Category: Cozy Posts

Books · Cozy Posts · Nostalgic Posts

March Postcard

Beth DeFries1 Comment

Dear friends,

We woke to mild temperatures and a low-lying mist this morning, not so different from the ones that I remember from our past trips to Ireland. Today is St. Patrick’s Day, so it seems fitting that the weather should jog my memory of one of our favorite travel destinations. The clouds have lingered into the early afternoon and the Atlantic is molten steel, capped with cotton.

Feeling culinarily ambitious and craving hearty fare for later on, I headed out to the grocery store first thing this misty morning to pick up the ingredients I was missing for Guinness Beef Stew and Irish Brown Bread. The rich scent of simmering carrots, potatoes, onions, garlic, and beef mingle with that of Irish stout, red wine, stock, and thyme. The smells are starting to escape the seams of the Crock Pot lid in thin breaths in a successful effort to permeate the kitchen.

The brown bread’s baking in the oven, adding the sweet dryness of toasting flour into this afternoon’s scent medley. My hands feel soft from mixing and working the dough, something I haven’t done since we lived in Brooklyn. As I turned and folded the sticky dough on the floured counter, I thought of our old kitchen on Union Avenue and realized something. We’ve had our home in New Jersey for five years today.

When we lived in Brooklyn, I had maybe four meals that I would make on rotation, having limited cooking skills and even less patience for meal planning. Irish stew and brown bread was one of these meals and I’m sure we both grew tired of it toward the end of our time in New York. It feels nostalgic now, however, to make it here for the first time. It feels festive and like an appropriate meal to celebrate five years of living in this beautiful place together on this gray, March day.

While working in the kitchen earlier, I also couldn’t help but think of the improvements we’ve gained in our cooking skills over the past five years. We went from cooking tried and true recipes maybe once or twice a week to cooking from an expansive variety of options three to four times a week.

The kitchen has become a space for creativity in our home, for trying out new recipes and having them turn out more than half decent, most of the time at least. It’s a space for surprising ourselves, for building confidence, and for drinking red wine or a cold beer while stirring simmering concoctions in many pans and pots all going at the same time.

I enjoy the sensory experiences of cooking- the scents, the sounds, the colors. My favorite, however, is the warmth. There is the warmth of the stove burners as they glow red, the warmth of the preparing meal simmering away, and the warmth of the oven and it’s golden light as I open the door. Speaking of- the oven timer’s beeping which means the brown bread’s finished baking, so I’ll get back to this post in a moment.

The bread is golden and ugly and rugged, just how I remember it. 🙂

Speaking of ugly and rugged, I resumed my quest for Stephen King’s “Dark Tower” last week, digging in to Book V, The Wolves of the Calla, after a months-long break from the series. This one’s a continuation of King’s behemoth, western-style, adventure tale with his characteristic visceral descriptions and unparalleled creativity for the dark and disturbing. It’s far from cozy though, and I think today is a day to lean hard into cozy, so I’ll take a break from Roland and his ka-tet’s adventure in favor of one of my dad’s recommendations instead, P.G. Wodehouse’s Mulliner Nights.

Just a few minutes more until I can slice into the brown bread and see how I’ve done this time…

Upon post-slice review, I think I could have baked it for five minutes less, as it was a little more crumbly than I remember, but it will do just fine with a pat of Kerry Gold Irish Butter and a mugful of Oolong sips for now. At dinner later on is when it will really have a chance to shine, dunked in savory stew, soaking up all the hearty flavors to make for a delicious bite. Now, I’m craving that cozy reading escape before getting back to work on some fiction of my own.

I hope this post added a little warmth to your day, wherever you are. And to my friends and family who celebrate, wishing you all a very happy St. Patrick’s Day. I hope you have a festive evening whether it’s out at a pub, listening to Celtic music at home, or indulging in a hearty meal paired with an Irish stout, lager, ale, or whiskey. Thanks so much for reading. I hope you’re doing well. 🙂

Sláinte,

Beth

Cozy Posts · Poetry

The Dream House

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I have a home inside my dreams

amid a forest of evergreens,

with sparkling water not too far,

and skylights to let in the stars.

