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Yellow - the color of sunshine, happiness and clarity. It's the color that my friends and I chose to work with to create Opalescent; a photo series celebrating creativity bound solely by a single color. Petite peach cakes surrounded lemon crinkle cookies and a tart lemon curd layer cake. Warm floral arrangements blanketed all of it and created a sweet wonderland in which to delve. The sweetest fantasy. 
 
 
Bright blooms, citrus, and serene smiles. These are the perfect sounds of summer that create the fondest notes of yellow. Photo's courtesy of Grace E. Jones photography. Floral design created by Kirsten West of Bear Roots Floral.
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It's been about a year now since the women's march. Since women around the world were shaken by a storm we didn't anticipate, and the ground fell from under our feet. I still don't have too many words about the day when those votes were counted. I do remember the morning after the announcement. I walked into work and sat at my desk; weighted down by the heavy sadness that loomed over us all. Everyone piled into the little conference room when our boss called for us, and we sat in silence for a minute. You can imagine the awkward stares; the half smiles trying to convince one another that this will all be okay. But this is not ok.  Reality hadn't quite set in until my boss began to speak. There was sadness and cracking hope in his voice. There were silent tears and red faces among all of us while we were encourage to take time to process what had happened, as well as be with our loved ones. That we will continue to celebrate each other and treat one another with kindness. There was a silent understanding that we all felt the same. Not many more words had to be said. Then there was the women's march. Again, not many words are appropriate aside from power. So much power. I was not in Washington D.C. but I didn't have to be; power was everywhere.  I've never felt so connected with both the women in my community, and beyond. There's this communal passion, anger, and desire to defend ourselves and one another. I don't think I have to explain to you where that comes from. There are pictures of donuts here because I made them for a women's creative group I'm so happy I'm apart of. It's one of the few places I've felt not only comfortable in my own skin, but proud and empowered to be a woman. Women supporting women is not just s cheesy Pinterest quote. When implemented, it's a strong action by way of love.  This group asked me if I could make these donuts for their "Stranger Things" website launch party. These photos have been sitting in my draft folder for a while because I've been debating on what to write about them. I've found that people relate the "Upside Down" in the show to the horror we are living today. So it's fitting that this date, and these photos collide on my screen today. It's been a year since the march. It's been a year since the world stood still and we all had trouble catching our breath. But today, we inhale. Exhale. We will get back to the "Right Side Up". Photo's courtesy of Stef Streb.
Saturday morning is my favorite. Around 7 or 8, I’ll go downstairs and open the blinds. The sun pours into the room and I get to close my eyes for a moment to soak in the warmth hitting my lashes. When the sun is out like this, it streams onto our dining room table and saturates everything. The smallest folds in the linen cloth create these dramatic shadows that hug my mummified flowers. These little things things create my calm.  When the sun trades places with the moon on those days, I’ll escape to class. Tonight, while incense burned, we crossed our legs, shut our eyes and thought about color. What color represents me? What color radiates from inside? My first thought was peach. It is warm. It is soft. It is tenderly sweet. We were in the center of an open room at the center of the art museum. People were strolling through the halls on either side of us. Everything was in motion as we did our best to stay grounded. The air was cool, but all I thought about were grilled peaches, honey and dollops of cream. Peaches remind me of Saturday mornings when I open the blinds to welcome that orange glow. And as I was lost in those thoughts of food and sunshine, I heard our instructor say, "Taste today." I don't believe in making New Years resolutions. I've never been successful at committing to losing weight or inventing a consistent schedule to benefit my sanity, nor do I have the desire to do a juice cleanse for a month. I envy the people who have that drive, but I need to be honest with my capabilities. I did however, spontaneously sign up for a yoga and meditation workshop on New Years Eve.
It was 8am and the sky had poured snow the night before. My "snow mobile" was inching along, hoping that what I was drifting on was actually the pavement. I slid in the parking lot, and stumbled out into the snow behind a few other women heading towards a snow covered garage; all of us bundled in our marshmallow coats. The next hour and a half was both spiritual and emotional. The room was packed with warm smiles. Christmas lights strung around the inside of the garage softened the sounds of our heavy breathing while we dipped in and out of each flow. We all ignored the heater tucked into the ceiling that roared while we laid in savasana altogether.  The theme of the workshop was Awaken; to shed memories of the old year and look towards new possibilities. Within silence and stillness, creativity is born. Our instructor encouraged us to focus within to cultivate love and empowerment. We acknowledge love in so many ways, but guiding it inward can be challenging. The most personal and important piece of that morning came from one of our teachers during the practice guiding us through meditation; "Love is frosting a cake." Photography courtesy of Rachel Joy Barehl. See more of her work here.
People can have a way of impacting you regardless of how much time you've spent with them. I met my husband's late grandmother about 8 years ago. I relish the few days I stayed at her home that spring; the first and last time we would ever see each other.  I remember sitting in the back seat driving up the winding hill to "The Ranch" through the jungle of tangelo trees. I sat on the floor stringing charms together to make wind chimes in Bobbi's tiny house. There were horses, gardens and so many sculptures. There was a bathtub of bears and a painting of naked ladies right above it. It was a bizarre and enchanting place. Over the years, I was told that Bobbi took a certain liking to me. She sent me a fantasy story book, "Ariel," with a unicorn on the front; uncanny since it was tattooed on my skin a few years prior. Dan would get cards covered in a myriad of magazine clippings and doodles, sometimes with a little note wishing me well.  Dan's dad would travel back and forth to San Diego to see her before she passed. While she rested, he would bake there in her kitchen to stay busy. He used rind from the tangelos in the orchard to make oatmeal cookies with all of the trimmings. He still makes these cookies. Whenever he does, he'll tell me this story and about that time honing this recipe. They're my absolute favorite thing to eat when Dan and I come home for Christmas. They're a constant reminder of her presence in my life. This year, I felt like I needed to make my own version. In celebration of Bobbi.  Bobbi's Cookies
Makes 18 cookies Bake time: 15 minutes per baking sheet Ingredients: 1 1/2 cups flour 3/4 cup quick oats 3/4 cup brown sugar 1/2 cup granulated sugar 1/4 cup powdered sugar 1/2 cup (1 stick) softened unsalted butter 2 egg yolks 1 whole egg 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking powder 1/4 teaspoon baking soda Rind from 1 large orange (optional) 3/4 cup roughly chopped dark chocolate 1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts (optional) Directions: 1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Line baking sheet with parchment paper. 2. In a large bowl, whisk all dry ingredients together, including the oats, and set bowl aside. 3. In a stand mixer with the paddle attachment (or using your handheld mixer), blend the butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, powdered sugar, and orange rind on medium speed until light and fluffy. 4. Add the egg yolks and egg one at a time; beating each in until just combined, and then add the vanilla extract. 5. Slowly pour the dry ingredients into the wet mixture. Then add the chopped chocolate. 6. Scoop cookie dough onto pan using an ice cream scoop and put 6 scoops onto your cookie sheet. Bake for 16 minutes or until lightly golden brown. Cool for 15 minutes on baking sheet, then transfer them to a cooling rack. "Snow falling soundlessly in the middle of the night will always fill my heart with sweet clarity." - Novala Takemoto A few weeks ago, I made the snow fall in my kitchen. My friend Grace was there to capture it.
 
