News Trend La Comida En Flora Farms|Actual

^ What if you stumbled one evening into a pastoral dream of a farm, tucked deep into the Mexican countryside

^ Where luscious mangoes hung overhead

^ Little girls whispered secrets amidst the purple bougainvilleas

^ And a series of walkways and twinkling lights overhead drew you further and deeper into the magic.

^ And then, what if you came upon a storybook farmer's fields?

^ Herbs and vegetables - tomatoes, radishes, carrots, peas, beans - growing in orderly rows in the unrelenting Mexican sunshine

^ And the miracle of these lush green jewels thriving in the desert sent shivers down your spine.

* * * * *

^ In the distance, you suddenly hear muted voices, laughter, the tinkling of silver against plates.

^ Now you begin to search in earnest for a way in, and you discover doorways.

Doorways that lead to tables

^ Tables full of people - families, children, grandparents, couples, large groups and small - all eating their dinner outside in the pale light of evening.

^ But where is your table? As the sun fades from the sky, you circle around the building, past the pink hibiscus, to find the front door,

^  At the front door, they are expecting you. Just a few minutes, you are told, while your table is prepared. So you look around and discover a precious place to wait, until it's your turn to come in and be seated.

^ And as you sit down at your table, you lay your camera aside. No more photos are needed. You are here at Flora Farms to eat dinner, and there is nothing more to do than enjoy a lovely meal.

* * * * *

My dinner at Flora Farms

Crushed watermelon and basil virgin cocktail

Seasonal salad of field greens, raw vegetables with lemon vinaigrette

Catch of the day with sauteed vegetables and thyme-infused fish broth

Lemon and lavender cake

Every bite was a dream.

* * * * *

Read all about my latest trip to Mexico

Vamos A Mexico!

Me Gusta Nadar

Bonita En Rosa

El Jardin Me Hace Sonrier

La Comida A Flora Farms

La Mejor Parte

News Trend Summertime Princess|Actual

Step 1: Open old paint cans.

Step dua: Stir in copious amounts of kitty litter until paint solidifies.

Step 3: Haul the whole wretched mess to the dump. Ba-dump.

For the better part of June, I lived the life of a summertime princess.

Slept in.

Took naps.

Read books.

Basked in the sunshine.

Watered my gardens.

And wore nice, clean outfits all day long.

This, my friends, is a lazy life and I looked forward to it all school year long.

But after three weeks, boredom came crashing in, as I always knew it would.

I can maintain that regal bearing for only so long until my work clothes whisper to me and my heart yearns for a big, messy project.

So. This week, I forced myself to take on the most distasteful items on my summertime chore list.

Upwards of fifty stubborn dandelions lost their lives to my new hori-hori knife.

Fourteen bags of mulch upended into the garden, though a good share of the splinters ended up in my hands.

The garage. Oh, the garage. It's way past organizing; what it's getting is a good gutting. So far, there've been three carloads of donations and one deliciously satisfying trip to the dump.

And today, just for fun, we cut down a major section of overgrown hedge, and committed ourselves to the unenviable process of digging out all the roots.

Step 1: Chop away every living inch of the front hedge.

Step dua: Marvel at the newfound light and lovely openness.

Step 3: Remember that you still need to complete Steps 4-97 before this job is actually done.

Step tiga.1: Check the bank balance to see if there's money to hire someone else to finish this miserable job.

So, to summarize:

My fingernails are all cut back from vacation glamour length to a hard-working minimum.

My books are gathering dust as I fall asleep as soon as I open them at night.

My Vietnamese beach glow is looking way more American farmer tan.

My real clothes hang forgotten in the closet as my work ensembles enjoy constant rotation.

In other words, my real-life summer is finally ON. And this summertime princess couldn't be happier.

News Trend Pot Head|Actual

For decades now, I've pined for a potting bench. I don't know why I didn't press the issue sooner; I suppose I considered it was an unattainable dream, a discretionary-income extravagance, and just one more thing that would not fit in my fairly tiny backyard.

But this spring - in my year of No Day But Today - I decided there was no more holding back. So as my husband was dropping me curbside at the airport on our way to Vietnam, I threw back over my shoulder, "Hey, if you want to make me a potting bench, go for it."

