Self-Love & Girl Power: two Gal-intines' Day reads!

Hello, darlings - and, of course, happy Valentine's Day!

Here in Massachusetts, Valentine's Day hasn't been so sweet. There's a blizzard warning set to start at 7 PM, which for me personally, means my romantic date most likely isn't happening (Mike is stuck on campus as of yet). So that leaves me with a cancelled tea party and a snowed-in evening. I'm thinking some cathartic baking may be in order.

But on a happier note, let's talk about one of my other favorite things, besides this holiday - books! You know the old song from Arthur, "Having fun isn't hard when you've got a library card"? Well, I tend to get a little carried away where that's concerned.

A few Tuesdays ago, I wandered up to the check-out lane at my local library, buried in a leaning tower of eight books (to be fair, one was for my brother), only to find that my friend was the worker bee behind the counter. Ever the suave character, I smiled and joked, "So now you know my secret problem." (She was totally in on the joke.)

But I wasn't embarrassed - an addiction to books is probably the most beneficial addiction there is. In fact, I was rather proud of my gigantic load, in a self-satisfied way...okay, that sounded dirty, but you know what I mean.

I won't get into the importance of reading, or its positive effects on your health, blabbety blabbety blah. All I'm trying to say is this: being the "nerdy girl" drowning in her pile of pleasure books (don't even get me started on what I read for AP Lang) is nothing to be ashamed of. Embrace it! Love yourself for the chic geek you are! And what better time to love yourself than on Valentine's Day?

These two books - one fiction, one nonfiction - were written for girls, by girls. At face value, they have very little in common, but beneath the surface runs an undercurrent of female empowerment. If you have any spare time this February 14, I completely recommend picking up one or both for a burst of healthy, organic womanly pride. Who knows? You may just discover something about yourself, too. Reading is a magical process.

And just a disclaimer: this post is not for the girl who just got dumped, or the matronly "cat lady" with nothing better to do on Valentine's Day. It's for every girl no matter her color, race, interests, femininity, "birth gender," income level, number of Facebook friends, whatever. You don't necessarily have to prefer books to boys, magazines to men, femmes to fellas to embrace the concept of "self-love". Self-love is not just for the self-actualized feminist who has jointly sworn off men and bras (for the record, I like my man and I like my bras, each about 95% of the time...well, okay - maybe less for the bras). Taking time for yourself, no matter what form it takes, should always be a priority. I just happen to like to read - and sometimes, I swear, it's the only thing that keeps me sane.

There's a great quote about meditation that basically says "You should sit and meditate for 30 minutes each day - unless you're busy; then you should sit for an hour." We're not talking about meditation here (although reading can definitely have some meditative benefits), but the sentiment is the same: if you're sitting here cringing about adding even one more thing into your already-crammed schedule, you need the me-time more than anyone.

So, if you're feeling daring, cancel your 4 o'clock meeting or your 10 PM spin class and pick up a book this Valentine's Day! It doesn't have to be one of my picks, although I highly recommend them both.My challenge to you is simply to spend twenty minutes, an hour, or three curled up in your coziest chair with a hot mug o' tea (or coffee or hot chocolate or all three, depending on how long you read for!) and a quality book. If you've got a hot date tonight, you could even read while you take a bath, maybe light a candle or two. Whatever you do, just take the time for yourself this Valentine's Day. You won't regret it....and neither will you regret picking up either of the fine reads below!

Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger by Beth Harbison

[Spoiler alert!] Quinn Barton was twenty-one years old when she found herself a blissfully ignorant blushing bride, set to marry her high school sweetheart, the handsome and enviable Burke Morrison. She was also twenty-one years old when Burke's brother, Frank, informed her of Burke's infidelity and, incidentally, thwarted the wedding. On impulse, Quinn abandons Burke at the altar and runs away with Frank to Vegas for some much-needed catharsis, where they share one (or two) indescribably hot sexual encounters and an embarrassing level of emotional intimacy. And then, just like that, it's all over. Like ripping off a Band-Aid...because Quinn knows in her heart that two brothers are not interchangeable. So, like any logical woman would do, she removes herself, buries herself in her work, and attempts (to no avail) to get over her love for Burke and her lust for Frank. 

Years later, after achieving what some might call a marginal amount of distance, fate thrusts Quinn into the Morrisons' lives again when their grandmother, Dottie, becomes engaged to marry Lyle, a bumbling younger man she met online. Ever the sly matchmaker, Dottie commissions Quinn, who has long since taken over her mother's calling as a seamstress, to sew her wedding dress - inevitably leading the three lovers' paths to cross. What ensues can be describes as nothing less than confusion and chaos, wrought by the devilish Cupid himself. Add in a well-intentioned, larger-than-life gay cheese-seller named Glenn, who lovingly endows Quinn with thirty challenges to help her broaden her narrow horizons (highlights include Go Commando Day and Day Drunk Day), and you get the recipe for the perfect lighthearted yet heart-warming V-Day read. [End spoilers.]

Let me tell you a little something about this book: it will suck you in like a vacuum cleaner inside a black hole. Believe me: I spent four hours on Super Bowl Sunday, from 10 AM to 2 PM, reading this book in a single sitting, so I now consider myself the ultimate authority in all things Quinn Barton -  and you will become emotionally attached to these characters. You will laugh, you will cry, you may (okay, will) occasionally want to throw the book across the room, or smack Quinn like a loving friend stepping in for an intervention. And, if you're anything like me, the ending will reduce you to a puddle of smiling sobs. 

One of Harbison's selling points is her ability to keep you guessing till the cows come home - and let me tell you, that ending is one whopper of a cow. This book carries some major emotional weight; anyone who's ever been through a nasty break-up will feel those old stitches peel open, and everyone will remember their reckless high school relationships with fond longing. While tapping deep into those painful emotional reserves may not sound like the best way to spend your Valentine's Day, I promise you, there is light at the end of the tunnel! Like any good romance, all the gut-wrenching twists and turns are worth it in the end. Harbison spins an intricate tale woven with humor and laced with femininity, one that will make you proud of all the self-destructive relationships you've ever extricated yourself from - or one that might inspire you to liberate yourself from your present downward spiral. 

Either way, Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger is like a semi-serious sitcom gone right. Likewise, if you can swing it, the best way to eat up those chapters is in one wicked big bite. It's like a Netflix binge, but better. And whether you're cozily coupling up this Valentine's Day or rocking it solo, this book will give you what all good chick lit should: hope. Hope in good guys, forgiveness, the healing powers of time - and, of course, a fine cheese plate....

You might just fall in love.

The XX Factor by Alison Wolf

When journalist Alison Wolf served on a university panel about women in the workforce, she was the only one of four women to recommend having children sooner rather than later. The reality for working women is changing from one that used to be rampant with discrimination, to one that is catapulting us out of our domestic duties. In the twenty-first century - when Sheryl Sandberg's Lean In is read as gospel and it's become the norm for women to have their first child at 30, freeze their eggs, or even (gasp) remain unmarried and childless in favor of killer careers - it's no longer "unique" to know not just one but several highly-educated, highly-paid professional ladies renouncing the "Cult of Domesticity". These women are rocking not only the workforce, but the home, the bedroom, and, of course, the cradle.

With ever-growing numbers of radical feminists trumpeting about "equal work for equal pay", we continue to expect these women to be dramatically unequal from their male counterparts. But as Wolf writes, as much as we all want to love and support the feminist cause, the "Sisterhood" that the Gloria Steinems of the world once knew is a shrinking reality. While inequality may remain the norm for uneducated women in traditional roles (think stay at home moms, secretaries, and waitresses who never graduated high school, let alone college), womankind is approaching a fork in the road, where the new sector of wealthy, educated female graduates is diverging into a category of its own - a category that's on par with male coworkers. Like the women within it, this sector has a mind of its own, a mind that is not willing to be bound in a conservative strait-jacket of limited opportunities and domesticity.

