Pretty Travel Photos to Distract You From My Utter Lack of Posting

Guilty Yuppie Disclaimer: No small part of me despises doing travel reviews, because I fear they come across as "Oooh, look how fabulous and privileged I am, traveling to exotic locales! Pretty please be jealous of me and my extremely good fortune / profligate spending!"

What I'm actually trying to get at is more along the lines of "Travel is just one of my things, so I live / budget accordingly, and I like reading about other people's trips to get ideas. And, well, Hell - I haven't posted in weeks. Maybe some scenic beach photos will distract everyone qualify as a post while I try to rediscover my writing mojo. Wait, can I use the word 'mojo' outside of the year 2002?"

Oh, and none of the following resorts / towns / etc. sponsored this post or trip, obviously, so regretfully, positive review to follow was at my own expense.

Thank you for your understanding . . .

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"Hallmark Holidays" - love 'em or hate 'em, every year seems to come replete with a new, exhausting set of festivities for us to spend our hard-earned cash on. And while I generally resent such saccharine intrusions into my time and wallet - isn't Valentine's Day grating enough without inflicting "Sweetest Day" and its sappy ilk on us? - I can now speak enthusiastically on behalf of the Babymoon phenomenon.

A skeptic at first, having not heard of the concept until a few months back, I quickly cottoned to the idea / excuse to get away with the AH for a few days. Although we've been lucky enough to travel often during our few married years, not since our honeymoon had we done a longer than a weekend, just-the-two-of-us adventure. True, travel is a privilege, but we had saved and were due a lazy, hedonist, lay-about-the-beach together trip.

And so, high on hormones and the possibility of staring at my beloved Pacific Ocean for a stretch, this Valentine's Day weekend we departed for Punta Mita, a scenic, sleepy resort village one hour north of Puerta Vallarta. Six days, one outstanding hotel (St. Regis, for Hotel Snobs keeping track), zero margaritas (gah) and one maternity swimsuit (GAH!) later, we returned home oozily relaxed, sunburned, and grateful.

To any of you considering this whole gestation business, let me now say with authority - take a Babymoon. Ahem, TAKE A BABYMOON. On whatever scale fits your budget - pitch a festive teepee in your neighbor's yard if you must - just get out of town for a spell. I've found it too easy while at home to spend most of pregnancy moaning about budgets and 529 plans and other scary adult stuff you didn't consider back when having a cute baby seemed like such a fun idea. Get gone, get a fauxgarita in your hand, and just enjoy the actually fun bits of this babymaking deal.

One caveat - when I say "travel" here, I mean "a lazy ode to hedonism that caters to your now-constant need to eat / drink / rest / be pampered." Now is not the time to take that jaunt up Macchu Pichu or live amongst the indigenous persons of northern Uzbekistan. Your knocked up self reacts in strange and delightful ways to things like sun exposure, motion sickness, etc., so call this trip a good excuse to book some spa treatments and leave the adventurous, capital "T" Travel for another trip.

And for those Smug Marrieds not considering kids, now or ever, forever and ever, amen, this trip was also a good reminder to me of how important it is just to have some one-on-one travel time with the husband type. On the "Duh" scale, that remarkable insight must rate at least a 9.5, but hear me out; post-Honeymoon, we'd fallen into the group travel habit. This has been a blast, naturally, but it also hasn't left us time to just sit and have those honest, fauxgarita (gah) induced chats that come easier when you're not at home.

I have to get back now to freaking out about budgets and maternity leave benefits and ohmigodisn'ttheresomeoneIcanhiretofigurethisstuffoutforme, but I do so now with a refreshed, if still sunburned spirit. This all made it possible:

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Baked

Please do not be alarmed by the recipe below. I assure you that I have not fallen prey to any latent Martha, homemaker-y tendencies; rather, this rare display of domesticity is motivated wholly by spiteful revenge, a language I speak far more fluently.

Once upon a time - i.e., last Tuesday morning - I ambled into my local Starbucks for my usual decaf latte and breakfast craving du week - some banana chocolate chip dessert-masquerading-as-breakfast thingy. Upon placing my order, I encountered not the usual chirpy compliance, but the following (via my Twitter feed):

Fear not, fearless readers - despite the early morning hour, I summoned my best patented Icy Glare and mocked Miss Snooty Fat Counter McJudgypants to the best of my decaffeinated ability.* Duly shamed, the barista then backpeddled faster than John Edwards faced with a paternity suit, and I triumphantly departed said coffee shop with both a free drink and dignity (if not my waistline) intact.

*Sure, I could have given her the benefit of the doubt & listened to the ensuing excuses, but that's boring. Thank you for understanding.

