to keep when he was picking up a delivery. Today the wooden birds can still be found dispersed throughout their home.

Nana also teaches me a new dish every time I visit. This time around, it was Manicotti with fresh crepes. Apparently, Manicotti doesn’t always come in noodles! And yes, these are the very same kind of crepes used for breakfast and cheese blintzes. The recipe is from the Fannie Farmer cookbook – one of the original reproductions, none of this fancy-pants Anniversary Edition stuff!

In the midst of all the work and life and wedding planning stress, it’s so nice to be able to escape to such a comforting and warm place with someone who I can openly ask anything that pops into my mind, from “Why does the thread keep bunching up in the sewing machine?” (answer: tension) to “How the heck do you make a marriage work for over FORTY years?” (answer: pick your battles).

It would appear that someone in my household expected me to make this whole trout into an edible meal. Um, good luck with that. Fortunately, my future mother-in-law was here to show me the ropes. First, we had to address to issue of the heads. At least the trout was pre-gutted…I don’t think I’m ready to handle guts quite yet.

There’s a little bone by the fish jaw, so you just need to make sure that the knife is placed below that bone to cut the whole head off, and then slice away!

Here’s some video (courtesy of my fiance) of my reaction to the whole fish head experience.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Note to the fiance: please don’t film me upward ever again. I really don’t think I have a double chin in real life. Bleh. Anyway, once you’ve removed the heads, they can be discarded or made into fish-head soup if you feel so inclined (um, ew. No thanks). Next, rinse the trout – inside and out – in cold water.

Next, flop it in a mixture of half flour, half cornmeal until it’s coated completely on both sides.

Stick it in a heated pan with a couple tablespoons of heated oil and sprinkle a moderate amount of salt and black pepper on it. When the trout meat turns white, flip it and recoat with salt and black pepper.

Voila! The trout skin becomes nice and crispy and can be eaten, or you can remove it with a fork.

Before eating the trout, remove the bones by pulling the meat away from the bones and pulling the spine out. There are still some little bones left mixed in with the meat, so you have to be careful to pull them out as you eat. I’m personally not a huge fan of “fishy” fish (like trout), but it was actually pretty good!

Fishy tip #1: Burn a candle while you cook fish to keep the whole house from smelling like trout.

Fishy tip#2: When you throw the heads and any excess meat away, immediately take the trash out (unless you want your kitchen to smell really gross when you wake up the next day).

A little while ago I was out with a San Diego blogging group arranged by @sdbargainmama and @iizliz when I had the opportunity to meet Ingrid Croce at Croce’s Restaurant in the Gaslamp District. I’d heard great things about the restaurant – which stands as a tribute to legendary singer Jim Croce – but hearing the story from Ingrid herself was remarkable.

Before Jim Croce became known for his chart-topping hits such as Bad, Bad Leroy Brown and Time in a Bottle, he and Ingrid met in Philadelphia when she was a sophomore in high school and he was a sophomore in college (he was a judge at a singing contest where she earned first place!). The two married and spent years singing together. They moved from Philadelphia to New York, and on to Pennsylvania, where they delighted in making home-cooked meals for their friends and fellow musicians. Shortly after moving to San Diego, the pair were out and about downtown looking for a restaurant one night. They were disappointed by the city center (which was in a relative state of disrepair at the time) and Jim remarked that they should open their own restaurant and offer San Diego a taste of their home cooking and music.

A week later, Jim died in a plane crash. Ingrid dreamt of opening a restaurant in his honor and after twelve long years of legal battles for the rights to his name, her dream was realized – on the exact corner where she and Jim had stopped! Croce’s was a hit and the Gaslamp district grew from it’s spot on and Fifth and F, evolving into the entertainment center that it is today. The Croce empire now includes a jazz bar, catering company, cafe, art gallery and – of course – the restaurant, where Croce’s music is played and patrons enjoy impeccable service as well as a variety of delicious food.

Ingrid has continued to live an inspiring life, heading numerous business developments. She has also authored memoir/cookbook “Thyme in a Bottle,” which includes recipes from the restaurant. She was kind enough to share the book and some of Jim Croce’s CDs with our group when we visited. She even met her current husband at the very table that I dined at! (I know, I’m a sucker for a good love story).

Here’s some of the group. From left to right: CJ (@publicremix) from Public Remix, me, Cathy (@cathynguyen) from Leather and Bags, and Suzette (@MamarazziKnowsB) from Mamarazzi Knows Best. And of course, don’t forget to check out @IngridCroce from Croce’s Restaurant (@CrocesRest)!