My forest, green with mossy bark,

from misty rain and velvet dark,

has soil soft with molted leaves

outside home’s walls and wooden eaves.

A fire set in white-washed stone

highlights the mantle’s honey-tone.

It warms the room, glowing serene,

and conjures up a cozy scene.

And when I dream, I walk the halls,

trail fingertips on gray, stone walls.

I plod upon the cushioned rugs

while balancing steaming tea mugs.

Inside, there is one thing it lacks-

a place to sleep. But why? you ask.

In dreams, I do not sleep a wink,

for that would be surreal; I think.

Instead there is a weathered chair,

its leather arms, softened from wear.

I curl up in its squashy seat

to take in a view that can’t be beat.

Windows look out on dense trees,

a wall of glass to better see

the mossy world my house calls home,

beneath the color-changing dome.

I look out at my forest grow

and know, in waking, I must go.

I savor time and stone and beams

while I’m awake inside my dreams.

Cozy Posts · Health & Lifestyle

January Postcard

Beth DeFries2 Comments

Dear friends,

Someday it will stop being cold, but for right now, it’s January in New Jersey and that day is likely a ways off. Sigh.

I’m still going strong on not buying unnecessary things this month, despite a few temptations, but am taking it day by day, with every day successful, so far. I am not spending on wardrobe items, coffee shops, housewares, or decor this month. I have what I need and am beyond grateful for it.

The ongoing fires in southern California remind me that true need is much more basic than what many of us deem necessary in today’s world. Family, friends, health, shelter, clothing, food, water, clean air, safety, and enough money to sustain these needs. Everything else is extra. I feel like it’s easy to forget that sometimes. It’s easy to take these things for granted through the constant buzz of consumer culture that we are bombarded with daily in the US.

I’ve been wandering a path of change over the past seven months and have learned that change takes patience and patience takes willpower. I challenge myself to exercise willpower every day in the challenges and changes I have made because they are good for me.

Exercise is tough in the winter compared to the warmer months. It takes extra willpower to get outside for a walk. It takes even more to stay outside as long as I should. Today was a weigh-in day and another loss. Being down 45 pounds since June is good enough motivation to bundle up and get a whole mess of steps in. It’s also much, much colder in winter though without my former layer of squish. I’ll put an extra sweater on and take the chill with gratitude.

It’s an Earl Grey day for tea and I’m sipping in my writing spot on the big, blue couch. A maelstrom rages in the dishwasher and the dryer’s humming in the laundry room – my domestic soundtrack for the afternoon.

I took two books out of the library last week and haven’t started either, despite being sure that I will enjoy both. Maeve Binchy and Judy Blume sit beneath the lamp on the wooden bench that my dad made whispering, “Write. Read.” It’s probably rude to ignore your idols, so, sorry ladies; I will aim to do some of both today.

Bit of a ramble today, but if you are reading this, I hope you are cozy and warm. If today’s a tough day, I hope something has yet to happen that makes you smile. If it’s a good day, then-yes! Go you! 🙂 As always, thanks for reading.

Love,

Beth

Cozy Posts · Movies

Rule Number 32

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

A couple of weeks ago, we watched a favorite we hadn’t seen in a while, the 2009 Horror/Comedy, Zombieland. Throughout the movie, Columbus (Jessie Eisenberg) introduces his set of rules for surviving a world overrun by zombies while trying to find his way from Texas to Ohio. The movie takes a sharp westward turn soon after Columbus unites with the Twinkie-craving, trigger-happy Tallahassee (Woody Harrelson), followed by the cunning duo, Wichita (Emma Stone) and Little Rock (Abigail Breslin). The movie has become somewhat of a cult classic and leans heavily on the comedy, with the obligatory side of brains- of course.

But back to the rules.

There is one of Columbus’ rules in particular that Mike likes to quote all of the time and always in reference to yours truly. It’s Rule Number 32, Enjoy the little things. I find immense joy in little things. Couldn’t really tell you why; it just happens that way. Color me lucky, I guess.

