I haven’t blogged properly about my whole vegan adventure, but I will say it’s been almost two months since Beloved and I gave up meat, fish and dairy, and we feel pretty damn good. Also, my skin looks better than it has done in years, and I’ve definitely got more energy.

We hadn’t really planned to do this permanently. We were reading The China Study, a book by a Nutritional Biochemist at Cornell who believes there is incontrovertible scientific evidence directly linking diseases in the West like cancer and heart disease, to the amount of animal protein we eat.

(Interestingly, my unwell friend has some great books by Kris Carr - a young woman who was diagnosed with cancer, and decided to fight it through changing her life. In her book, Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips, she too went vegan, and quotes The China Study. My unwell friend told me cancer loves sugar, and I am trying to persuade her to go vegan and give up the hard stuff. But I think she may just love her Munson’s chocolate too much…)

Beloved and I thought we’d try the vegan thing for a couple of weeks, and after two weeks we felt so good, we didn’t want to stop. Two months later, we are loving it. As a cook, I am also permanently excited about what to prepare. There are a whole new set of challenges, and I have found it easy to make delicious, satisfying meals, where meat no longer has a part.

We eat out a lot, and surprisingly, this hasn’t been a particularly big deal either. Worst case scenario is we request side dishes, but that can mean sauteed mushrooms and spinach with rice, which is fine.

We didn’t do this for ethical reasons, but we are becoming more and more aware of the impact this has on the world, and how choosing not to eat animal products leaves a far smaller carbon footprint. Beloved brought home a movie last night called Earthling, and demanded I watch, to fully understand man’s inhumanity to animals, but I refused. I know a little about the cruelty that is perpetrated, and once I see something tragic and disgusting, the tapes play in my mind forever. I don’t need to see it. It’s enough to know it exists.

However, I continue to serve meat for others, and twice, over the past month, I have eaten meat or fish, in situations where it was just easier. I never want to be the inconvenient guest, or the one people dread asking over, for fear of what to cook. But because my intention is vegan, when you come to my house, you will find meat or fish, but it is served as a side dish. A walk-on part, if you like. A small cameo appearance, with vegetables now being given the starring role.

My most delicious discovery is home-made pesto, without the sauce, and equally good whether made with the traditional basil, or cilantro.

1 bunch of fresh basil
2 cloves of garlic
1/2 cup toasted pine nuts (available from Trader Joe’s, or lightly toast in a dry skillet, stirring all the while so they don’t blacken)
good splash of olive oil
small splash of lemon juice
salt and pepper

I stick everything in the Cuisinart and pulse. You don’t want it blended to a sauce, but fairly thick - add more oil if you need to thin it out. I love it stirred into short grain brown rice, which is nutty and sticky, with flax seeds sprinkled over the top.

I have some fantabulous chick pea fritters that I will post up soon, but am running out to have coffee with The Beautiful Guru. (Of course I still drink coffee. Yes, yes, and alcohol too. I’m vegan, not nuts…)

I walked into the chemo ward the other week to see my unwell friend, and couldn’t see her anywhere. Then, rounding a corner, I spotted this on the chair, and I knew I’d found her.

Because only my friend would have a bag as great as this. The bag was a gift from another friend of hers, and was given to her as a ‘chemo bag’: the perfect bag to house blankets, books, magazines, i-pods, candies, lunch, and any other essentials for those long trips to hospital. I’m ashamed to say that the bag and I instantly looked at one another, and we fell in love.

I surreptitiously looked at the label while she was in the loo, and it is made by Mystique, the maker of the gorgeous sandals I covet every Summer. Easy, I thought. By tomorrow, this bag shall be mine. I went home and got on the web, and several hours later, had not tracked down the bag. I thought it would be rude to ask my friend where it came from, but my obsession got the better of me, and I sheepishly asked.

