Gold+Ivy

Non-hippie (but crunchy!) granola

2010-06-23T12:27:00.000-07:00

Despite attending Yale School of Forestry, I don't like granola. My dislike stems mostly from a deep-seated hatred of raisins, a fixture in most ready-made granola.

That all changed last year. I wanted to send my sister a care package at school and, while perusing the aisles of Whole Foods saw a box of chocolate granola. Though it cost $7 a box, I bought it (not surprising, given my well-documented adoration of chocolate in all forms). And then I shamefully ate it myself. It was life-altering.

Being on a student budget and all, I thought making my own might be much more cost-effective. I found this fabulous recipe, courtesy of Orangette. Some actually made it to
Philadelphia and my sister loved it. I have been making my own chocolate granola ever since. It's so cost-effective with bulk almonds, coconut and rolled oats at any health food store. Also, in a bind, you can use instant oats. It is amazing as is, but over the year, I've come up with some excellent variations:

- Adding banana chips and substituting milk chocolate for the darker chocolate
- Nixing the dark chocolate for white chocolate and dried cherries (which don't offend me nearly as much as raisins!)
- Dried blueberries and very dark chocolate
- Hazelnuts and milk chocolate

Have fun! This simple but delicious recipe lends itself to value-add creativity. And I also strongly suggest doubling the recipe! I always have some on hand. It makes a great gift if you are a houseguest or as a thank you.

Things I learned about apple crisp and the best $20 you'll ever spend

2010-06-14T17:52:00.000-07:00

For various reasons, I found myself burdened with eight super ripe apples this week. What did I decide to do? Bake an apple crisp, of course!

I ran into some trouble a few minutes in, when I realized I lacked not only cinnamon but also oats. So I threw in some apples, lemon, water, honey, some weird 8 grain cereal my housemate has, walnuts, brown sugar and a bit of butter. How bad could it be? Apple crisp turned out to be fairly forgiving and pretty delicious, in fact. Especially with some vanilla ice cream. Doesn't seem too fattening, either. More like a baked apple dissected than a baked good.

I topped it with a bit of chocolate sauce too. I use Jacques Torres hot chocolate mix, melted with a tiny bit of milk. Actually, I use it on everything - yogurt, ice cream, frozen yogurt, cakes, mixed with fruit compote (which is just frozen fruit defrosted) when I'm feeling a bit chubs but want something sweet. It's a bit pricey (~$20 for a tin - available here) but lasts forever and is AMAZING! And, according the box, it has more antioxidants than a cup of green tea. So health-conscious.

Guilty Pasta

2010-06-14T07:19:00.000-07:00

The last couple weeks have involved some serious eating: between the graduation of a major beef lover and all the associated celebrations, the 30th birthday of his equally hungry brother (celebrated with at least six separate meals), and a bachelorette party full of chocolate-covered everything, there was no way to justify a major meal last night. That said, I wanted a major meal. Like pasta. With butter and cheese.

In the interest of assuaging both guilt and craving, I tweaked last week's Bittman recipe for pasta with peas, prosciutto, and lettuce (visit it here: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/16/dining/16mini.html) by cutting out most of the butter, and instead of flour-based pasta, using zucchini "fettuccine" as my base. Much less labor-intensive than making true pasta, all this involved was a potato peeler and a couple of firm, fresh zucchini.

Guilty Zucchini Pasta with Peas and Lettuce

(and for the carnivores, Crispy Prosciutto)

Ingredients:

2 large, firm zucchini
~1/2 Tbs butter (more if you'd like it richer; Bittman included a tablespoon or so of evoo as well)
1 large shallot, finely chopped
1/2- 2/3 box of frozen peas
1 head of butter or boston lettuce, tough/bruised exterior leaves removed, ripped into bite-sized pieces
~1/3 cup broth or white wine (I used chicken broth)
~1/4 cup loosely-packed freshly-grated parmesan, plus more to taste for topping
Optional: Crispy prosciutto (see the Bittman recipe- fry bite-sized pieces of prosciutto in a little oil as if bacon; drain on paper towels and use shortly thereafter)

Put on a pot of heavily salted water to boil, large enough to accommodate your zucchini. While the water warms, move on...

Make your fauxtuccine by peeling long strips-- end to end-- from your zucchini, paying some attention to the angles you create so as to peel strips of the width you want. Stop when you reach the seeds, and discard the cores. Set zucchini aside.