Womankind is evolving into a broad spectrum of definitions and roles, each with their own distinct social patterns. The XX Factor tracks these social patterns across generations, levels of income and education, and broad categories such as femininity in the workplace, the "to marry or not to marry" debate, and openness to sexual promiscuity-slash-experimentation. And the answers are not at all what you might expect: chances are, whatever you go into this book thinking - no matter your gender, race, political sympathies, whatever - is wrong.

But isn't that the beauty of it? Both the "injustices" and "victories" for women in the workplace, promoted by both liberal and conservative media, are disproven in Wolf's enticing nonfiction read. The truth is, being "female" is not the definitive marker it once was; it doesn't suggest a certain or permanent set of limits by any means. Yet, as Wolf writes, women today still identify primarily as women: not as workers, not as wives, not as mothers or grandmothers. Just women. And despite the stark contrasts that Wolf excavates, we still manage to view ourselves as converging under a single epithet. (And this, I believe, is why feminism has endured throughout the ages, even if the "Sisterhood" is a lot more diverse than we once believed.)

Simply-put, the XX Factor is a joy to read, albeit being information-heavy. Wolf is a writer who clearly knows her craft and does her homework (the back of the book provides nearly 100 pages of charts, notes, and bibliography!). Not only that, but she successfully takes conventional opinions and shock us all with the truth, Myth-busters style.

You may ask, why read such a heavy nonfiction book on Valentine's Day, of all days? Two words: Girl Power! What better way to spite the patriarchy than to counteract their mainstream, commercialized holiday with a distinctly feminist attitude? I believe that anyone and everyone can use a little feminism in their life this Valentine's Day, no matter their gender or relationship status. And this book, an unlikely hero for the feminist cause, is one I will wholeheartedly throw myself behind.

Ladies and gentlemen, take my word for it: do not go through life without reading this book. Whatever you'd "rather be doing," it can wait. Enlighten yourself! What you learn will confuse, shock, and change you for the better. Boys, too - this book is your chance! (By that I mean "your chance to finally unravel the mysteries of womankind and better understand your mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters".) Don't let the opportunity pass you by, just because of a little testosterone-provoked pride. Be proud to be seen in public with a book as finely-written (and cleverly-titled) as the XX Factor.

As the next generation of young men and women that Wolf writes about, it is our responsibility to educate and advocate for ourselves. What better time than the present to start?

---

Stay tuned to the Chick Lit Kitchen for the first installment of my Holden & I series, analyzing the role of sexuality in the Catcher and the Rye, coming tomorrow, February 15. Until then, fly on, my little lovebirds - and, as always, thank you for reading!

XOXO, Haley.

Subscribing to Success: why I no longer read teen magazines

When my newest issue of Seventeen magazine arrived in the mail accompanied by an expiration notice, I have to say: I was more relieved than disappointed. To me, nothing represents the failings of American culture – particularly those surrounding women – more than teen magazines.

Like many girls my age, I have always been a reader of magazines. It all began with a subscription to American Girl when I was in elementary school; as I aged, I graduated to more “mature" publications, starting with Girls’ Life and ending with my most recent subscription to Glamour – a lifestyle magazine aimed at women rather than girls. Lately, I’ve found that despite the inapplicable career and sex advice, I’d rather buy my issues from the adult section than the teen section.

It seems ironic that even though I’m not yet seventeen years old, the pages of Seventeen interest me less than the pages of Marie Claire or Vogue, but the older I get, the less I can stomach the maximal teen slang with minimal letters (“insta” for Instagram; “adorbs” for adorable) and the inescapable presence of social media (think “Selfie-Worthy Make-up Looks” and hashtags fixed to every other article). My most recent (and final) issue of Seventeen even included a four-page spread composed entirely of generically hot guys with puppies. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting real tired of the idea that all a teenage girl wants in a boyfriend is a brooding expression and perfectly-coiffed hair. I preferred the dogs, although if I had wanted to spend my time cooing over Fido, I probably would have subscribed to Dog Fancy instead.

But maybe I’m overreacting – maybe it’s just my literary heart looking for an excuse to complain about these magazines’ poor diction and overuse of imperative sentences, rather than legitimate social commentary. On the other hand, I’m not the first person to waggle my finger at the magazine industry – there are entire organizations, such as the Massachusetts Media Literacy Consortium and Dove’s Real Beauty campaign, devoted to lobbying print media to send more positive messages to girls my age, and for good reason, too: magazines are major contributors to some of the most prevalent issues facing young women today, such as eating and body image-related disorders and poor self-esteem.

However, my qualms with these so-called teen magazines have less to do with Photoshop and more to do with word count. Some of these publications have over 100 pages, yet whenever I sit down to read one, I always find myself flipping pages faster than a professional chef would flip pancakes. To me, the joy of reading magazines is the same joy that can be found in sitting down to read a guilty-pleasure novel cover-to-cover. Even though I may have slid past its target age range, I have to give it up for Girls’ Life, because its content never failed me - there was always something to read! Although the usual topics ranged from puberty and health to ways to deal with mean girls and tough teachers, the cover stories were always fascinating and controversial, ranging from eating disorders, to drug addiction, to sexual harassment in schools. That isn’t to say I haven’t stumbled across the occasional “hot” story about e-cigarettes or a college rape case in Seventeen or Teen Vogue, too, but I can testify without a doubt that the ratio of words-to-pictures is a lot smaller there than it ever was in Girls’ Life.

As a teenage girl, I’m not sure which assumption I find more insulting: the suggestion that teenage girls would rather look at pictures of clothes than read about them, or that we would rather read about clothes, hair, and makeup than about pressing social issues. Either way, both assumptions are false. The only girls I know who don’t read are the ones who are too busy changing the world – attending student council meetings, applying for scholarships, volunteering in their communities, etc. They would never squander valuable time fretting about their eyeliner or serial-dating boys who dress better than them. Not to mention, I’ve been in class with those same girls for years, and most of them can hold their own in an intellectual conversation about politics, literature, you name it better than half of these magazine editors probably can. Many of us are actually interested in prevalent social issues – just try bringing up the riots in Ferguson or the Occupy Boston movement and watch the thermometer climb – just as much as we are in the newest boy bands and designers.

Magazines for fully-grown women realize that females’ interests are deep and complex, and their content reflects that (for example, the women’s magazine Elle recently published their “Feminist” issue, while Glamour writes about their annual Women of the Year awards at great lengths). For whatever reason, writers of teen magazines are unable to grasp this.

Maybe it’s because – or so they might argue – teenage girls aren’t “women” yet. Why do adults assume that teenagers are fundamentally immature just because we aren’t legal adults? We are constantly undergoing a painful process of maturation. We are just starting to develop our own values and opinions, a process that teen magazines could facilitate immensely by covering serious news stories in a voice that we can relate to. Instead, teen magazines belittle us by using unrealistic language and covering only a narrow range of topics, turning us into something we are not.

Perhaps the biggest source of the problem is that the writers of most teen magazines are fully-grown adults, who haven’t actually been teenagers for some time now. It’s the same reason I find the teenagers on shows like Glee and Teen Wolf so difficult to relate to: most teens don’t even have chest hair yet, let alone crows’ feet!