Of course, in classic husband mode, he didn't do much while I was gone. But the morning after my return, while I slept till noon, my husband whipped a little something together for me.

^ It's a pretty solid little potting bench.

One shelf at the perfect work height.

One shelf down below for storage.

And in a little design tweak yet to come, we will add one more narrow shelf up top.

Best of all, this rascal cost us not a penny. Leftover bits and drabs of pallet lumber, a handful of nails and screws, exterior-strength Varathane from my paint stash.

I kind of love it.

^ No longer do I mix up batches of mud on my kitchen counter with my ongoing potting and re-potting projects. I can make all the mess I want out here, and simply sweep the soil to the ground when I'm done.

^ Tucked into a corner of my side yard that gets morning sun and afternoon shade, the bench is also an ideal plant hospital. This little succ-in-a-pig needs some TLC and he's thriving in this protected place.

^  Let's be honest. If nothing else, the top shelf of my new potting bench serves as a giant landing pad for my beloved clippers and Hori-Hori knife. A hundred times a day, I set them down and forget where I laid them. I always find them eventually so they're never exactly lost but it's nice to have a big fat place to put them down.

^ The bottom shelf provides plenty of storage for my inventory of  garden-related flotsam and jetsam. I will also confess that through most of the summer, I maintain a stash of adorable plants that I bought before I knew what to do with them. Sooner or later, a genius idea always presents itself and I put the extras to good use. Now I have a proper waiting area for them.

^ There's something about my potting bench that makes me feel like a more gurih gardener. Maybe it's looking down on those neat stacks of obediently waiting of pots.

^ Or catching a daily glimpse of at my little stash of Burpee seeds, just like Grandma always bought.

^ I love not only how my potting bench looks but also how it makes me feel: as if  - one by one - my dreams really are coming true.

News Trend La Mejor Parte|Actual

Of all the beautiful things I saw in Cabo, the rock formations of El Arco are my favorite.

Not entirely sure if my question was polite, I decided to ask anyway.

"Mart?N, what about Mexico makes you most proud?"

Then, in the darkness, I leaned forward to hear his response.

Portrait or landscape? I can never decide.

We were driving home from Flora Farms, a good forty minutes away from our hotel, and our cab driver, Mart?N, had been politely silent for all of the outbound trip and now the first few minutes of the journey home.

But my tongue was loosened by the drunken beauty of the evening, and I wanted to hear more from the people who belong to Mexico, to better understand what it means to be a Mexican.

Darkness had long since settled in, and as we rode on under the stars, Martín began to talk.

"Of all the beautiful things in Mexico, I am most proud of our people's hospitality. People from all around the world come here to visit Cabo and other cities in Mexico, and we want everyone to feel welcome and cared for."

His words made a melody in my heart. What a lovely thought, that a country's greatest gift could live in the hearts of its people.

I told Martín about all the kind and generous people I had met during my stay:

our poolside waiter, Luis, who cracked jokes and encouraged my wobbly Spanish banter with him

the sweet woman from housekeeping who came to clean up the handfuls of sand carelessly spilled from my swim suit onto the bathroom floor, who spoke not a squeak of English but painstakingly swept up every single grain

Erika, the concierge, who seemingly juggled six guests' different requests at once with a charming smile and not so much as a single hair out of place.

And I told Martín about the Mexican-Americans who put a new roof on my house a few years back. As they hammered away, they sang Mexican folk songs in rousing choruses and brought along a microwave to heat up their wives' good Mexican cooking in my back yard at lunchtime.

He smiled at my stories.

I couldn't see his face but I could hear his soft chuckles as he drove on in the dark.

Then Martín told me about his wife, who books reservations for local Airbnbs and tends to the family, and his two children, a girl and a boy. His daughter, he explained, is madly in love with Shawn Mendes. A few years ago, he and she were en route to Mexico City to see the pop star in concert when an earthquake happened. Their plane was rerouted and the concert cancelled; his daughter was devastated. But more recently, Martín bought tickets for the two of them to have breakfast at a publicity event with Shawn, and his daughter was able to pose for a picture with him. Martín proudly showed us the pic on his phone - Shawn looking handsome beyond words and his daughter beautifully composed for a girl standing in the arm of her idol.