Melt the butter in a large pan (large because it will ultimately have to accommodate the entire dish) on medium. Add the shallot, and saute until softened.

Add peas, stirring occasionally. When peas are largely defrosted, lower heat to medium-low. Add lettuce, and stir to combine. Some pieces of my lettuce turned a less-than-appealing brown, but this did not affect the flavor. Lowering the heat will likely help to combat the brown. Complete the remaining steps swifly so that the lettuce doesn't become overly limp.

Add zucchini to boiling water. Boil for about 90 seconds- just enough to warm them up and soften them slightly.

While zucchini boils, add broth to the pan with peas and lettuce, and stir to coat. Add cheese, and stir to combine.

Remove zucchini from heat, and drain. Add the drained zucchini to the pan with peas and lettuce, and toss. Remove from heat.

Serve, garnished with additional grated parmesan, and cripsy prosciutto if you so choose.

A new leaf

2010-06-10T10:27:00.000-07:00

Time moves fast. Gold and I haven’t touched this blog since…2008! We’ve moved on. We have boyfriends (Gold is living with hers!), inklings of careers and futures. We’ve both started feeling an irresistible urge to nest. But…we’re back in school on the East Coast. Gold’s doing a JD, I’m doing a joint MBA/Master’s. We both have two years left. So, we’re both still depressingly broke. And still addicted to the finer things in life.

Thus, the blog revival. We want a repository of our great finds – and we have so many. A place where I can find Gold’s amazing stewed veggie recipe when I’m in a bind. Where we can look up great gift ideas we had for our friends weddings. Or, where we can recall the beautiful Alberta Ferretti calfskin coat I got for $80 (more on that later) on a rainy day. These are the things that make us happy.

how many polar bears will it take for me to write my thesis by Ivy

2007-03-02T12:23:00.001-08:00

So I am sitting on my porch, in only a tank top and juicy sweats, writing my thesis, which ironically contemplates the consequences of global warming. Hmm, too bad individual narratives won't fly for an honors thesis. I could write an entire paper on the negative impacts of global warming on the fashion catwalk taking place on the sidewalk in front of my house: people with flip flops and North Face vests, t-shirts and uggs, almost as if their tops and bottoms are experiencing different seasons. Or, if you're an anxious, guilty liberal like myself, your head wishes it were colder, but your body is happy. So you try to fool your head by throwing on that extra layer becuase, well, it's March 2nd. But, really, you don't need it.

Another good thing about writing outside, besides observing the effects my subject has on my peers, is that it forces me to actaully write. (Notice how I don't specify what), but I can't partake in my usual procrastination ritual of eating my entire refridgerator content. I guess there's an upside to everything.

2007-03-02T12:23:00.000-08:00

So I am sitting on my porch, in only a tank top and juicy sweats, writing my thesis, which ironically contemplates the consequences of global warming. Hmm, too bad individual narratives won't fly for an honors thesis. I could write an entire paper on the negative impacts on the fashion catwalk taking place on the sidewalk in front of my house: people with flip flops and North Face vests, t-shirts and uggs, almost as if their tops and bottoms are experiencing different seasons.

Another good thing about writing outside, besides observing the effects my subject has on my peers, is that it forces me to actaully write. (Notice how I don't specify what), but I can't partake in my usual procrastination ritual of eating my entire refridgerator content. I guess there's an upside to everything.

Ivy's non dilemma dilemma

2006-12-14T22:24:00.000-08:00

Let's get our hands dirty, shall we?

I have been thinking a lot lately about Next Year. In my anxiousness, I have also been contacted/contacted many of my friends and peers who have already been there. Here's the dilemma: do I take the job with the big consulting firm or not? I know, boo hoo, but it's a pretty big life decision. Do I make money for two years, take all of my vacation, work until all hours of the night, learn BS 101 like the back of my hand? Or, do I hold out for something better? Can I find something better? This is two years of my twenties. When else will I be young and fresh? never!

I am truly torn. So torn, in fact, that I cannot even bring myself to look at the blank sheet of paper that I hope will magically turn into a 15-page reaseach proposal which will result in my final grade for a course. I find all of this is severely pressurized and depressing. I have decided that I should just move somewhere fabulous and work it out. Paris? London? I have a great school to back me up, a good GPA (before tomorrow), and some great experience. I try to tell myself that I can take the job or leave it, but I'm not so sure. It's difficult when everyone I know is off to New York to do ibanking or consulting and make $70,000 off the bat. The Ivy League makes us so confident and unsure at the same time. It's also hard when your parents are cutting you off next year, so I'll need that money to survive....