The version of the teenage girl these writers have created is simply not me. Believe it or not, real girls don’t say things like “insta” or “adorbs” when they’re walking through the halls at school, and most of us would rather do it for the A+ than do it for the Vine. I imagine the types of adults who write teen magazines are the ones who are always trying to be “hip” and “in the times,” perhaps because they never truly came to terms with leaving their own high school days behind.  They are “Super-Teenagers”, and that’s okay – it just takes them a couple extra years to graduate to adulthood is all. Self-discovery is a highly-individual process that can’t be stuffed into an hourglass. The mistake is only made when these adults assume they know these teenagers better than real teenagers do.

That is the mistake I see in teen magazines today: because adults see our generation as superficial, vapid shells simultaneously glued to our cell phones and our boyfriends’ hips, magazines are now perpetrating this image of what a teenage girl not only is, but should be. It is a dangerous mistake. Whether we realize it or not (or whether we admit it or not), all teenagers – all humans, for that matter – are influenced by the media. Magazines are thought of as the vanguard of pop culture, meaning that we are likely to take their word as gospel in order to become the uber-happy, uber-popular humans society demands of us. Social media like Facebook and Instagram only heightens the need to build the perfect life.

The media has taken it upon itself to dictate what is “perfect,” and what is not – and because our brains are still developing, we teenagers are some of the most impressionable. Thus, the writers of magazines like Seventeen wield an enormous amount of power over us, power even they don’t seem to recognize.

The power of the media is unique; it is a rare and special power that puts writers and publishers in an incredible position of influence over society – but they are (unintentionally, I hope) using it for all the wrong reasons. Like any power, the media can be used for good or evil. The more the media continues to portray teenage girls as empty-headed, heavily made-up boy-band worshippers, the faster our generation will decline to meet those low standards. Alternatively, the more they provide us with information about college and career advancement, successful role models, and current events, the quicker we will grow into successful, well-versed adults.

Adults love to complain that our generation is obsessed with our smartphones, that we care more about our dates than our grades, that we are an insult to everything their generation once worked so hard for – yet here I am, a sixteen year old girl, imploring a bunch of adults to stop perpetuating the idea that I am vain, lazy, and illiterate. Because I’m not: I speak in full, complete sentences, not pathetic abbreviations, and although I may like shopping for dresses, wearing make-up, and painting my nails, that does not mean I cannot go head-to-head in a debate about women’s rights or the current political administration.

Being a teenage girl is hard. We are no longer children, yet grown-ups hesitate to accept us for what we are: independent-minded, critical-thinking young adults. Added pressure from the media to look a certain way, act a certain way, even speak a certain way, doesn’t help. So, my parting message to Seventeen magazine is this: if you want us to change, you go first. Until you do, I’m not subscribing.

Holden & I: announcing the three-part series!

When my English teacher announced that we were about to begin reading the Catcher in the Rye, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me from head-to-toe. Unlike the majority of my peers, I had already read Catcher in the Rye the summer before my sophomore year of high school, and the truth was, I hated that book: a combination of circumstances (I fervently believe that there's a wrong time for everything) and the common complaint that "nothing happens." For a brief while, I even hated myself for hating the book. At the time (and even still), popular culture practically worshiped the Catcher in the Rye and all that Holden and his red hunting hat stood for. The effects of groupthink had me convinced I was a Bad Literary. After all, if I didn't like "the Great American novel", how was I ever supposed to become a high-brow lady of taste?

Now, of course, the answer seems simple: I, Haley, was a phony. I was reading the Catcher in the Rye for all the wrong reasons. The image of me reading Catcher on the beach in Cape Cod still strikes me as one of discord - it is not a book to be read on vacation, when the mind is idle and the sun is hot. But I didn't know that then, of course, when as an immature fifteen-year-old, my supposedly-sophisticated taste in "the classics" took over my good sense. (I now realize that summer is a time best reserved for the Meg Cabots and Stephanie Meyers of the world, not the J.D. Salingers.)

Admittedly, there is a Holden-esque hypocrisy taking place before your very eyes. I say I hated Catcher in the Rye, yet on my about page, I list it as one of my favorite books. So, you're probably wondering, what the Bronte happened?!? (Side note: thanks to John Green for my new favorite pseudo-swear!)

And I'll tell you: it all comes down to two simple truths. One, I grew up.  And, two, this time, I thought about it.

To be frank, I did not go into reading Catcher in the Rye with particularly high expectations. However, I was given the tiniest glimmer of hope - a preternatural sign, perhaps, that this time would not be like the last - when I sat down in class and my English teacher announced, "We're going to do something forbidden. We're going to write in our books."

Naturally, those words aroused the kind of excitement in me that can only be described in the following terms: imagine that you are quite young, maybe nine or ten years of age, and it's April Fools' Day, and you're plotting with your little brother to squirt chocolate sauce all over the windows of your daddy's car. You're devilishly wiggling your fingers, practicing your most innocent smile, and basking in the sheer brilliance of your utterly conniving scheme - and the best part is, the babysitter is completely in on it.

I'm not speaking from experience, of course - that would be absurd....

...but if it were to have happened to me, then that's the feeling I would liken this to. :)

And, oh, does it feel good to be bad! (Holden would probably agree - as you probably know, straying from the norm is sort of his specialty.) That day in class set the tone for what ultimately became one of the most joyful and profound reading experiences of my life. I'm not kidding.

Like so many great novels (and very few popular ones), the Catcher in the Rye is a book about language, not a book about Stuff. It's a book that has a lot to offer - if one only knows where to look.

Most of you will probably think I'm crazy for this, but to be honest, I was glad that I read Catcher in school, rather than on my own. I never would have come to fully appreciate its sensitivity and craftsmanship without a hand (or twenty) to hold along the way. As they say, "it takes a village" - and Catcher in the Rye is the kind of book that takes a classroom to comprehend. I just can't believe that Salinger planted all of these symbols and cues and intentionally, as I simply cannot fathom all of these abstract ideas neatly compressed inside one man's brain. It's a wonder Salinger didn't end up in a mental institution himself.

Holden may be an exaggeration of a teenager, constantly whining and complaining, his voice dripping with sarcasm all day every day. He may be literally driven mad by the injustice and discomfort of the adult world, while most of us are only figuratively so - but despite all of this, he is still a tangible, relate-able character for many teens, myself included. Eerily, his voice oftentimes merged with my own as I was reading; at times, he so perfectly captured my thoughts that I could hardly distinguish between what was him and what was me. 

Holden, caught in the narrow gap between childhood and adulthood, has a hard time accepting the fact that no matter what he does, he will inevitably have to grow up and go on. As a teenage girl who has experienced the awkwardness of graduating from the kids' table to the adults' table at Thanksgiving, yet never has anything to contribute to the endless talk of money and marriage, I can testify just as well as Holden: growing up is painful. It is often easier to turn a blind eye to it, and ship ourselves off to Neverland with Peter, than it is to acknowledge the cruelty of the great big grown-up world that awaits us. 

But, as Mr. Antolini reminds Holden, “Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now...you’ll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you.” It seems to me that Salinger wants us to know that this is the point of it all - that we don’t do it for the money or for the cars, but for the legacy we leave behind. As a teenager facing the overwhelmingly scary prospect of growing up, it’s a comforting thought, one I think all teenagers would be heartened to read. That's why teenagers need Holden: to remind them that they aren’t alone.

Like Holden, I think we all have those moments when we wonder, what's the point of it all - and, especially, what are we working for? Do we wake up at 6:00 AM every morning just so we can become wealthy, well-liked members of society - or can we aspire to more than just buying Cadillacs with big, fat paychecks and sleeping with our spouses against the background of some phony movie? Holden recognizes that the obsession with obtaining the “American Dream” - which requires money, prestige, and conformation to societal norms - starts as early as high school. The pressure to conform can be devastatingly oppressive. 