The ride back to Pueblo Bonito passed in a snap, and too soon, I was climbing out of the van and saying goodbye to Martin.

"Come back to Cabo soon," Martín smiled. " I hope I will be of service to you again."

And I knew, in that instant, that my time with Martín had been the very best part of my trip to Cabo.

* * * * *

Read all about my latest trip to Mexico

Vamos A Mexico!

Me Gusta Nadar

Bonita En Rosa

El Jardin Me Hace Sonrier

La Comida A Flora Farms

La Mejor Parte

News Trend Skin Is In|Actual

Some of my favorite Glossier skin care products just also happen to be adorably cute.

I learned about Glossier first from my daughters.

A few years ago, shipping boxes with cute graphics began to show up at my front door, first in a trickle, then a flurry, and finally an almost daily onslaught.

As the boxes were unpacked, I caught glimpses of glossy pink cardboard interiors imprinted sweet slogans, and adorable pink bubble wrap envelopes filled with a mysterious array of sleek tubes, jars, and bottles.

I was, in a word, intrigued.

But my beauty products have traditionally come from the aisles of Target, and I never considered spending money on a bougie online beauty merk built for users far younger than me.

* * * * *

Then, when I was vacationing in Chicago last fall, I went to a Glossier store.

A pop-up store, to be precise. A millennial marking plan for a millennial product, and I was definitely the only boomer in the building as I browsed about the gleaming display stands. I read the marketing copy that describes how Glossier makes products

that focus on skin care first and makeup second,

that are clean, simple, and fun to use,

that are designed to elevate rather than obfuscate a woman's natural beauty.

Hmm, those values resonate with me. I was still feeling a bit self-conscious about my generational status, but I decided to buy a couple things - Milky Jelly Cleanser and Body Hero body lotion- much as I would shop for any souvenir on a trip out of town. Just going with the flow, right?

Well. I came home. I cleansed my face and used the lotion. And you know what? I really liked my Glossier products. They were at least as good, if not better than what I was buying at Target, and not necessarily all that much more expensive. And I was surprised by how good my skin felt when I used them.

* * * * *

So this summer, when Glossier popped up here in Seattle, and of course, my daughters and I stopped by to shop, I sprung into action.

I grabbed some more of that Body Hero lotion.

And some sunscreen for my face.

And a moisturizer, mascara, brow mascara, blush.

A little something called Bubble Wrap that plumps up sensitive skin.

And of course some Balm Dotcom, a skin salve that comes in seven different flavors.

I chose the rose.

I've been using them all for about a month and now I know for sure. Glossier gets me. And my skin has never looked better.

* * * * *

On my second visit to the Seattle store, I was waiting in line to enter the store with the usual group of millennial women when we were joined by a pack of school girls. I mean teenage girls literally wearing school uniforms.

Pleated plaid skirts. I kid you not.

And in that moment, I felt as self-conscious and out of place as a triceratops.

I rencana my hasty retreat back to Target where I would fill a shopping cart with Noxzema, Jergens, and Oil of Olay when I got to the front of the line. The college-age Glossier girl in her standard pink jumpsuit took one look at me, and beamed. "Oh, you were here before! I remember your amazing skin. What are you looking for today?"

I decided to stay.

There's no doubt that I'm an extreme outlier of the Glossier demographic.

By quite a few decades,

But I don't care.

At Glossier, skin is in, and I will never be too old for that.

* * * * *

Want to read more about my Glossier adventures

and check out my pics of their adorable pop-up stores? Try these:

Chicago: Glossier Pup-Up

Birthday Adventures

And for an interesting article on Glossier, go here.

News Trend Love > Hate|Actual

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. - Martin Luther King Jr.

More tragedy spills out on American streets and darkens American souls:

Philando Castile shot dead by a police officer over a broken tail light.

Peaceful protests in Dallas interrupted by intentional fire that leaves four police officers dead.

President Obama tells America that we all have to do better.

The Washington Post echoes a familiar sentiment: white people must take responsibility for dismantling white supremacy.

Like most Americans, I recoil from this news with heartbreak and horror. This is no way to live. The petty differences of race are literally superficial; our hearts and minds and souls are meant to be united as fellow humans.

The idea that we should judge one another by the color of our skin is surely evil.