Anyway, I may as well go out with a bang. Having procrastinated the day away by shopping, the gym, painting my nails, going to dinner with my roommate, and you name it, it is time for me to write this paper. Maybe long nights at the office will not be a problem for me.

Just Because You're All in Your PJs Doesn't Mean This Is Your Bedroom. Gold Moans.

2006-12-01T11:43:00.000-08:00

I am guilty: I've left my room in spandex and not headed straight for the gym. Nope, not at all: I went and got some tea, said hello to my boyfriend at work, and settled into a big, square desk I had all to myself at the library.

All to myself, that is, until another girl in spandex decided to spread herself and all her crap all over the table: notebooks, a huge crinkly bag of chocolates she reaches into every 5 seconds, a water bottle that makes strange sucking sounds when she drinks from it and snaps back loudly as soon as she is finished, large tomes I should have read for long-passed classes but never quite got around to... But this is college, and it is her prerogative to work, hydrate, and keep up her sugar levels while at the library.

What is not her prerogative, however, is to breathe like a drowning, anxious, asthmatic giraffe. Periodically-- and not quite regularly enough to ignore-- she sucks air in like she has just come across one of the last remaining vestigial pockets of the Earth's atmosphere, and her only chance at survival. How sad, poor thing, you think-- but no, I say, the rest of the time she breaths normally. Her respiratory system seems to be just fine. No reason for pity. I am here in the library on a FRIDAY (this has not happened for years) because I have so much work to do, and she is so distracting that she has DRIVEN ME TO BLOG. Oh, the unimaginable horrors.

On an at best minimally related note, I am currently mired in a great philosophical quandary: does the legging trend make it OK to go through life in spandex, or make it worse? You see, before the trend, it was athletic wear worn outside of its intended context: not the best choice, but at least referential to some fabulously active life you might have outside of the brick walls of the library; however, now, is it assumed to be an attempt at a fashion statement? A misinterpretation-- or worse, bastardisation-- of a rampant trend?

Fashion pariah or so-athletic-I've-forgotten-non-stretching-clothes-exist, I'm comfortable. If only she'd stop with the breathing...

Autobiography of an Ex-Andersen Cog by Ivy

2006-11-21T14:05:00.000-08:00

Walking through the campus bookstore today, I passed by Denzel Washington’s new autobiography and it occurred to me that everyone who has amassed any sort of fame has convinced themselves that the world would like to know some more about them. I think anyone else's life would make a much more fascinating read. We all know how glamorous, dark, and exciting being a movie star is. Denzel happened to get lucky. I personally would rather hear about the more odd choices in career and lifestyle. ". . .when I was 16, I discovered an undying love for accounting. I was watching my mother calculate her budget (and make sure her new shoes weren't put through until next week) for the week and the numbers just seemed so exciting. From that moment on, I took every single math class I could in high school, eager to learn how to catergorize numbers and rename transactions. This lead me to apply to business school. Since my entire family went to Penn, and I had been an avid math student, I was able to attend Wharton and concentrate in Accounting and Management. My biggest break, however, came when I landed the ultra-competitive internship with KPMG between my junior and senior year. I think it was due mainly to my suave suit I bought while studying abroad in Paris. I noticed the attractive young interviewer eyeing my cleavage across the desk and had my future not been on the line, I would have made a bold move and jumped him. . ." The stories people would tell. I guess that's what blogging is for.

Anyway, it's almost Thanksgiving break and I am sitting in the library not wanting to research my research paper. Most people have gone home for the week and those who haven't are already deep into the second margharita of happy hour. It's funny how much I drag my feet about schoolwork but how much I know I'll miss it Next Year.

day of the dead

2006-10-31T09:56:00.000-08:00

so, today is officially halloween. and, in the library today, when i saw an ex flame who is possibly the hunkiest man on campus, i officially looked like a waking dead. oh, how my life follows murphey's law impeccably.

anyway, unlike gold, i was unable to make it out this weekend, due to an unfortunate case of jet lag and dry skin from several planes in three days, too much sun in miami over fall break, and the bomb of schoolwork which has just shattered my life. But, hey, tuesday night is as good as any to make it up. besides, tuesday (if you are a senior or in the know) is the new saturday here.

