The long drive home.

The only thing that has ever tied with the written word for my affections is music.

Even though you will never see me play an instrument, or hear me sing, music has never been a passive activity for me.

As a child, music was dancing to Faith by George Michael as my mom and I cleaned the house together.

As a teenager, music was screaming the lyrics to Screaming Infidelities by Dashboard Confessional on a long drive home.

Right in this very moment, music is listening to the Rumours album on repeat while I write.

And the songbirds keep singing,
Like they know the score,
And I love you, I love you, I love you,
Like never before, like never before.

Music, for me, is present and future… but most important, it is past.

As I get a little older, passing that quarter century milestone, what I know is this: music is how I remember what really feeling something is like.

Which is not to say that I don’t feel now, I just don’t think any of us feel anything as strongly as we did in our youth.

To feel that strongly now, with all the obligations and responsibilities of life, would probably leave me exhausted.

But every so often, when the clock gets closer to the time when I would be driving myself home just 10 short years ago, I put on an album like Rumours and I remember what it was like when music and feelings were so intertwined… so active in the air around me, on the long drive home.

Happy Mother’s Day!

More than anyone else in the world, my mother is the person who truly gets me. Of all the things I love about her, her ability to understand exactly what is happening before I even have a chance to tell her is what I appreciate the most.

When I am getting sick, she always knows hours before the symptoms arrive. “You are looking peaked,” she will say.

When I am tired, she tells me I should be taking vitamins. When I am stressed, she knows exactly when I need to talk it out, and when I need to be left alone.

As a teenager, I never fully appreciated my mother’s brand of advice. I remember thinking it was cold and that I needed someone who would build me up instead of leveling me with pressure to “take the higher road.”

As an adult, I can look back and see clearly that my mom was actively teaching me one of life’s most valuable lessons. The higher road is always two things: It is always harder, and it is always right.

I tried to think of just one story to tell, but there are just so many. So instead, I have selected smaller stories that I know represent my mother:

• When I was very young, I could not handle making mistakes while writing. If I misspelled a word, I would furiously take my eraser to paper until I was left with a large gray spot, the paper torn, and tears streaming down my face. To this day, my mother still knows when I am verging on obsession. She will look at me, calmly, and say, “Nicole, stop erasing.” In that moment, I know that I have at least done my best.
• Around midnight on my sixteenth birthday, my mother woke me up with a box in her hand. In the minutes between the ages of 15 and 16, she gave me the most beautiful platinum ring from my great-grandmother. Never having known my own grandmother, this ring bridged a gap of women in our family. The ring held a single diamond, surrounded by delicate filigree, which my mother had repaired and fitted for me. It is the most meaningful gift I have ever received, and I am not even sure if she knows this, but I fell in love with my wedding set because I fell in love with that ring first.
• In high school, there was a period of time when I had two jobs, an internship, a I was taking college courses. For about 3 months, I became so forgetful that I was calling my mother every other day to bring me homework assignments that I had forgotten at home. Normally, my mother would not appreciate this much—but she came to my rescue every time, with no complaints. At the end of that quarter, I was literally exhausted. We could only miss so much school and still qualify for exam exemptions, so what did my mother do? She helped me to orchestrate an afternoon of hooky, picking me up at just the right time so that I could go home and sleep.

These are, of course, just snapshots of the lifetime I have spent being my mother’s daughter. Unfortunately, they do her no justice.

More than anything else, this is what I love about my mother: She is the most just person that I will ever know.

It never occurs to her to do a selfish thing. Everything she does is for the people around her, whether that person is family, or just someone new to her office who needs a Mama Lark in their life.

More than that, my mother has a way of challenging you to become the best version of yourself without you ever knowing she is doing it. For more than 25 years, she has been there: Happy to be in the background, celebrating every one of my successes, big and small.

I could never give my mother enough credit, but I also could not possibly love her any more.