It was from Bungalow, an interior design store in town that sadly doesn’t have a website, but if you are in the Westport area and you are looking for anything for your home, or clever and super stylish gifts, I recommend you head over to Sconset Square immediately. Everything in there is stunning, and it is without question my favorite design store in the area.

But it is very crowded. You need to breathe in and take a very small handbag. I always go in with my very large bag, and end up sending merchandise flying round the store. I walk around apologising constantly for knocking things over and ruining their displays.

I spent a good hour in there, checking out all the nooks and crannies, looking for my bag, but there was so sign of it.

Turns out they only got one in.

So I’m appealing to you for help. If anyone comes across this bag, can they let me know? Because, as you all know, a desperate woman can’t sleep until she is reunited with her love.

Photographs by Tracy Ketcher

I have been thinking a lot recently, about love. Last week I found myself in the audience of a Rufus Wainwright concert at Yale, and I was struck, once again, at the overwhelming feeling of love in the room. The Wainwrights are a spectacularly talented lot: Loudon Wainwright is the father, Rufus and Martha the children, Kate McGarrigle the mother, and assorted relatives, including Sloan, the aunt (who opened for Rufus at Yale, and whose voice has such resonance and beauty it brings tears to my eyes) make up this extraordinary family.

All photographs by Tracy Ketcher

I do not do concerts anymore, and I am not someone who is impressed by celebrity, but I am deeply impressed with talent. After discovering the Wainwrights a few years ago, I go in to the city once a year for their annual Christmas concert at Carnegie Hall, and am always awestruck by the feeling of love and connection in the audience.

I went to this concert, as I always do, with The Horsey Girl and her step-daughter, who is a brilliantly talented photographer. She got to sit up at the front and take these photos which I adore - not just because they are beautiful photos, but because for me, they capture the cheekiness of Rufus Wainwright, and I do think that great photography is so much about capturing the essence of your subject.

I have loved my moody beach picture which is my current publicity shot, but everyone tells me it doesn’t capture ‘me’ at all, and so I have asked the wonderful Tracy to come and take some new photos of me, which she will be doing in a couple of weeks - I cannot wait… Will post them when I have them to see what you think. In the meantime, you can see her work at www.tracyketcher.com.

Recently I have written that I have come to realise that Love is a verb. That it requires acts of love. And these past few weeks I have seen it in motion. One of my friends is unwell. Not the sort of unwell that requires climbing into bed with a hot honey and lemon and aching for a few days until you get better, but the kind of unwell that is frightening and life-changing, that requires daily trips to the hospital, that forces everyone around her to look at life with a different perspective.

I was with her last week, at the hospital, when she asked her doctor - one of the best and brightest in his field - about levels in her blood that seemed unusual. He assured us it was fine. Her brother, upon hearing the news, swiftly got on his computer, and a few hours later came up with the precise explanation as to why the levels were unusual (the news was good).

This is a man who, since the diagnosis, has devoted himself to being his sister’s advocate. He has become an extraordinary researcher, sifting through the thousands of pages of information, to find out things that you or I wouldn’t possibly know. Even doctors, even the best, cannot possibly spend all these hours discovering the very latest research, the very latest news. But this is what my friends brother has chosen to do. Every day he has more information, and every day, he holds her in his heart as he continues to prove that love is a verb.

It is awe-inspiring to watch. And inspiring. I am so very lucky to be living a life that is filled with love, every day.

I know we can’t possibly get another dog until we move to the new house, and particularly not the dog I have always wanted, which is a Scottish Deerhound.

Sighthounds - greyhounds, wolfhounds, deerhounds, borzois, lurchers etc. - will take off after pretty much any small furry moving target, and a secure fenced-in yard is a must, with the fence being over seven feet. These dogs can jump. And given that we are currently living in a rental, with no fences anywhere in sight, and many deer that would prove irresistible to a deerhound, this is not something I should be actively pursuing right now.

Baron would adore a female companion, and we keep talking about it, but we have decided that until Figless Manor is built and fenced, we will wait.