The theme of acceptance is constantly echoed throughout American Literature, from the Great Gatsby to Death of a Salesman to Catcher, as well as in the halls of each and every secondary school in the country - proving just how dog-eat-dog our society truly is. It is a timeless theme that needs to be expressed in writing, or else we may never truly understand the most important question of all: why? Why are we here? Surely we measly teenagers haven't got the foggiest. Dare I say it, most adults probably haven’t even figured out what their “purpose” in life is. Stories such as the Catcher in the Rye are important because they remind us that we all struggle with such existentialist questions, and help us to make sense of the ominous adult world that looms before us.

Through Catcher in the Rye, I was able to rediscover my second true love: the Outcast. You know the guy: the one who sits alone at lunch, goes on long, meditative walks by himself, or swings the peak of his red hunting hat to face the back, the way he likes it. Humans, as natural pack rats, tend to instinctively pity and empathize with these types of characters. Honestly, I'm no exception - I know I'm not - and I feel my heartstrings wrenched just as much by Holden as by the likes of Ponyboy Curtis, Neville Longbottom, or Frankenstein's monster. 

The other aspect of Catcher in the Rye that appealed to me was, of course, the social commentary. I just can't resist a nice, juicy controversy, as anyone who knows me will attest - I'd like to think that I'm the girl who opens her mouth and lights a fire in the room (or, sometimes, awkwardly sets the crickets a-chirping, such as when I suggested my friend take birth control pills in front of her conservative mother...oops). Catcher in the Rye is full of witty observances about American society - yet behind each of Holden's famously snarky complaints lies a deeper truth, each of which must be individually explored in order to fully grasp the complexity of the work.

I had fully intended on compressing my analysis of Holden into a single, long master post - a scholarly and educated thesis about Holden's unhealthy sexuality, his peculiar brand of feminism, and what it all says about Salinger and American society in general. I thought it would be a kind of magnum opus that I could turn into colleges (and perhaps to my English teacher - is that extra credit I smell? Just kidding, Ms. G!) as snooty, pretentious proof that I, Haley, am a well-learned and precocious young academic. But, alas, I just couldn't do it - not even for BU. It would be capital-I Impossible. It really would.

I assume the Universe is trying to tell me to be less of a phony, to care less what people think and embrace my inner Holden Caulfield. So, I'm going to take the Universe's advice and put on my red hunting hat, cuddle up with some herbal tea, and enjoy my time spent with Holden and Salinger...and, lucky for you guys, "taking my time" means not one, not two, but three posts entirely dedicated to Holden, Salinger, and the infamous Catcher in the Rye! In my brand-new, three-part series "Holden & I," I'll explore the social context and deeper implications of Holden's relationships with his sexuality, women, and, of course, his Almighty Creator, the talented yet troubled J.D. Salinger. Below, I'll be linking you with each of the posts as they go live - so bookmark this page and stay tuned for our next three encounters with young Master Caulfield!

Holden & Sexuality

Holden & Feminism

Holden & Salinger 

As you can see, Holden and my man J.D. are going to be front and center here at the Chick Lit Kitchen for the next few weeks, so if you're not a fan of Catcher in the Rye, I highly recommend that you follow the subsequent advice: pick up a copy from your local used bookstore, grab your best ballpoint pen, and do as I did - Grow Up and Think! They say you have to try something seven times before you truly know if you like it. Whether this is your first, third, or seventh time reading Catcher, I truly believe that everybody has something to be gleaned from it. 

If there's anything I've learned from writing this post, it's that you should never tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

XOXO, Haley.

Marvelous Monday: style, inspiration, and cupcakes!

Source (cupcake): Fanpop

Hello, sunshines - and happy Presidents' Day! I sit here with a belly full of homemade pizza, so I'm happy as a clam as I write this limited edition Marvelous Monday post - I hope your days are all just as wonderful as mine :)

Today's post is extra-special, as it's the first and only Marvelous Monday (because Saturday was Valentine's Day, I forwent my usual Sassy Saturday post) in Chick Lit Kitchen history. In honor of this special day, I challenge you to make today, Monday, just as marvelously sassy as any Saturday! Instead of groaning "Ugh, it's Monday," I dare you to jump out of bed exclaiming "Yay! It's Monday!" (okay, maybe not), put on your favorite lipstick (inspired by my last Sassy Saturday post, perhaps?), and tackle the work day as chipper as if it were a weekend and you'd woken up three hours later. That's a dare, and because none of my bad@$$ readers would ever back down from a dare, you have to do it! Make your Mondays magical, everybody - no excuses (though I'm not exactly sure why you'd want your Mondays to be miserable).

Meanwhile, as you're swiping on that lipstick and starting your day off right - my pumpkin pancakes, anyone? - check out a few of my latest obsessions below! And yes, you did read the title right: this post includes....CUPCAKES!!! So what are you waiting for? The faster you read, the closer you are to devouring some delicious Death by Chocolate Cupcakes!

Ready...set...GO!

My Spring 2015 Style Concept

I call it New York Audrey: polished meets edgy. Classic meets modern. 1955 meets 2015. The New York Audrey is the lovechild of Blair Waldorf and Madonna. She eats kale and cupcakes. She lifts her pinky when she drinks her mainstream coffee shop mocha. She writes thank you notes on hot pink stationary, spritzes everything with perfume, and never leaves the house without her lipstick to match. And, if that New York Audrey is me, she is embodied in the entire Kate Spade New York collection - I am especially obsessed with the Selma dress and the Cedar Street Large Monday bag. For those of us who can't afford Kate (me! me! me!), Forever 21 and H&M both carry similar styles for slashed prices. I, for one, love the faux leather skirt and fit & flare dress from Forever 21, and the pink dress you see in my Polyvore set is only $12.95 from H&M.

DIY Vision Board

One of my favorite quotes right now (see if you can find it in my vision board!) is "Create a vision that makes you want to jump out of bed in the morning." If you didn't see my Instagram post last night, I got a little crafty yesterday afternoon and whipped up a little DIY inspiration board for my bedroom to spark my creative brain and brighten my day. I love that it looks uber-complicated, but was actually really simple, and it fits right in with the eclectic, girly decor in my room.

Bonjour, ya'll! I thought it was so clever (and very NY Audrey of me) to put that next to my photo of Ms. Hepburn, the epitome of the Southern Belle. My favorite quote this side of the board: "Interrupt anxiety with gratitude."

Joy to the world. Look closely and see if you can spot the one and only Queen B (hint: I don't mean Beyonce!), reminding me never to settle for anyone less than a Chuck Bass (or a Christian Louboutin, for that matter!). 

La Vie Est Belle. At the far right of the board, we have some delicious treats, more pictures of Paris in the springtime, and at least a few odes to my second true love, coffee (decaf, of course!). Can you tell that bubblegum pink is my color of the moment?

To create your own vision board, you'll need:  

Cardboard or corkboard

Scrapbook paper or fabric

Tape and/or glue

Inspirational photos

(I gathered mine from Pinterest, but you could also use magazines; Polaroids; whatever you want, really!)

Optional: scrapbooking embellishments, Washi tape (I think a Washi tape border would look so cute), glitter glue, rick-rack, etc. - basically, whatever you want to use to decorate is fair game. Make it your own! 