Sometimes “the little things” are physically small objects, like the tiny rubber elephant that I bought in Seattle in 2016 and still carry in my handbag or the Christmas bird with the busted wing that I bought from Michael’s on Halloween back in 2020. These sorts of little things were very intentional additions to my happiness. I learned of their existence in the world and knew they were meant for me and so, I made them mine.

There are also the little sensory experiences that bring me a lot of joy such as feeling the heat from the stove while boiling the kettle, breathing in the earthy scent of crispy book pages, or peeling apart the golden crust of a flaky croissant, to name just a few. Think Amélie and her petits plaisirs, like cracking the caramelized topping of crème brulée with the back of a spoon. She gets it.

I collect these little moments, these “little things”.

Today, one of my little things is the combination of the cello vamp and string line in Bleacher’s “91” which I have playing on repeat as I write this post. Yesterday, it was getting a Christmas card from my cousin, Jen, the scent of warm, coconut curry that lingered long after Mike made dinner, and enjoying a scoop of Graeter’s Black Raspberry Ice Cream from a little ramekin with a little spoon. 😊

Each day has lots of these little things, lots of little opportunities to experience joy.

Today was a coffee sort of morning, thanks to the complimentary Starbucks Holiday Blend that came with our latest Hello Fresh delivery and I just couldn’t resist brewing a cup in my favorite mug (see, there’s another one right there). Sitting by the window in one of our outdoor chairs, that was recently cleaned off and pulled inside for the winter, is one of my favorite things in the colder months. I sipped and watched the waves roll in on the beach while toasting my toes beneath the electric baseboard. I wish I could share that feeling with everyone; the world would be a much calmer place.

My caffeine-induced heartbeat’s trying to match the cello vamp now, but lacks the necessary arrythmia to do so. Christmas Eve is next week, a day that feels more all-encompassing of the celebration of the holiday than Christmas Day, at least in my personal experience. The gathering, the revelry, the heraldry. And lots of little joys all around. A roaring fire in my parents’ woodstove, Celtic Christmas music playing, warm mugs of tea and their swirling clouds of steam, and lots of smiles and laughs.

Writing this post is giving me joy too. Writing most of them has, for that matter. I checked and this is number 97. Soon it will be number 100, but that won’t be a little thing at all, will it? No, that one will feel pretty big, I think.

Thank you for reading and Happy Holidays, friends. I hope you practice Rule Number 32 this season, however you celebrate. Zombies aside, it’s not a bad one to live by.

Cozy Posts

December Postcard

Beth DeFries2 Comments

Dear friends,

It’s a chilly, damp evening here in New Jersey. Outside, the night is black taffeta, embroidered with the glowing orbs of street lamps in the fog. I’m sitting on the big, blue couch enjoying the tree which is up and twinkling while Joni sings through the speakers, “Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.”

I forgot about my tea- as I often do- so it’s lukewarm beside me, but still steeped with warm spices that combat the weather. There is laundry to be folded and dishes to be done, but for right now, chores come second to a quiet moment. I’d just rather write to you than put the house in order.

My head is full of sparkly thoughts and familiar faces as I was lucky to see a lot of friends and some family over the course of the past few days- with more on the horizon. Everyone is the same, I find- beautiful, mismatched combinations of happy, confused, successful, busy, lost, and right-on-track souls. We all vary and that’s the part I find most beautiful. No person I know is perfect and I prefer it that way.

This night has me craving some serious “hygge” (hoo-gah), a word that encompasses the Danish spirit and habit of curating coziness in everyday spaces and moments. In pursuit of hygge, I’m all cozied up in warm socks, a big chunky cardigan, and a reindeer sweater. The table lamps are on and the ornaments on the tree project little film reels of memories in my head, mementos and tokens of past trips, handmade creations, and lasting friendships. We went with a fake tree this year, but it looks pretty real, so I don’t mind, though I do miss the smell of fresh cut pine permeating the room.