meanwhile, i desperately need to find a sexy costume. unfortunately for everyone else who must see me in said costume (as the bare minimum of clothing is the cardinal rule for halloween costumes), the past month has brought on several bouts of binge-eating everything in sight in order to put off...well, let's be honest, life. i havent been this fat in ages. sometimes it actually feels good. so this is what the worst case scenerio feels like. it's pretty bad, don't get me wrong, but it's not life-shattering. I mean, hey, I still have the confidence to dress my excess 15 lbs up and strutt my stuff tonight. maybe that's more an avoidance mechanism then anything else, but at least it's something.

Gold's musings

2006-10-29T19:30:00.000-08:00

This weekend was holloween. Or, to be more exact, the weekend that those of us for whom it is innappropriate to go trick-or-treating door to door celebrate as such (think about it: it's an important distinction. When exactly did holloween become about wearing as little as possible and drinking enough to maintain an acceptable body temperature?). The number of girls who wore underwear and animal ears was absolutely amazing, as was the fact that every single conceivable uniform now has some sexy, booby-bearing incarnation. Nurse and doctor, sure, but also firefighter, cable repairman, cop, pilot, mortuary worker...

As much as I resent holloween becoming an excuse to go through life as if it were soft-core porn, there's something nice about a holiday that grows up with you. We lose santa, the tooth fairy, the easter bunny... but now we get to wear teddies, stilettos, and bunny ears and call ourselves dressed. Hopefully you're slighly classier than that (perhaps some matte black stockings with that bustier, maybe a neglige that actually covers your ass, or -- imagine! -- a costume that actually looks like what it claims to be), but at least the option is out there and ostensibly socially acceptable. Live it up, because eventually we'll be donning the adult-sized version of the Friendly Witch costume and walking tinkerbell and superman around the neighborhood.

The Duo, by Gold

2006-10-17T19:24:00.000-07:00

As has become painfully obvious in the handful of entries we have written thus far, Ivy and I are... shall we say... apprehensive about Next Year, when we are unleashed upon the real world, or perhaps more accurately, the real world is unleashed upon us. More poignant still is our fear of the cubicles and spreadsheets the real world may hold for us. This summer, while I was off in a far away land, doing research and holding on desperately to the last remaining shreds of my liberal arts education, Ivy was in a Big City, temporarily exploring the world of power suits and board rooms. I checked my e-mail in a little internet cafe next to the strip club below our apartment (class was temporarily put on hold at selected moments this summer, but let me explain- research grants only go so far, particularly if one's own funds are intended exclusively for the purchase of items fabulously on sale), and Ivy checked hers within the felt-padded walls of her cube. I received this e-mail from her just as a more structured life started to seem appealing. Evidently the grass is always greener, but this e-mail is a reminder that the greenish tones emitted by fluorescent lighting do NOT qualify, in fact, as actually better-kept grass. This is strictly an illusion.

Let me level with you. I have no passion for consulting. I think it’s a load of crap if you ask me. You have a bunch of undergraduate snobs from Ivy League universities telling large corporations what they know already. How often do they actually follow the advice you give? Umm, I’ll go with never. I want to go into consulting for the following reasons. 1. I have severe ADHD. I hate being on one project for an extended period of time. 2. I embarrass myself frequently. I like the idea of switching teams every few months or so. 3. I want to make money, expense everything, and travel. I believe I am better than this for my career. Ultimately, I want to end up teaching at a business school or owning my own business. Ultimately, I want to end up on the style pages. I am far too glamorous for an office job.

But for now, consulting will suffice. I have been educated at an elite university, and I have four years of education loans which need to be paid off. I have to help pay for my sister’s education. Oh, and I really, really like to shop. I am a full fledged addict. You can’t afford that on a publishing or a starting- your- own- business salary. I might as well apply. So you see, I don’t apply out of enthusiasm but out of necessity. But enough of that. Let me write what you are expecting to hear.

Dear whomever,

It is with utmost enthusiasm that I submit my resume for consideration for the “business analyst/eager learner/whatever bs name you give those at the bottom of the totem pole.” As I gained knowledge about [insert firm’s name here] through the information session on campus and by speaking with Sally Stodgy and Franky Fugly at [Firm’s Name’s] information session on campus, my interest in becoming a dreary suit-wearing, bs-ing, boring consultant was piqued. I will graduate in May from Big Shot U with a Bachelor of Arts in XXX.