All photos taken by Grace E. Jones. You can find more of Grace's beautiful photography at her website here.
It's been almost 2 months since we've moved into our new home and our yard is finally covered in white. I've been waiting for the day when the snow starts to fall; when I'd wake up and look out the window to see that our little house, our house, was buried in a globe.
Winter is my favorite time of year. It gives me an extra excuse to stay inside and heat the house with the oven while I bake cookies late into the night. That way I get to watch the snowflakes dance in the frame of the windows; bright against the smokey sky. This house is magic. There is this surreal, hazy feeling I get when I look around our new kitchen. It's at least 3 times the size of the one I grew up in. There's a window in front of the sink where I can wash my dishes and watch the plants on the windowsill soak up the sun. The smell of chocolate and coffee are so much stronger here. I'm having a hard time comprehending this new reality. I feel a certain kind of thankfulness, but a lot of confusion. How did we get here? Do we deserve all of this? There will always be apart of me that avoids rest for that reason. I feel the constant urge to earn it. There's no time to stop and marvel; I keep moving. I've reached an important point in my life, where I can't stop watching the snow fall from the kitchen window in disbelief so I keep washing those dishes to make more cookies. This is ours. I met Megan when we worked on a wedding photoshoot together at the beginning of 2017. We talked briefly amidst the chaos of confetti, cake, and ribbon, but really got to know each other after she asked me to bake her wedding cake. Her wedding theme was inspired by cloud illustrations that she had illustrated, so we worked together on creating a cake that fit her design. I baked a chocolate cake and covered it in buttercream frosting that was made to look like her artwork. To mimic the sky, it was topped with cotton candy clouds.
  Photo's taken by Matthew Garsky & Alec Rossborough.
Trust in the process and good will always come. A few months ago I got a text from our wedding photographer asking Dan and I if we would be interested in working on a styled shoot for a Catalyst Wedding Co. competition. It was my very first time working on a shoot unrelated to fashion. We offered our hands where needed and made incredible new friends. The competition required teams to use everything they received in the box sent to them for an untraditional wedding shoot. Our group received different props than they anticipated; iridescent wrapping paper, geometric art, etc; reminiscent of the 90's. But even after having to completely redesign the shoot, everything fell into place. It always does right? No matter the stress we may be under, if we trust in the process, it all works out. That's the beauty in surprise. A few of my favorite photos are below, including the grand finale cake smash. It was the first wedding cake I had ever made, regardless of whether or not it was for a photoshoot. I had an overwhelming feeling of joy. When creative, powerful people come together, beautiful things happen. You can read the contest submission and see the entire photo series here. Enjoy.  
   
  
 
 
 Photography courtesy of Rachel Joy Barehl. See more of her work here.
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