I find myself reflecting tonight. It’s been a good year, overall- imperfect, but interesting, as any year worth its salt ought to be. I learned a little and grew a lot, taking refuge in books and music like my life depended on it. My reading list has twenty books checked off, which reminds me, I need to choose a new selection, or perhaps I’ll reopen one I’ve already read. I think I could use a little handmade love from Molly Weasley or the homely hospitality of Elrond this time of year.

Or maybe it’s Maeve Binchy again. “This Year it Will Be Different”– an apt title to end a year that’s sparked some changes for me, that’s made me feel whole at times and absolutely drained in others, a year that’s led me to physical health, mental clarity, and self-acceptance more so than others have. This year was well-lived. I’ll take that and be grateful for it and wish you one just as thought provoking and inspiring in the year to come.

It’s time now, though, to reheat the kettle and hunt down some words. A world is waiting in a book on the shelf, after all, and I believe I’m overdue for a visit.

Cozy Posts · Nostalgic Posts

My Desk

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Well hello there, you! This morning, I am sitting at my desk in what we call “The Big Room”. The desk, a scuffed up IKEA dining table bought by Mike’s roommate sometime in 2011, has served many functions over the years and has more than a few scars to show for it. It is imbued with the soul that comes from years of multipurpose use. It has served as a dining table, a catch-all for clutter, a boardgame and puzzle surface, an art studio, an interview office, a Friendsgiving buffet, a Christmas tree stand, and a TV stand, among other things I can’t recall. I am sure it is embedded with heat stains and maybe even a little grease from Williamsburg Pizza boxes and the condensation of water rings from ice cold bottles of Lagunitas IPA and Bell’s Two Hearted, fresh from the bodega down the street on Union Avenue.

When we first moved back to New Jersey, we used it as our dining table for a little while until my parents visited briefly during the pandemic to drop off some essential supplies and my mom laughed at how small it looked in the space. And so, our little, old table was retired from high traffic use and replaced by a newer, bigger, blander model from Amazon. I squirrelled the old one away in the laundry room for a while until its current purpose dawned on me. Afterall, every writer needs a desk. Wasn’t I a writer once?

Nestled in the corner of the Big Room, topped with a jar displaying two Harry Potter wands that my cousin and her husband made for me, a rock my sister brought back from Ireland, some 40-watt soft-white lamplight, and a pink, paper box of my nana’s that contains my writing books, this space is my main access to creation. It is rare that I sit at my desk and feel any sort of writer’s block. It has helped me through blog posts, fiction projects, plot holes, a play, poems, greeting cards, resumes, cover letters, emails, and even text messages. When I’m feeling unmotivated and uninspired, the awareness to sit down at my desk weighs on me and pressures productivity. And, like the drunk, scarred, slob that it is, it isn’t quiet about it.

My Desk

I like writing in the Big Room with the curtains drawn and the table lamps on. It’s cozy and dark and when I turn the heat up or bundle up in chunky-knit sweaters and sweatpants with a mug of tea near at hand, it’s even warm. Perhaps the best characteristics about the room however, for the purpose of writing, are that we don’t sleep in here for much of the year and that I can close the door to distraction.

In his memoir, “On Writing”, Stephen King mentions the importance of writing a first draft with the door closed. I am easily distracted and when my focus is interrupted, it starfishes onto something new and the suction can be a force to be reckoned with. If I am sitting up in the main area of our home, my closed door is represented by a large pair of headphones. That being said, being able to close a physical door comes in handy for me.

The Big Room is usually where we put guests when they come to visit. It has more space for luggage, kids, and pets. It even has a desk and a comfortable chair. I originally intended for the Big Room to be “our room” and hung our two framed wedding pictures on the wall, but by the time it got really cold our first year of living here, we learned pretty quickly that the little room holds heat in much better and so we make an annual migration in the fall and spring between the two. And so, our guests are stuck with us looking all glammed up when they stay in the Big Room. I guess I’ll just apologize for our not looking quite that pretty all the time!

Anyway, I’m using this post as a warm-up to jump back into a fiction project and I feel like it’s time to switch gears now. I’ll take a little break and make some tea and then come right back and get to work. Old Pizza Stains McDenty Face has me on the clock and my attention’s good and starfished.