But I don't feel confused or corrupted by this evil. I know exactly how I will respond to this latest affront to human decency.

I will keep doing what I'm already doing.

I will treat every human being who crosses my path with dignity and friendliness and human kindness.

Just as I greet the groups of black and white boys skateboarding behind my local high school. I look at their faces and they look at mine; we smile and say hi to each other.

Just as I keep Ranger close to me when we pass the older Asian gentleman on our walk because I know he's afraid of my dog.

Just as I count down the days of Ramadan with my Malaysian friends and share their holiday spirit.

Just as I offer my unopened soda to my African-American airport shuttle driver in Detroit, and listen attentively as he tells me stories about his visits to Seattle.

Just as I show my deepest gratitude to Asian friends who host me in their homes.

Just as I relax and enjoy the comfortable silence with my black seat partner on a flight to LAX, occasionally bumping elbows on the armrest or nudging past him as I climbed in and out of the seat.

Just as I share a special greeting with a teenage girl in my neighborhood. She's black, overweight, and has a killer fashion style which I often compliment.

These are the ways that I choose to fight back against the anger and racism and hatred and intolerance that threatens to poison our beautiful country and our very souls.

And I share these examples not as an excuse to hold myself up, or as laundry list of things I've done for "those" kind of people.

I simply believe that the solution to our problems lies not in policies or protests, not in legislation or lawsuits.

With all my heart, I believe that we must love one another.

Person to person. Face to face. One human being at a time.

Because I believe that in the end, this is the kind of love that will surely conquer hate.

News Trend Garbage Cans And Geese|Actual

Two weeks ago, I scrubbed out the inside of my rubbish containers.

No, I do not mean the managably-sized bins and baskets that live in the house.

I mean the big-daddy curbside boys.

^My various garbage bins, resting on their immaculately clean sides in all their post-scrubbing glory. Aren't they pretty?

Once a year, these plastic caverns get hosed and scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. Copious amounts of bleach, a high-pressure hose, and a feisty old broom are employed with abandon to polish each receptacle to near perfection. I invest a ridiculous amount of elbow grease in the process, but by gum, I only do this once a year and so I'm determined to give the job my all.

Full confession: I'll admit that when I was done, I was so pleased with the results that I seriously considered taking a few shots of my glorious handiwork.

I know. Garbage cans, right?

^ This is my blue recycling bin, where plastics, paper, glass and aluminum are all tossed in a heap together, resulting in a sticky mess of residual food and bits of paper along the bottom.

After a moment's reflection, however, I decided that the bleach fumes were surely getting the best of me. So I laid down my camera and passed on the opportunity.

Then I posted the good news of this auspicious event on Facebook and wouldn't you know it, one of my friends asked to see photos.

^ The grey receptacle is for regular trash, which we gather up in bags from the house. Accordingly, he stays fairly clean, but its previous owners stuffed him full of used cat litter and I'm forever trying to wipe out the last of the odors.

Ha. Guess that wasn't such a crazy idea after all.

^ Green is for yard waste and food scraps, the hardest working soldier of the three. Week after week, this bad boy ends up jam packed with grass clippings, plant debris, heaps of weeds, and a handful of errant snails, and interwoven with coffee grounds, egg shells, vegetable trimmings and the occasional piece of rotten fruit. By week's end, the whole mess has slightly decomposed and leaves an onerous bit of residual inside this bin.

Now multiply that by fifty-two weeks in a year, and trust me, that allows for one dirty bin.

Sadly, though, my pretty cans had already resumed their life of drudgery and were no longer picture perfect. But fear not, I reported to my friend; just give me a week or two and I'll give them a quick touch-up and share photos for sure.

^ This brown boy served as our main garbage receptacle for twenty-five faithful years before the grey guy took over. Now, even with a few holes in the bottom, he serves as our back-up compost container and during the summer months often gets called into play.

So today was that day.

I re-rinsed.

I re-scrubbed.

I shamelessly photographed my clean containers, standing in the street for the best angles and proudly snapping away as the neighbors drove past.

And now I have shared my story with you.

And on the off-chance that photographs of my clean garbage cans don't quite fill your soul with the peace and serenity that they offer me, maybe these geese will suffice.