For staying home to raise me, for helping me plan a wedding and furnish a home, and more than anything—for teaching me what it means to be a strong woman and a compassionate wife—thank you for being my mom.

Boxes and shrimp cocktail, part 2.

When I got that phone call from Addy, telling us she had met a boy, I was concerned. She had only been back in school for like three months, and her friends had another year of college behind them.

Addy was clearly head-over-heels for this new boy, and I was secretly praying he was the right one.

We found the answer soon enough.

Addy was turning 21, and her new boyfriend had decided to host a party. As my husband and I drove to Oxford, we talked about what this new boy might be like.

Walking into the party, it was obvious that this new boy wanted Addy’s birthday to be something special. There were decorations, appetizers, and cake. I will always remember there was shrimp cocktail, which seemed so out of place in the living room of a college apartment shared by three messy boys.

Then, the boy did something that I truly respect in new people—he walked right up to us, shook our hands, and introduced himself as Jarrett. Not waiting for Addy to make the introduction, he knew we were close friends, and he wanted to make sure we were welcomed.

I loved that moment, but not as much as the moment that followed. As Addy and I settled in with two glasses of wine, catching up on the time we had missed, Jarrett waited for a lull in the conversation to come over. As he approached, he placed his hand onto the small of Addy’s back, leaned in close, and asked if there was anything he could get her.

Not to be mushy, but it was one of the most genuinely affectionate gestures I have witnessed. It was so simple, but I could see in that moment that Jarrett was absolutely the one for my Addy.

It was in the way he looked at her, but it was also in the way that he was already taking care of her, just a few short months into this college relationship.

Now, more than four years later, Chuck and I will have the honor of standing in their wedding on May 14.

Many blessings to you both as you do what is undeniably the best decision in the world—spend forever together, being our friends. We love you.

Boxes and shrimp cocktail, part 1.

As I have mentioned before, my husband and I met while working at Dorothy Lane Market through our college years. When we weren’t in class, we were working, and when we weren’t working, our social circle was still pretty much DLM.

My best friend Morgan only worked there during the summers, so the rest of the time it was just Chuck and our friend Michael. The result? I spent most of my time hanging out with two dudes, unless Morgan was in town to round out the group.

Then I met Addy. She had taken some time off college to help her aunt and grandmother, which endeared her to me from day 1. Away from the comfort of her college town, Addy took a job in the Dorothy Lane Market bakery.

You would never have known that Addy was a new girl, in a new town. She was absolutely sunshine from the moment you met her. The bakery was stressful, especially during the holidays when she joined us, and it probably was not the easiest place to make friends.

I still remember the first full shift we worked together. It was near closing time, and we were restocking the case. Addy had a box and a box cutter, and she was unloading some kind of not-good-for-you goodness. As she dragged the edge across the thick brown packing tape it made this plastic unzipping sound. For whatever reason, Addy looked at us—a group of surly teenage girls—and said, “I LOVE that sound.”

Just going to tell the truth: The other girls looked at her like she was completely bizarre. Not me. I loved it. It was probably one of the most random first things you could hear from someone, but it was perfectly Addy at that time: quirky, honest, and completely unconcerned with what someone else might think.

Addy and I became the fastest of friends after those first few shifts. We went on road trips and saw concerts. She bonded with Chuck and Michael and the four of us had more fun in that first summer than we may ever have again. We were just 20 years old, and nothing in life was too serious.

Then, Addy decided it was time to go back. When she left us for college at the end of the summer, I was heartbroken. Even though she was only an hour or so away, it seemed further when she was always so close.

Life picked up again that fall, but we had phone calls, and long voice mails, and occasionally we would visit. It was still the four of us, we were just further away.

Then, Addy met a boy. And despite our hopes, we were worried…

Check back next Monday, for the rest of the story.

My dad, part 2.

If you have been following this blog for a while, you know how this whole project got started: a gift, and a letter, from my father.

The gift was a pink typewriter, the letter explained why.