Cozy Posts · Poetry

Comfort on the Homefront

Beth DeFries1 Comment

A cozy, quiet evening,

swallowed early by the dark;

there’s bluegrass in the speakers

and a distant twilight bark.

Arrivals sail across the sky,

bound for Jamaica, Queens.

There’s comfort on the homefront;

it felt right to set the scene:

pumpkins by the TV,

cards upon the shelf,

socks with knitted patterns,

and a mug to warm myself.

Dinner’s fast approaching

and there’s pinot noir to share.

There’s comfort on the homefront

and I thought I’d bring you there.

Cozy Posts

October Postcard

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

It’s October-proper October, with its changing colors, crunchy leaves, and clouds that paint a gray scale on the sky like an art class assignment with splashes of periwinkle where the colors got too mixed. The heat’s still off, but there’s a chill inside that calls for tea and so, I’ll put the kettle on. This morning feels Darjeeling-y to me or “Darling”-y as my friend Kelsey might say, so a darling morning it shall be.

I’m drowning in an old sweater, but it’s a favorite so it still felt right to choose it from the drawer this morning and pull it on, familiar in its soft feel and deep orange hue. Today needs to be an editing day for a second draft of a play that I don’t know what to do with once it’s finished which is why it is not finished and such a day calls for being cozy. The writing is the part that I understand. The rest is a learning process that feels like school on a day there’s a test I didn’t study for. The words are out of my head and that was the point. Any other points that follow are just gifts as far as I am concerned.

I’ve always loved October. October is for reading and Crock-Pot dinners and long hikes along crisp trails. It’s for writing about color and family and mysterious goings-on. It’s for sweatshirts on the beach and cold sand under bare feet. And this particular October, I turn thirty-three, a number I have no notions about whatsoever, a number that just is, and that’s alright with me.

Thirty-two was good and great and fine, challenging and interesting, awkward and confident, revelatory and strong. It was a year for change and writing, for spontaneous adventure and wanderlust, for mindset shifts, new wheels, and a new reflection.

There were strengthened ties with acquaintances that became friends, dinners and drinks and walks, belly laughs, and little smiles. And now it’s October again, another year around the thermonuclear reactor nearly complete and only life to show for it.

It’s hard to keep up with everyone and that’s part of why I write posts like this here. For the ones who have kept up, you’ve kept me from the lonely side of writing and there are not enough thank yous for that. For the ones who haven’t so much, I hope you are all well and I’d love to hear from you sometime, no matter how long it’s been.

My friend, Katherine, sends me postcards from her travels and last week I found Edinburgh sitting right there in the mailbox. I read her words in her handwriting and enjoyed the little excerpts of her trip. To me, it doesn’t really matter what picture adorns a postcard; recent ones always go on the fridge- words out. Handwritten mail is special and is protected from minimalism in my house. A friend’s handwriting and their carefully chosen words are connections to be valued; they are love and thoughtfulness in written form. It has me thinking it’s been a while since I’ve written a card just because and, who knows, maybe October will be a month for some snail mail.

Books · Cozy Posts · Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

Mice Skating

Beth DeFries1 Comment

Fingers skate across letters,

Ideas buried in white.

I shovel at snowbanks,

Digging for what I’ll write.

I look up and imagine

Figures gliding ‘cross the screen,

Angelina and her friends –

Rodential, yet serene.

I’m transported to the past

On the couch by dad’s side

As he read us a book

Like he did most nights.

The stories flood to mind

And the favorites among them:

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Mary Anne and Mike Mulligan,

George and his friend

In the big, yellow hat,

Christmas in the Country,

And Frieda, the cat,

Shoes, Nurse Nancy, and The Big Red Barn–

Some, Golden-spined stories,

Most- used, full of charm.

My dad would make voices

As he read each line,

Never half-hearted,

No matter how many times.

He read us those stories

And they never got old

And Angelina was warmth

On nights that were cold,

Drinking cocoa in the kitchen

in the glow of the fire,

Figure skates left to dry-

My favorite picture to admire.

And it’s time for this rhyme

To go to sleep for the night,

But it’ll be here to revisit

Whenever you like.