How To:

1. Cover your cardboard/corkboard with your choice of scrapbook paper or fabric. I chose a few pieces of scrapbook paper and cut them into strips, taped them to my cardboard backing to create a striped pattern, and trimmed them to fit.
2. Cut out your photos and begin to arrange them with whatever other embellishments you want on your vision board for optimal inspiration! Make sure your photos are all: A) positive B) motivational and C) beautiful to look at! Avoid triggering photos (i.e. "thinspo") and harsh quotes (i.e."no excuses") - remember to always treat yourself as gently as you would a child. My inspiration ranged from pictures of cupcakes, to Taylor Swift's most enviable outfits, to Meghan Trainor quotes, but yours might be totally different (and that's okay! Normal, even). Whatever you put on your vision board, make it the vision you want to see in the world.
3. When your vision board looks the way you want it to, begin to glue or tape all your embellishments to your board (I recommend taking a picture first, so you remember your vision once you have to start moving things around!). Add the final touches with Washi tape, glitter, or whatever other embellishments you want - I happened to have a cute little "Joy" cutout laying around, which I love. Then, hang or prop up your vision board in a prominent place where you'll see it and be reminded of the powerful intentions you just set for yourself!

Inspiring examples...

by Raquel Dorsey

by Amanda Dawbarn

by Brooke Lark

by Angie Dunn

by Kristina Karlsson

And, finally, last but not least....

DEATH BY CHOCOLATE CUPCAKES!

(with decadent cream cheese frosting) 

Mmm...even just looking at them is making me want more. This right here is what I did with my snowed-in Valentine's Day - when my dinner date got cancelled, cupcakes for dinner just seemed like the only way to go. Let's just say I had three cupcakes, and probably would have eaten all five if my stomach would have let me. Oh, it was so worth it! These cupcakes are a rich, melt-in-your-mouth treat sweet enough to cure even the worst case of the blues. Combine them with sinfully delicious cream cheese frosting (my favorite!) and top them with chocolate chip hearts and you get a swoon-worthy dessert fit for the Devil himself. 

I know, I know: total food porn moment. Well, I won't keep you from your cupcakes any longer.

Death by Chocolate Cupcakes with Decadent Cream Cheese Frosting

Adapted from Sally's Baking Addiction

Bakes 5 cupcakes.

For the cupcakes:

1 oz baker's chocolate

(I used milk)

1/4 cup (4 tbsp) unsalted butter

1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

3/8 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 tsp baking soda

3/8 tsp baking powder

1/8 tsp salt

1 egg

1/4 cup white granulated sugar

1/8 cup dark brown sugar

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 cup milk 

(Note: fill to just under the top of the measuring cup)

Optional, but highly recommended: 1/4 to 1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips

(Note:I haven't tried this, but I think using Hershey's Special Dark cocoa & chocolate chips would be even more delicious and chocolatey!) 

For the frosting:

8 oz (1 block) cream cheese 

(Philadelphia is and always has been my favorite!)

1 cup powdered (confectioner's) sugar

2 oz white baker's chocolate, melted

Semisweet or dark chocolate chips, for decoration

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Fill a 6-cup muffin pan with cupcake liners. 
2. In the microwave, melt butter and chocolate together in 30 second increments, stirring between increments until completely melted. (The butter and the chocolate will melt at different rates, so be careful!) Allow the chocolate to cool while you move onto the next step.
3. In a large bowl, combine cocoa, flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. In a second, smaller bowl, whisk together egg, white and brown sugar, vanilla, and milk. When combined, add chocolate and butter mixture to wet ingredients and whisk until the mixture is smooth, but thick. 
4. Create a well in the large bowl, add the wet ingredients, and mix until just combined. The batter will have the consistency of a thick pudding. Stir in chocolate chips, if using (again - I cannot recommend it more!). 
5. Spoon batter into cupcake liners until about 3/4 full (mine made 5 cupcakes, but you may be able to get more out of yours). Bake for 18-22 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out mostly clean; the chocolate chips may leave some residue on the toothpick, but you'll definitely be able to tell the difference between raw batter and melted chocolate.
6. While the cupcakes are baking, add softened cream cheese and powdered sugar to a medium bowl and beat using an electric mixer until smooth and creamy. Melt white chocolate in microwave in 30 second increments (white chocolate will melt faster than the milk chocolate from earlier), stirring between each round. Then, add melted chocolate to frosting mixture and continue to beat until completely combined. Keep covered while cupcakes are cooling.
7. Allow cupcakes to cool completely, at least 20-30 minutes, before frosting generously. It's extremely important to let your cupcakes cool so that the frosting won't melt and so they won't fall apart as you are frosting them. I decorated mine by arranging chocolate chips on top in the shape of a heart. Take a moment to snap a picture and Instagram it with the hashtag #marvelousmondaycupcakes so I can see all your hard work! Then, devour your cupcakes like the chocolate addict you are...mmm >:)

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Well, that was a delicious post, if I do say so myself. I hope you enjoyed this special Marvelous Monday edition of the Chick Lit Kitchen. I have some exciting posts planned for the next few weeks on the blog, including the next installment of Holden & I, a post about my newest obsession (can you guess what it might be?), and what's in my February Birchbox!

Until then, mis amis, au revoir and have a magical, marvelous rest of your Mondays. Just remember: the weekend is only four and a half days away!

XOXO, Haley.

Sassy Saturday: Which Chick Lit Novel Should You Read Over Spring Break?

Hello, hello - welcome back to the Chick Lit Kitchen!

Sorry for my chronic inactivity lately; I'm swamped with school, but I promise that I'll try to keep up with the blog as best as possible! Today, of course, is Saturday - and you all know what that means!

...wait for it....

SASSY SATURDAY! Yes, ma'am, it's Sassy Saturday again on the blog, and today it's bringing you an equally-as-sassy quiz designed to match you with a rockin' read this spring break. After all, what else are you supposed to do with all that free time? Sleep? Travel? Party? NAH!

Here at the CLK, we live for chick lit (and the snacks that go with it!). This quiz is specially designed to help you find your spring break sweetheart - so what are you waiting for? The love of your literary life is waiting for you below! JUST CLICK THE BUTTON ALREADY!!!

Powered by Interact

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Well, darlings, I hope you loved that quiz as much as I loved making it! We have some fun features coming up on the Chick Lit Kitchen, including my TBD 30 Day Challenge (by now, it must be killing you!) and my March favorites headed to you next Sunday!

Until then, au revoir, mis amis - stay sassy, stay classy, and have a phenomenal rest of your Saturday.

XOXO, Haley

Holden & I, Part III: Holden & Salinger

Greetings, lit geeks - and welcome to...wait for it....

...

...

THE LAST EVER INSTALLMENT OF THE HOLDEN & I SERIES!!!!

I don't know who's more excited: you or me! And as much as I want to get straight into today's topic - a miniature biography of Salinger and a mild psychoanalysis of his affinity for women half his age (yep, you read that right!), all in the context of Catcher -  I promised over Twitter yesterday that a full explanation would be provided. So, without further ado...

 Source: Jordan's Furniture

THAT is what I did yesterday! For a girl who's deathly afraid of heights, that's pretty impressive, isn't it? It's a high-adventure course inside the Jordan's Furniture in Reading, and it was completely and utterly awesome, for lack of a more Salingerian word. At first, I've gotta admit: I was being a total pole-hugger and I was scared to walk on anything that didn't have hand ropes. Once I got used to being 12 feet up in the air, though, and kinda got my "air legs," it was actually really fun! 

So, that's why I didn't write yesterday. Jealous? Disappointed? Hoping my answer would be something more like "Orca Attack" or "Field Trip to Hogwarts"? Yeah, me too. Well, the truth is always somewhat boring, isn't it? For real life, I've gotta say: yesterday was probably about as good as it gets! 

Now, for the real reason you're here (unless you just saw my tweet and really, really wanted to know what happened. In which case, that's cool, too - welcome!): J.D. Salinger, Joyce Maynard, and Holden Caulfield, with guest appearances from Ernest Hemingway and Nabokov's Lolita. 