And so it was that I grew determined not to further line the pockets of the Starbucks of Judgment, but learn to bake my craving du jour myself. I bring you, as purloined straight from the e-pages of Epicurious here, what I like to call "Pretty's Full-Fat, To Hell with Them, Guaranteed To Piss Off Judgmental Bitches Banana Chocolate Chip Bread of Revenge":

Ingredients

- 1 1/2 cups all purpose flour

- 1 tsp baking soda

- 1 tsp baking powder

- 1/4 teaspoon salt

- 3/4 cup semisweet chocolate chips (Pretty Note: I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'd consider reducing this to 1/2 cup; I did a heaping 3/4 cup, and it slightly overwhelmed the banana taste)

- 3/4 cup walnuts, toasted, chopped (PN: I skipped this & will not next time; need to walnuts to cut the sweetness of the chocolate)

- 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature

- 1 cup sugar

- 2 large eggs

- 1 cup mashed ripe bananas (PN: I did 4 medium bananas, approx. 1 1/4 cups, for moistness & recommend this amount)

- 2 tbsp fresh lemon juice

- 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Preparation

- Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter & flour 9 x 5 x 2 1/2 in. metal loaf pan. Whisk first four ingredients in medium bowl to blend. Combine chocolate chips and walnuts in small bowl; add 1 tbsp flour mixture and toss to coat.

- Beat butter in large bowl / mixer until fluffy. Gradually add sugar, beating until well blended. Beat in eggs one at a time. Beat in mashed bananas, lemon juice, and vanilla extract. Beat in flour mixture. Spoon 1/3 of batter into prepared pan. Sprinkle with half of chips/nut mixture. Spoon 1/3 of batter over mixture. Sprinkle with remaining chips/ nut mixture. Cover with remaining batter. Run knife through batter in zigzag pattern.

- Bake bread until tester inserted into center comes out clean & top appears golden brown, about 1 hour (Pretty Note: Due to my wonky oven, I did it at 375 for approx. 45 minutes, which worked well). Let cool a bit, then turn onto rack & cool further.

]

Not the Prettiest bread you've ever seen, but wait until you try it . . .

Verdict: Guaranteed to strike fear into the hearts of sanctimonious baristas everywhere - this is cellulite on a plate, and worth every bite. Again, I'd slightly reduce the chocolate chips & be sure to add the walnuts; as is, it's a bit too rich to be called a breakfast dish, even for this confirmed sweets hound, but would be a delicious dessert.

Any other judgmental trollops we can defeat via the power of baking? Beware the cranky pregnant lady armed with a Kitchenaid . . .

In the Middle Again . . .

Every so often I like to obsess over revisit this decision of the AH & mine to move me from Southern California to Texas*, lo these four years ago. And by obsess over "revisit", I mean quite literally returning to the scene of my childhood crime, fueled by nostalgia and as many Animal-style cheeseburgers as I can choke down.

*Have I told the tale here of how the AH & I came to be? Remind me if not - because nothing says "fascinating" like somebody else's schlocky love story.

My most recent revisiting was prompted by a baby shower this past weekend; ostensibly, I was there to co-host, but of course I also used this as yet another totally self-centeredopportunity to question The Move. As I took a moment to survey the shower, in a room full of old friends and that irritatingly perfect San Diego sunshine, I couldn't help but wonder - again - at what I am missing out on having moved here to the Great State.

And yet. Yet.

Incrementally, infinitesimally, with each visit I see that the conversations don't flow quite as easily with most of my old friends. A bit more time passes in between each email exchange. Without my having realized it, we just don't have as much in common anymore, not without that effortless bond of school, geographic proximity, and an ill-advised penchant for surfers uniting us. Not even the obnoxiously ideal weather - have I mentioned how perfect it is? - can blind me to it.

How does any of this glorified journal entry - slash - identity crisis have any possible relevance? It doesn't, not in the Grand Scheme of Things. Thing is - I've been surprised that with this whole "P Word" condition I'm in, the question of who I am, and what my, er, unborn child eventually takes from that, suddenly seems important, hugely so.

My son will be born a Texan. A Texan. While I'm delighted this will give him a de facto working knowledge of Good Manners* and football, how do I incorporate my background into the raising of this little guy, when I'd always envisioned my kids growing up amidst the palm trees and my old friends and all the other unnaturally good-looking people back home? We'll muddle through and figure it out, I suppose, existential "where is home?" questions featuring relatively low on the newborn scale of life needs.

*I love you, California, but I've had enough doors slammed in my face by our strapping young men to know that we're lacking in the Chivalry Department. Hop to it, Gubernator.

And in the meantime, I'll take some comfort in knowing that although I come from a place full of beautiful people and, uh, places, that Austin is slowly, incrementally, infinitesimally feeling more like home too. More and more often, I find myself wanting to spend weekends here, not only because I should but because I want to.

Maybe home can be in two places after all. *

*Especially when the AH eventually buys us a beachfront vacation villa back in La Jolla, that is - work hard, Handsome!