This year, on his fiftieth birthday, I was able to give my dad a letter of my own. Of course, I wrote it on the pink typewriter.

Wednesday book craving.

Vintage typewriter art. These 8x8 prints were made for me… and by made for me, I mean made for this dream space I have imagined for myself. Where bookshelves line the wall, my own pink typewriter has a desk of it’s own, there are windows overlooking the trees, and I can read and write all day in my very own space.

Price: $20 per 8x8 print.

Also available: Bikes, macaroons, French street signs, thread, cameras, flowers, rotary phones, buttons, Scrabble tiles, and pretty much everything else lovely in the world.

My dad, part 1.

Because my dad turns 50 this month, I have found myself thinking of him more often. Just little things here and there—like when a Frank Sinatra song comes on my iPod, or when I wake up before the sun like he does every day.

Among all of the little stories I could tell you about my father, I have this one memory that I keep very close to my heart.

It is simple, but it is sweet…

Growing up in California, we had a lot of “fresh starts.” We always stayed in San Diego, but every time my dad found a better job, we would move to another town. All of this picking up and starting over was very exciting to me, but looking back as an adult, I’m sure it was a ton of work for my parents.

Our last house was a little ranch in a desert town called Poway. There was a dusty dirt road to our house, with a circle drive, and a yard of tall grasses. I had weeping willow trees to swing from, and two bedrooms to play in.

I loved that house.

My parents had decided to freshen up the place with new paint, so we were all camping out in the living room for the first few days. On one of those first mornings, I remember waking up slowly to the sound of my parents laughing.

As I opened my eyes, the sun was shining so brightly that I could barely even see them. They were painting the walls cream with their paint rollers, and there was a halo around them. In the early morning sun, they were making this new home theirs.

I remember thinking how happy they looked, as I lay there listening to them laugh. That was the last year it was just me and my parents, and I got this secret look into who my parents really are:

Two people who love each other very deeply, who have changed every one of our challenging moments into an opportunity to laugh.

The moment my eyes were fully open, our song came on the radio. It was Louis Armstrong, “What a Wonderful World.”

I see skies of blue, clouds of white.
Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

My dad started singing and within seconds he had me up in his arms, and we were dancing around our empty house together.

Within that bright memory of my father is everything that I love about him. In a chaotic house of unpacked boxes, sleeping bags, and sticky paintbrushes, there was always time to laugh.

Dancing to Louis Armstrong again, on my wedding day.

Why I dream of Paris.

Real pizza… thin crust, cooked until it is crunchy, plenty of bold tomato sauce, and three perfect black olives.

There are no words for this hot chocolate. Except maybe heaven, just because God came up with heaven and I think he approves of hyperbole.

This was also taken at Café Angelina, and this represented maybe 10% of the desserts available.

This olive bar was set up, in open air, at a street marché. There were also crusty breads, artisan cheeses, and butchered meat available.

And this. This right here was the most delicious sandwich I have ever eaten in my entire life. It was called a “steak haché”, and it was essentially two hamburger patties cut in half inside a baguette with Emmental swiss, herbs, and maybe magic. I literally still dream about this sandwich.

Oh Paris… tu me manques.

Wednesday book craving.

I literally could not just pick just one—or even two—of the craving I chose for today. So, I picked nine.

I am in love with these kindle covers. They are simple, but so chic. Made from a lightweight foam material, these covers would be perfect for protecting your Kindle inside a purse, backpack, or carryon. 

More than anything, I adore the vintage prints. The florals are probably my favorite, but this seller also features:

• Typewriter keys. (Obvious.)
• A bookshelf. (Just like the “bookshelf” I carry inside my Kindle at all times.)
• Owls. (My goddaughter’s favorite!)
• And the birds! (I adore vintage bird art, and have it all over our house.)

If you have a Kindle, or any other e-reader, you must visit the store! Each cover is just $15, with $5 flat shipping. (Or free shipping if you purchase two!)