As always, a few brief disclaimers: firstly, I don't own Catcher in the Rye. Obviously, though that would be pretty cool. Secondly, I aim to please, not to plagiarize, so please do e-mail me at chicklitkitchen@gmail.com if anything about my work seems a little fishy, so I can update my citations! Last but not least, I wouldn't plagiarize you, so please don't plagiarize me! A citation in MLA format is available at the bottom of the article for your convenience...so USE IT!!! I mean, come on guys; I've literally handed it to you.

Whew, that was a lot. Let me stop and breathe first....

Okay, I'm good. Ready, set, CATCHER! Cue the bittersweet, histrionic intro music. 

WARNING: This post contains spoilers!

Jerome David Salinger was born in New York on January 1, 1919 to a fairly normal childhood. The only major disturbance in his early years was – gasp! – finding out that his mother was actually a closeted Catholic (he grew up believing he was 100% Jewish, like his father). (the Daily Mail)

It was not childhood that corrupted Salinger’s innocence – “popped his cherry,” so to speak – as adolescence and adulthood. First, it was his doomed love affair with Oona O’Neil in 1941: the 16-year-old girl he once wished to marry eventually ran away to wed Charlie Chaplin (the Daily Mail). And then, of course, there was the Second World War: the reason Salinger’s relationship ended in the first place, and the reason for all of the emotional and psychological turmoil that haunted him – and Holden – ever since (New York Magazine).  

We learned in class that J.D. Salinger saw more combat than perhaps any other classic American writer. While Ernest Hemingway and Tim O’Brien were as cozy as one could be stationed in WWII and Vietnam respectively, Salinger fought on the front lines, stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day, and liberated Nazi prisoners first-hand. Salinger touted the first pages of Catcher in the Rye through much of the combat (Vanity Fair).

With the harsh realities of war branded onto his brain, it’s unsurprising that both Salinger and Holden aimed to become “Catchers in the Rye”: preservationists of innocence; protectors and shields from the stark evils of the adult world. Salinger knew even more so than Holden what predators lay in wait for kids who grew up too fast – the draft, for one. War. Death.

It’s no wonder, then, that Salinger developed severe depression. On May 8, 1945, as the rest of the Western world was celebrating the end of the Second World War, Salinger sat on his bed, staring at a pistol, contemplating suicide. Fortunately, the literary genius was smart enough, diligent enough, and humble enough to seek help. Like Holden, Salinger checked himself into a mental hospital, where he passed time sassing the staff, writing letters to his good friend Hemingway (whom he met in Paris during the war), and generally trying to save face, for he feared the implications of his psychological turmoil on the reception of Catcher in the Rye. (During the 1940s, the stigma surrounding mental illness was considerable.) (Vanity Fair)

Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye was published on July 16, 1951 by Little, Brown – a Boston company, might I point out! Catcher was also banned almost immediately, for its “shocking” use of the f-bomb and candid sexual dialogue, among other matters we high schoolers today would probably consider trivial. (Vanity Fair)

No doubt in relation to his history of mental illness, fame didn’t sit well with Salinger, and so he essentially became a recluse, holing himself up in his house like a hermit in a way that – or so I am convinced – all writers must do at least once (Dead Caulfields). While he did publish later works such as Franny and Zooey, such works were simply republications of. After his death, three short stories of his have been leaked on the internet – none of which I have read; all of which I am sure live up to his high standards of quality narration and intricately-crafted characters. 

Ironically, Salinger himself ended up becoming one of the adult dangers that parents and “Catchers” might try to keep children from. As I touched upon briefly in my first post, Holden & Sexuality, J.D. Salinger was a bit of a creep. He had a fascination with innocence that translated appropriately into his writing and inappropriately into his sex life. He preyed on young girls long into his late life by luring them to his home through letters.

One of his conquests – benignly (and inaccurately) referred to as “muses” by most online sources - claimed that he broke up with her just after taking her virginity: all-too earnest testimony of Salinger’s obsession with the pure, the untouched. The director of the movie “Salinger”, Shane Salerno, perfectly explains how Salinger’s PTSD-driven pursuit of innocence manifested itself in his sex life: the girls he sought “[replicated] a pre-war innocence for him…[he] used very young girls as time travel machines back to before various wounds.” (the Wrap). A second theory attributes Salinger’s sexual insecurities to his lack of a second testicle, but I think I’d rather believe the first one, so I can take at least a little pity on the poor man (Salon).

Most famously, Salinger pursued the eighteen-year-old writer Joyce Maynard after reading her article in the New York Times, “An 18-Year-Old Looks Back on Life” (the Daily Mail). He was so moved by her piece (and by her pixie-like appearance in those photographs, no doubt) that he wrote her a fan letter cautioning her against the dangers of fame (New York Magazine). They exchanged about 25 letters before, in a spectacle straight from a whirlwind Hollywood drama, Maynard forsook her second year at Yale to move in with Salinger, who would trample her heart years later by crushing her dreams of having a family and essentially kicking her out (New York Magazine).

Maynard is frequently referred to as Salinger’s “Lolita,” which lends a curious and inappropriate (I think) shade of literary artistry to their relationship. Their sexual relationship was at first stagnant, later almost nonexistent; its foundation was oral sex, both because Maynard had a condition that made penetrative sex painful and because Salinger feared having more children (he wed his wife Claire, who was sixteen years his junior, in 1955 – he forced her into isolation when she became pregnant, and she gave birth to a daughter, Margaret, and a son, Matthew) (the Daily Mail).

The women in Salinger’s life described him as “sexually manipulative,” “pathologically self-centered,” and “abusive” – yet many former “muses” also describe their relationships with Salinger as weirdly nonsexual, up to a point (New York Times). He was, apparently, also an early New Age philosopher, obsessed with homeopathic medicine, acupuncture, dieting, Zen Buddhism, and Scientology (ibid). If he hadn’t died more than five years ago, Salinger probably would have fit right in with the all-natural health fads sweeping the nation today – I imagine that he and a young Beyonce might have e-mailed over green juices and spin classes. Or would Queen Bey have been too much of a feminist for him? Hmm…

With all the effed-up things he was doing (and that had been done to him), Salinger was understandably desperate to protect his privacy. To be completely fair, the world had been cruel to him – and so he knew it would only continue to become crueler. The one time he let his guard down was in 1953, when he agreed to let a group of local teenagers interview him for what he thought was a small school newspaper. When the article was published as a large feature editorial, Salinger felt so betrayed that he built a six-foot fence around his property and never spoke to the press again. Not only was Salinger privy to his privacy, but apparently he also had tremendous capabilities for holding a grudge. (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/29/books/29salinger.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0)

In his not-so-fine late years, Salinger was known to wield shotguns at strangers on his porch and sue authors for writing his biography (New York Magazine). He died at 91 - bitter, alone, and in no physical pain - in January of 2010 (New York Times).

Today, people are still arguing incessantly, uselessly about whether or not Joyce Maynard was the exploiter or the exploited, when I think we all know the answer to that one (New York Magazine). If you’ve read John Green’s the Fault in Our Stars, you probably won’t be surprised to find that J.D. Salinger makes me feel a little bit like Hazel Grace felt about Peter van Houten. Like van Houten, Salinger was “a good writer but a shitty person.” Although I will never be able to simply “forgive” Salinger for his pedophilic victimization of teenage girls, it breaks my heart to wonder why he did it. Was it a result of his wartime trauma? His long history of mental illness? Or was his lifetime of seclusion simply becoming too much? Was J.D. Salinger lonely?