Cozy Posts · Nostalgic Posts

Home of the Great

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I remember being small at the house on Neptune Avenue,

The kitchen’s brown and white floor tiles – cold on bare, little, pink toes in the early morning,

Gray light filtering through embroidered curtains,

Casting an emerald jewel over the sink where the shamrock stained glass hung.

I remember the table under the windows topped with a lamp, pristine cloth, and occupied, melamine ashtray

And fearing the swipe of Inkspot’s front claws as he perched on the table with prideful defiance,

A gleaming panther in the cold sun, daring enough to live a little in spite of the photos displayed on the wall beside him-

An homage to pets long gone.

Shannon the Great Pyrenees liked to sleep in the walkway between the kitchen and dining room,

Our languid polar bear babysitter.

We’d climb over her, she- a mountain of white fur and a waggling pink tongue,

But she never seemed to mind us when we buried our little hands in her fluff,

Or scaled over her one chubby leg at a time, running in circles around the first floor.

We’d sneak slices of yellow American cheese from the refrigerator in the laundry room

And watch cartoons in Brepa’s old chair,

Presided over by the oil painting of the Madonna and child,

But we never let them choose the show,

Their gazes clouded with many decades worth of nicotine stains.

I wonder what they liked best on Nickelodeon.

We knew how to turn the silver dials on the brown TV set

Because there were limited options that we could wrap our molding brains around.

We bounced on the squashy, springy seat cushion of the arm chair,

A pile of giggles and twirled pigtails,

If we were lucky enough for Aunt Arlene to curl our hair the night before.

I remember the hi-fi along the back wall of the dining room,

The one with my mom’s baby teeth marks in it

And the concealed Ouija board beneath.

I remember studying the countless framed photographs up the wall along the staircase

And Aunt Arlene telling me not to complain about getting my tangled hair brushed

Because Natalie didn’t complain about getting her hair brushed.

There was a mirror by the front door,

But I’d have to jump to see anything other than the reflection of the ceiling in it.

Shadow was a stray tabby who’d visit from time to time for a snack.

“She made her way around the block”, the parents would say,

Whatever that meant, I’d think, trying to decipher the mysteries of adult conversation.

Shadow had kittens in a box on the porch one time.

“Mine” was gray and had six toes on his paws, but he died quick,

I forget his name.

I never thought about death before that,

But I guess Jersey City’s a tough enough place,

Let alone for a fresh feline.

At the time, I thought it had something to do with his extra toes and was relieved to have the normal amount.

The living room had the quilted, Irish hanging tapestry, embroidered with names of family and friends.

It was also where we named Sunshine,

The orange tabby who replaced Inkspot once his photo was added to the display in the kitchen.

We were four little girls laying on the floor, swinging our feet back and forth in the air,

Deep in thought in a matter of such importance,

Round cheeks propped up on plump palms.

I remember watching Sister Act and My Fair Lady a lot

Because those were the only VHS tapes available in the house.

I remember Katherine, Janice, Carol, and the McGinns.

I remember holding my breath when the Marlboros announced their presence on the porch,

Tom’s banana toothpaste in the morning and at night,

And squeaky clean hair.

There were St. Patrick’s Day Birthday parties

And the train set beneath the Christmas tree –

The shelf in the second floor bathroom- overflowing with haircare products,

Car rides with no seatbelt in the middle,

The tiny American Flag on the antenna, flapping in the wind,

The Garden Song on a loop-

We are made of dreams and bones.

The greatest of the Greats

Had patience for us beyond what she had for our parents.

She curled our hair

And loved us to pieces finer than the scrambledest eggs you’ve ever eaten.

I remember being small at the house on Neptune Avenue

With a life so much bigger than I could see.

The view was higher than I could jump.

I’d have to grow to appreciate it.

I’m tall enough now to look in the mirror and look the past straight on in the present,

Able to recognize the magic of a moment,

The lasting quality of the fleeting,

The memory of the lost.

The feel of cold tiles,

The scent of cigarette smoke and hairspray,

And ringlet curls-

Links to a past, present life that seems so far away now.