The Perfect Bath

A bath solves many problems of the mind. Stressed? Sad? Don't know how to connect two paragraphs in your latest paper? Try a little hydrotherapy. Float around in the hot water; as your muscles unclench, your thoughts will follow.

That's my philosophy, anyway.

To that end, I strive to achieve the perfect bath. I have tried many combinations of luxury items at bath time over the years.

Age 5: Pink bubble bath from Grandma's house and a small Korean*
Age 10: Hershey's miniature candy bars and a fantasy novel
Age 20: Ice cold coca-cola and Clay Aiken music

Now, at age 25, the perfect bath is within reach!

Here are my current recommendations for the almost perfect bath:

1. Use a bath caddy. The Boyfriend got me this one from Pottery Barn for Christmas. I recommend it because it fits on tubs situated against a wall, not just free standing tubs, unlike many caddies. Also, this caddy has a stand for your book!



2. Try some aromatherapy. I love the stress relief products from Bath and Body Works. They use eucalyptus and spearmint essential oils to "relax your body and spirit." Don't you feel more relaxed just reading that? Also, the bubble bath product is also a body wash which you can use every day, so you only have one bottle taking up space in your bath area.



3. Sip a delicious, sweet white wine. I like Reislings, but I like my wine to taste like dessert, and I know that isn't everyone's taste.



4. Read something that has nothing to do with your life. Read a novel. Read a celebrity gossip magazine. Under no circumstances should you try to read the Federal Income Tax Code. It will break your caddy.

Nota bene: For college students reading this post and cursing their bathtub-less dorm rooms, you can achieve many of the same results through use of a nice electric blanket. Substitute candles for the the aromatherapeutic bubble bath, if candles are allowed in your dorm, if not, use essential oil diffusers.


*My little sister

The Great Cookie Competition: Peanut Butter Cup Bars

I’m writing this entry in the midst of the carnival-like atmosphere that accompanies game days at Notre Dame. The Roomie is rushing around and yelling into her phone (“a gas grill will NOT fit in my car!”).

“Are you blogging about me?” she yells. She is pivoting in front of the mirror.
“I’m blogging about the bars!” I yell back.
“The bars?” Her face appears around the corner. A freshly-applied ND logo glistens on her cheek.
There is a shrill whistle from the kitchen.
“That’s the water for my coffee,” says the Roomie, startled.
I am trapped under my laptop. The Roomie moves her hands as though she is being attacked by a bee. The Boyfriend gets up. He will make the coffee. Magically the French press will be cleaned.
The Roomie turns back to me. “I went to Finnegan’s last night.”
I blink.
“It was really lame, though,” she concludes.
I stare at her for awhile. She stares at me. Realization dawns.
“Different kind of bars.”

Anyway.

The cookie baking contest happens every December. Two years ago, my white chocolate almond cookies didn’t place at all. Last year my lemon cookies came in second. This is my year!

Despite my momentum, I am taking nothing for granted. I am going to test out many new cookie recipes and perfect some old favorites. I will try to do one batch every weekend, until my school work gets in the way.

Yesterday I made Peanut Butter Cup Bars from the “College Cookbook” given to me by my mom. This book yielded the award-winning lemon cookie recipe. The commentary accompanying the recipe glibly announced, “They are super-easy to make.”

Super-easy.

I must have done something wrong. Incorporating all of the ingredients was a workout. Having achieved my target heart rate just mixing everything together, I wasn’t going to let my fickle, apartment oven ruin my hard work, so my Roomie and I stood guard over the bars, checking them often.

Reader, I burned them.

I won’t blame the deluge of girl talk going on as Roomie and I gossiped in the heat seeping from the oven, because we are proficient in both girl talk and baking. So I blame the oven, the heat-seeping, eavesdropping oven.

I may try this recipe again. The bars taste pretty good, as the Boyfriend kindly pointed out, if you scrape the burned bottom layer off.

It's still my year.



(Photo reproduced without permission from stylishcusine.com).

True Life: My Kid Sister and Her Movies

My Kid Sister sees any movie she likes in the theatre. Then she sees it again. The day the DVD comes out, she will cajole you into buying it for her. Then she will begin watching it over and over again. She watches with the closed captioning on, memorizing every line. If the movie is shown on television, she will play the DVD at the same time as the broadcast version, switching back and forth between the two, pausing the DVD during the commercials so that the two “don’t get messed up.” Just when you think you will go mad if you hear, “Look, it’s Miley!” one more time, she begins to watch the movie in French.

At Christmas time several years ago, my Brother took my Kid Sister to see the new, live-action Peter Pan. Kid Sister, just on the cusp of adolescence, liked the frothy, Mary Martin musical version. This darker film, starring Jeremy Sumpter, didn’t seem impress her. Kid Sister was silent on the car ride back to the house. Finally, in the driveway, my sister spoke. She was reverent. “His name is Jeremy.”

Ever since then, that little phrase has been a sort of shorthand for me. It means adoration. It means “isn’t he dreamy?” It means “this is someone I would move to Never-land to be with.”

I have a nice Boyfriend. He’s also a little magical. Over the summer, he enchanted my French press; every time I used it to make coffee, it seemed to wash itself. More importantly, he listens to me, he helps me, he cares about my friends and family.

And he takes my Kid Sister to any movie she likes.

“His name is Jeremy.”




(Photo reproduced without permission from moviesmedia.ing.com).