However, given my slightly obsessive compulsive nature, I while away many hours on Petfinder.org, looking for the perfect Scottish Deerhound. A wonderful website for rescue animals, it lists animals in shelters all over the country who are looking for homes.

This afternoon, I did my usual search for Scottish Deerhounds, and came up with this:

This is Togie. And I quote here- “A Scottish Deerhound Collie Cross”.

Seriously. Togie was the first picture that came up.

I’m sure Togie, aged six, is a wonderful dog, but what on earth compelled anyone  to think there was an ounce of Scottish Deerhound in him? Was it the fact he has four paws, perhaps? A nose?

Personally I’d say he’s probably a Beagle cross. I might throw in an oodle of some kind, not because there is any poodle in him, but it’s so damned trendy, calling him a Beagoodle, or a Bassoodle might find him a home more quickly.

If you can give Togie a home, click on his name above. Me? I’m going to have to wait another couple of years until we’re ready for the real deal…

I am not a big hairdresser kind of person. I’m fantastically disloyal, and even more low-maintenance. I might go to a hairdresser once a year, but most of the time when my ends are looking a bit straggly, I pull the kitchen scissors out and whack off the ends.

Last week The Sherpa turned round and said, ‘The Blonde’s hairdresser is flying in from LA, and coming here to cut some hair. He’s doing mine, do you want yours done?’

Naturally I said yes, not least because The Blonde, aka my sister-in-law, has great hair. Also because I last snipped the ends off a couple of weeks ago and I was pretty certain it was completely wonky.

I got back from spending the day with The Eskimo (feeling slightly guilty. She is a Munson’s chocolate addict - local chocolatier - and the Beautiful Guru handed me a box of Munsons on Sunday and told me to give them to The Eskimo.

I was planning to, really I was, and I still plan to, but they were on the hall table, and I couldn’t help but fish just one out the side, and now they’re still there, and OH GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE SAVE ME FROM DIVING INTO CHOCOLATE HELL???), so I phoned home, and The Sherpa said the hairdresser was just finishing off our friend, and I would be next.

I walked in ten minutes later, and found a certain Brandon Martinez standing in my kitchen, and this, my friends, is what he looks like.

Can I just say, I am a middle-aged mother of four (and sometimes six), who lives in the suburbs, whose idea of danger is now going to the beach for an hour and not putting on sun block.

Bad boys, especially charming ones, are not something I have to contend with anymore, unless you count Twin B hitting his brother then climbing on my lap with an innocent and charming smile. I haven’t even seen a bad boy for about ten years, never mind find one standing in my kitchen.

I will tell you this. I thought it was fine, because he had to be gay. Nobody looks like that, is a hairdresser, and is straight. That just wouldn’t be fair, for God’s sake.

It seems life isn’t fair.

So, spectacularly and ridiculously gorgeous and firmly heterosexual hairdresser started cutting my hair, and when he told me I looked hot and sexy, instead of rolling my eyes and tutting in disdain, I turned into a piece of pathetic simpering mush.

By the end of the haircut I was wondering whether I had made a rash decision - BELOVED, CLOSE YOUR EARS - in getting married a few weeks ago.

Then I Googled him. Turns out Brandon Martinez was the star of Blow Out, Salon Diaries and Split Ends, and is the super hot LA hairdresser of the moment. He was described somewhere as the “motorcycle-riding, tattoo-sporting bad-boy of hairdressing“. He also has a spectacular line of hair products - B. The Product (click for more info).

And there we were, a kitchen full of grown women, who were all totally pathetic. literally.

So despite the general pathetic-ness of all the women in my kitchen yesterday, the good news is, he gave all of us spectacular haircuts.

Look!

He is now my personal hairdresser, and even though I have never had one before, I have decided he is the only man I will now allow near my hair.

If you find yourself in West Hollywood, he is at Warren-Tricomi. Look him up. I promise you won’t regret it.