You may be thinking that my major and concentration have nothing to do with consulting. Oh my goodness, you’re right! But let me just state that I never do work, so don’t worry. It’s not like I’ve been taught to think the wrong way. I haven’t been taught at all. All I’ve gotten is a sense of entitlement which comes from bumping elbows with people who think they are better looking, more glamorous, and more stylish than movie stars. News flash: we are. We’re too smart to ever go out for Hollywood. They’re all white trash there.

Anyway, back to the point. I do have internships which can be stretched to relate to whatever gauzy job description you have posted. But why bother? You can read my resume just fine. You can read English, can’t you? Oh wait, you’re probably one of those ambiguously illiterate yet brilliant at number crunching Asians. And basically, all anyone really does at an internship anyway is bitch work. And, oh yeah, write faux- enthusiastic cover letters about all the incredible stuff they should be accomplishing. I deserve this job because, well, I’m awesome. I’d probably be the most stylish person at your office. And your clients need some eye candy, don’t they? I’ll make you sad bunch look good.

I don’t think I’d really enjoy talking with you that much but if it will get me a job for two years, I will. I bet this cover letter was a million times better than all the ass-kissing ones you’ve got to read now.

About blooming time, Gold

2006-09-24T16:18:00.000-07:00

I, Gold, am a chronic procrastinator. Mmm, it feels good to get that off my chest. While this may simply be synonymous with "college student," I think I may have a particularly pathetic and acute case. So pathetic, in fact, that I have put off my inaugural posting for almost a month. No, better still: I am procrastinating episode eight of the first season of Gray's Anatomy with this post. Just imagine how full my beautiful canvas laundry bin is these days. Lowest of the low.

Senior year has hit me hard, and shockingly so. In so many ways, life couldn't be better: with senior year came senior housing, which has afforded me a beautiful suite with lovely dark wood accents, a furnished common room that belongs far closer to Better Homes and Gardens than the average (no futons, thank you very much), the wisdom to display eighteen of my most beautiful pairs of shoes in a shoe rack hung outside of my closet door (such an improvement over under the bed, under the desk, on the desk... and ever so pleasing to the eye), and my purses in their sharp dust bags (oh, the beauty that lies within) on an ingenious contraption of elastics and hooks on the other side of the door courtesy of Bed, Bath and Beyond. Perhaps if I drone on with decided glee about the wonders and glories of my surroundings you can humor me and overlook my general confusion about the rest of my life, the aspects of myself that are supposed to matter and bring substance and satisfaction to my existence. But the shoes really do look so beautiful, and life is so much nicer when you can find exactly the right ballet flat to match your gold brocade mini skirt, purchased whilst summering in Europe at the D&G down the street...

Much like Ivy, I, too, recently got belligerent, the only difference being that I chose to rely on the word "kablammered" to describe my extreme state of intoxication. I find the word utterly ridiculous, and felt this was what made it so deeply appropriate a descriptor. Two sad and weak drinks into my night, I found myself at a party themed after some long-gone TV show featuring macho men with their shirts unbuttoned to reveal more chest hair than should ever be seen on an individual at any one time outside of the bedroom or Daytona Beach. Or any beach for that matter, but that one seemed particularly grizzly. With my own breasts exposed to shocking extents (oh, the pressure to fit in), I reportedly spent the majority of my night fondling the chest of a close guy friend, and dancing like someone trying her very hardest to ruin whatever shred of reputation she might have had left. They say I was a hit.

I say "reportedly" because an hour or so into the evening, I remember nothing, until memories begin to creep back in starting with me pondering my drunk food choices at 7-11 two hours later with my boyfriend, who has the patience of a god. Or anything else you can think of that's very, very patient. What is this? But I belong to that small sector of socially-capable people who go to this university, the small, rotating cast that appears at every party worth being at and stays until the venue has been drunk dry! While the rest of our peers spend their hours deep in the library stacks hoping to set the curve on their next physics exam, we make this place rock, sacrificing stilettos to the cobble stones, GPAs to social interraction, and livers to, well, College (or, more appropriately, C-O-L-L-E-G-E). Those two drinks not only left me blackout drunk, but also, days later, continue to sting my pride. Have I not developed a more respectable tolerance in my years as a social being on this campus? Or... another hypothesis... was the sea of freshman girls-- some painfully awkward, some painfully well-dress and put together, unclear which was worse-- simply too much for me, so much so that I began to block out the evening and the resulting psychological trauma (perhaps shortly before counting on my good friend Vodka to blur the class of 2010 into obscurity)?