No matter what way you swing it, the fact of what Salinger did remains the same: he nearly committed suicide. He checked himself into a mental institution. He threatened the press. And he harassed girls a quarter of his age. As much as we all want to romanticize our literary idols, the fact of the matter is that had Salinger not been so tormented, so distraught by the shattered pictures of innocence he saw in the world around him, the Catcher in the Rye probably would have been a thin, flimsy piece of mass-marketed literature hardly worthy of sitting on the shelf next to Fitzgerald.

They say it takes one to know one: Salinger was Holden Caulfield. He couldn’t accept that he would never become a “catcher in the rye” and so he tried to vicariously recapture his youth through his pint-sized lovers. Through writing the character of Holden, Salinger inadvertently became Holden: a man desperate to hold onto his innocence even after he knew it was gone – a man who could not let go of his juvenile fixations. Two boys defeated by death, conquered by loss, and shattered by mental illness. Two boys who felt strongly that “you should never tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.” If that doesn’t explain Salinger’s self-imposed exile, I don’t know what would.

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Well, that's it for me and Holden, Holden and me - or Holden & I, I should say. It was fun while it lasted, 99.9% of the time (the other 1% I spent procrastinating on giant ropes courses and swearing at Salinger under my breath). Welp.

Stay tuned here on the Chick Lit Kitchen for my next big event, coming real soon...my brand-new 30 -Day Challenge! Eek! Whatever could it be about? My lips are sealed. I've locked them and thrown away the key...so you'll just have to keep checking back to find out >:) mwahahaha! How else do you think I'd keep you coming back for more? Wink wink, nudge nudge.

Oh, I'm only teasing - it's been a long day! You know you love me, deep down inside.

XOXO, Haley

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To cite this post (in MLA format): 

The Chick Lit Kitchen. Holden & I, Part III: Holden & Salinger. Blogspot, 2 Mar. 2015. Web. Date you accessed this post.

Pumpkin pancakes + Intuitive Eating

Hello, darlings! The post you are reading right now marks a very special moment in CLK history: my first post ever. I know, I know - kind of scary, yet kind of exhilarating. I hope you're as excited as I am!

Today I'm going to be sharing with you my personal trials and triumphs in overcoming the evils of dieting, through a process called Intuitive Eating. My story isn't always a happy one, but I hope I can make up for it with a yummy recipe for pumpkin chocolate chip pancakes...mm. I had them for breakfast this morning, and let me tell you: you will savor every bite, especially after the hour of arduous flipping that ensues!

Now, you're probably wondering: what the heck is intuitive eating?!?

If you've read my about page at all, you'll know that I used to be a season ticket holder to the Diet Rollercoaster. I was constantly counting calories, frantically tracking everything I ate (hoping no one would notice), and worrying more about whether or not I squeezed in a run today than about the things that really matter to me: school, writing, and my relationships. The constant up and downs of dieting were not only detrimental to my self-esteem, but they zapped a lot of energy that I should have been channeling into my passions instead. Perhaps my biggest regret was the time I skipped out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet a real-life book publisher, just so I could run three miles - as if the novel I'd been writing for over a year now was somehow less important than feeling a little winded at the 5K I was scheduled to run that weekend.

I can't quite put my finger on when it all started - there wasn't a definite moment when, all of a sudden, some "fat switch" turned on inside my brain - but my best guess would be about halfway through my freshman year of high school. I had just gotten out of a relationship, and was never happier to be single...until I auditioned for the school play and developed a raging crush on an older boy (for the sake of privacy/comic relief, we will call him Muffin) who I fervently believed would never rank me as highly as my friend. (We'll call her Pizza.) 

Pizza was - and is - the kind of girl who attracts all the guys' attention without even trying. She possesses that enviable combination of good genes, remarkable bone structure, and flawless flirting technique that, for lack of better phrasing, brings the boys to the yard. At the time, Pizza was in an unhealthy relationship with a guy whom - thank God for all of us - she has long since broken up with. She wasn't happy with the man she had, so naturally, she began to look. And flirt. And flaunt all the assets she had that I happened to have been born without (ahem, boobs). 

Believe it or not, I was fine with that - it wasn't the flirting that bothered me. It was when she set her sights on the same boy I happened to have an excruciatingly intense crush on that my anxious brain went into a frenzy. That boy was, of course, Muffin.

Whether she realized it or not, Pizza egged me on by turning every day into a competition: she would recount the texts they'd exchanged, the looks he'd given her, the coy-yet-casual conversations they'd had (the kind of conversations that I, the awkward shy girl who tends to run away from her feelings instead of confronting them, was incapable of). What's more, she expected me to do the same so she could compare - and I did, because it made me happy to giggle with glee and pretend that maybe, just maybe, Muffin liked me, too. But those conversations only ever left me with a sinking pit in my stomach, a sickening feeling of dread. No matter what happened between me and Muffin, as soon as I heard Pizza's counterargument, I never quite felt like Muffin's treatment of me measured up to the attention he paid her. So I began to craft a solution.

Pizza may have been pretty, funny, and sweet, but the one thing she had never been was fit. It seemed like all of my prayers had been answered: all I had to do was become the Fit Girl, and bingo! My side of the Venn diagram finally had something men wanted. (I was sorely misguided in my beliefs that men preferred their women fit, tan, and skinny over strong, smart, and bootylicious. If I were to summarize everything a guy could want in three words, strong, smart, and bootylicious just about do it! And if any guy wants to disagree with me, then he's the one losing out on a strong, smart, bootylicious woman, not me.) 

By the time I'd come to realize this, Muffin and I were already dating - but that didn't stop me from being scared to lose him to Pizza. I swore to take whatever preventative measures I could, before I needed them. Combined with the looming presence of a quickly-approaching school trip to Florida (i.e. an obligation to wear a skimpy bathing suit in front of some thirty-plus male peers), I was completely disarmed by my ailing self-esteem. So I Googled "how to get flat abs in two weeks." I started a "Workouts" board on Pinterest. I began to fear cupcakes, white pasta, and basically any and all of the other foods I'd once known and loved. 

Ironic, isn't it, that Google was also the first one to tell me, a year and half later, that I might just have an eating disorder? After eating a giant bowl of baked mac and cheese at a cookout this summer - both "mac" and "cheese" were forbidden in my vocabulary, even though they've always been my two favorite foods - I got home, weighed myself, and burst into tears. 

As I lay in bed crippled by guilt, the tiniest thought occurred to me: why did I care so much in the first place? I'd always told myself that it was normal to want to look like the fitness models I saw online; after all, those bodies were supposed to epitomize health - and by the number of bloggers and pinners sending their so-called "clean eating" tips straight to my inbox each week, the whole of the internet seemed to share my desire to be healthy and fit. So, I wondered, if my obsession with fitness was so "normal," then why did I feel so positively...not? As I often do when I want answers, I picked up my phone and turned to Google. Twenty minutes later, I took a mental health quiz that declared I had "severe anorexic tendencies" and texted Muffin to ask if he thought I needed help. Despite my complete and utter faith in him, he was no professional - he didn't have the quick fix I was looking for; although his "I'm here for you" was well-appreciated, it didn't tell me if I had a serious problem or not. 

Deep in my heart, I think I already knew the answer - and I knew that the "fix" was anything but quick. I wasn't yet willing to put in the time or effort that recovery demanded (after all, I'd been dieting for so long now that it was second-nature). So, I took the easy way out, ignored my problems per usual - and found myself unhappier with my body, my diet, and myself than I'd ever been before. More than once, I found myself in tears over a number on the scale I didn't like, or a dress that no longer fit the way it was "supposed to". Unfortunately, it wasn't until the holidays, when I fell into a nasty cycle of binging, that I discovered Michelle May's Eat What You Love, Love What You Eat and finally got the help I'd craved and deserved. 