Being a senior is strange. But nothing great clothes and a killer senior thesis can't make up for.

another week by ivy

2006-09-17T20:11:00.000-07:00

So it's Sunday night when I should be reading all about Kohlberg and his theory of moral development but instead I am feeling sad, fat, and reflective. So I have decided to lie in my deliciously comfortable bed with my adorable Mac and write in a blog which, I have decided, is only marginally less productive than reading Kohlberg and preparing my presentation.

Last night I got belligerent. (For all of you who do not attend C-O-L-L-E-G-E COLLEGE, "belligerent" means wasted to the point of well, beligerence). I danced like Elaine from Seinfeld in a bar, I imparted secret information to strangers, I decided everyone I saw that I may or may not have vaguely known was my new best friend. And, in my classiest of moves, I wandered around a party holding a full handle of vodka. Now I wonder why I'm feeling like a beached whale. I don't know where such behavior comes from. I have never gotten so belligerent before, but now I find it is happening much more often, not just to me but my friends as well. I have already rejected the 'late bloomer' theory. I might be insecure enough to only just catch onto the whole heavy drinking thing my senior year in college, but I doubt everyone I know has the same level of insecurity. Anyway, I tend to be drawn to strong people who can make the decisions for me when I am waffling.

Take my roommate of two years, for example. Let's call her Muffy. She is a classic rules girl. Preppy, smart, pretty, rich, friendly, sweet. People fall in love with her right away. She has never succuumbed to the ivy league anorexia that tends to plague attractive perfectionists. She knows exactly what she likes and wants and exactly who her friends are, and that is it. She is always nice but she dosen't bother with much else. Anyway, last night she got belligerent too. So much so that she vomited in her boyfriend's room and decided to sleep on the kitchen floor. Of course, as she has this magnetic hold over boys, he is so in love with her that he slept right there with her, but that's not the point. What is going on here? Muffy is the essence of class. I think the thing is that everyone is scared of "next year" so we are all dumbing ourselves down to live out the rest of college in ignorant, drunken bliss. Maybe we are afraid that we'll never again get an excuse to wake up at 12pm and with a massive hangover curable only by a disgustingly greasy egg and cheese sandwich and we had better use this get-out-of-jail-free card ASAP. Where else will you get ridiculous stories to tell at the watercooler in a gray, florescent-lit office?

by ivy

2006-08-24T18:17:00.000-07:00

gold and i decided it was time to begin sharing our semi-glamorous lives with the rest of the world. we decided to jump on the bandwagon and start a blog.

our identities are secret, like international women of mystery. which we are.

combined, we have visited over 15 different countries and speak four languages. and we are still under 25.

that, and we are still students in two ivy league schools. which means we are poor. and our parents aren't helping, because, well, they are too busy paying for our premium and expensive educations.

the catch is that we are snobs. complete snobs. we adore travel, expensive clothes, luxury surroundings, and fine food. this blog is about us as we struggle in the transition from school to real world, and as we balance our love for the good life and our immeninent lack of funds. while some in our situations might take the easy way out and pick one of many trust fund babies we attend school with to marry and live off of interest, we dream instead of creating a retail concept together one day in the near future, where we can fill the void of good taste, european ambiance, and accessible luxury. our taste, we have decided, is far too exsquisite and quirky not to share. and we are far too stir-crazy to ever be satisfied with an "easy" life. trophy wives are so 1950's. and not in a retro- good way. in a very bad way. the world needs powerful, intelligent women with a drive to succeed. our parents are not spending their life savings on an ivy league pedigree for us to settler for someone else's money. when i was little, i dreamed of becoming a veterinarian. when gold was young, she dreamed of saving the world through environmental law. we eventually realized we can't save the world, but we can make it feel beautiful. and that's what we do best.

gold and i grew up down the street from one another. as you will see in the coming posts, our friendship runs deep, fueled by late night walks, phone conversations as the most successful mode of procrastination, and an all around complete understanding of one another.