So that's how I developed disordered eating - now I bet you're wondering, what happened with Muffin?!? Well, in March of 2013, Muffin asked me out and assured me that he was, and had always been, enamored with me, not Pizza. Our first date was at Johnny Rocket's, and apart from the fact that his college is located two hours from our hometown, we have been inseparable ever since.

So, the jig's up: Muffin is actually Mike. And, in case you were wondering, Muffin...er, Mike and I have had many a candid conversation about my insecurities surrounding Pizza. (I've long since been assured that they were misplaced.)

You're looking at me strangely, I can tell. You're giving me the crazy eye as you wonder: What does any of this have to do with Intuitive Eating?

Well, if there's anything I've learned since freshman year, it's that neither Mike nor Pizza deserves the blame for my problems. That responsibility falls on my shoulders, and mine alone. The fact of the matter was, if I had never had an emotional reason to eat, or not to eat, I never would have spiraled out of control. I never would have fallen into that cycle of eat-repent-repeat that kept me dieting, out of pure self-hatred, even after I'd realized that the countless rules - no sugar, no carbs, nothing out of a package - were never going to work. In fact, it wasn't even my fault I couldn't stay on track: it was the diet's. 

The fact of the matter is that humans are omnivores. If God (or whoever/whatever you believe in) hadn't intended for us to eat certain food groups, those foods would make us sick, the way that poisonous mushrooms and rotten fish do. There's a reason why, as soon as we cut out carbs or dairy or sugar, our body suddenly craves those foods so much: our bodies were simply made to eat everything. That's why fighting the body's natural wants and needs is so counter-intuitive to a healthy lifestyle. 

There are two cornerstones to any diet plan: what and how much. Diets teach us what not to eat and how not to be hungry. But, as we are all born knowing, our bodies tell us we are hungry because we need food, any food - and as I said before, our bodies often craves particular foods because it wants something out of them, like a particular vitamin or nutrient. Clearly, the foundations of dieting contradict human nature - but that is where intuitive eating swoops in to save the day!

Intuitive eating is the polar opposite of dieting. It is natural, healthy, and nourishing, rather than uncomfortable, unhappy, and depriving. And, the best part is that there are no arbitrary rules! You know the ones I'm talking about: ones like "Eat six small meals a day," "Drink a glass of hot lemon water before every meal," or "Only eat raw foods." The only rules are the ones you create for yourself. When you eat intuitively, everything that goes into your body is your choice: a deliberate, mindful choice that lets you set your own intentions, so that you eat only what you need/want and only as much as you need/want. 

Basically, intuitive eating can be whatever you need and/or want it to be; unlike a diet, whose rules you live to serve, intuitive eating's only function is to serve YOU. You can eat whatever you want, when you want, as long as you can close your eyes, tune into your body, and reaffirm that this food, this much, this time, is what is best for it. But, as long as I'm being honest here, the one thing that intuitive eating is not, is easy. 

I've already established that humans are born eating intuitively, and that diets are contradictory to human nature. But what about when you are like I was - when you have been restricting and binging for so long now that you've simply forgotten how to eat "normally" again? 

I'll be the first to admit it: even now, the concept of intuitive eating is uncomfortable, even scary at times. When you've successfully re-hardwired your brain to believe that it should only be eating certain foods, in certain quantities, at certain times of day, breaking those rules can send your mind into overdrive. Even today, I struggled not to feel guilty when, after listening to my body's cravings, I ended up eating chocolate chip pancakes, half a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, and a brownie from Starbucks, all in a matter of hours (no excuse necessary, although I was PMSing). But, in the end, that's the most beautiful part of intuitive eating: it isn't just another rule to follow; it's a lifestyle, which allows you to eat and move on to bigger and better things, without feeling like you're "forgiving yourself" or "starting over." So if you want to eat chocolate chip pancakes, brownies, and ice cream all in one day, to heck with it - go right ahead! The only person who's stopping you, is you. 

After all, pancakes and brownies and ice cream aren't inherently bad (in fact, they're inherently awesome). If that's how you feel about them, that's because YOU made them that way - and, just as you taught yourself that those foods were "bad," you can teach yourself that they are, like any other foods, "okay." Eventually, they may even become more than "okay" - they'll be rich, or delectable, or maybe even downright disgusting. But you'll be able to focus on the tastes and the feelings, rather than the calories and the carbs.

And, speaking of tastes and feelings, all of mine this week were perfectly encapsulated in the delicious recipe I am about to share with you. Ladies and gentlemen, it's the moment you've all been waiting for - my scrumptious pumpkin spice chocolate chip pancakes await you! 

These pancakes have the unique quality of being both light and fluffy, yet somehow rich and moist at the same time - like the airiest, most breakfast-y pumpkin pie you've ever tasted! The chocolate chips are just the extra spoonful of lovin' every recipe needs. (If you're not a chocolate-eater, you could just as easily replace them with cacao nibs, pepitas, crushed walnuts, raisins - or simply leave them out. However, if you're not a chocolate eater, you may as well reevaluate your entire existence.)

Be prepared to spend a lot of time on this recipe, if only because pancake flipping can be a laborious process. I highly recommend making a morning of it with your siblings, your parents, your kids, or your significant other - extra points if you can get a pancake stuck to ceiling! (If you get in trouble, you can always blame it on me, the crazy internet girl - and besides, these pancakes are so good, your parents won't even care after they taste them.) 

And now, without further ado....

Pumpkin Spice Chocolate Chip Pancakes

adapted from Sally's Baking Addiction

INGREDIENTS:

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup whole wheat flour

1 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/4 tsp salt

1 heaping tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp pumpkin pie spice

1/2 cup chocolate chips 

(Note: Hershey's Special Dark are highly recommended!)

3/4 cup canned pumpkin

1/4 cup dark brown sugar

1 egg

1 1/2 tbsp vegetable oil

3/4 cup milk

(Note: the original recipe stresses the importance of using whole or buttermilk, but all I had was 1% and they came out just fine!)

Butter or nonstick spray, for cooking

1. In a large bowl, combine all the dry ingredients, except the chocolate chips. Then, in a second, smaller bowl, combine the wet ingredients. (Note: You may want to run the wet ingredients through the blender first, but hand-mixing will produce just as great results!) Create a well in the dry ingredients and empty the wet ingredients into the well. Mix the batter until just combined, being careful not to over-mix, but still to beat out any lumps that get in the way! Last but not least, stir in the chocolate chips (or whatever mix-ins your heart desires). 
2. Heat your frying pan over medium heat, coating the pan with butter or nonstick cooking spray to ensure that the batter doesn't stick. Pour about 1/4 cup of batter into the pan and turn the heat down to medium-low or low. Be patient with your pancakes, as they will be very thick and won't want to cook too fast (however, be wary of waiting too long, or your pancakes will burn). I find that the first pancake is always a bit of a trial-and-error! Your pancake will probably be cooked after 1-3 minutes, or when the edges are solid and little bubbles begin to form on its surface. Flip the pancake and cook another 1-2 minutes on the other side. 
3. Repeat the process until you run out of batter; you should get about 6-8 pancakes out of the mix. Be sure to cover the pan in another coat of butter or cooking spray between each pancake, and watch to make sure that any stray crumbs don't start to burn, as this can leave nasty black spots in the bottom of the pan that are a pain to wash out (this I know because my mother is always complaining about it). 
4. If you feel so inclined, top the finished pancakes with butter and/or maple syrup (preferably the real thing) before enjoying!