People often ask me why I moved from California to Missouri. And this is the time of year I ask myself the same question. Why, Lina, why?
Our forecast this upcoming week: 106°, 104°, 105°, 98°, 100°, 97° (chilly), 100°
It depresses me just thinking about it.
By now, the kids and I are totally over the pool, completely bored with Candy Land, have seen all the good movies in the theaters, and have even gone to the freakin’ museum. What more can I possibly do to entertain them?
It seems inhumane to force them to play outside when I won’t even go to the grocery store because it’s too hot. So we just keep bumping into each other in the house, annoyed at each other’s existence.
Would I feel like this if I lived in California? Friends, can you weigh in on this? I think my attitude would be more buoyant if it wasn’t still 95° out at 10pm. If running a few errands didn’t cause back sweat and my good lipstick to melt.
Perhaps my children would go back to bike riding and trampoline jumping instead of breaking the window playing baseball in the family room?
Thank God I send the two big guys to camp on Thursday. It’s amazing how different the family dynamics are by just taking a kid or two away. Peaceful, maybe blissful, is the way to describe it. How can a mother love her children so much, but at the same time rejoice in their absence? We are a complex species.
The day after they leave Dalai Dan and I head to Colorado with the Shmaniel and Pissy Missy. Vacation with two kids? How awesome is that going to be? Half the car fighting, half the bathroom stops, half the “I’m bored”s.
I’m not heartless. I’ll miss the big boys. Maybe. A little. I’ll be so excited to see them when they get back on August 9th. My heart will be overflowing with love an joy to be with them.
And that bliss will be crushed shortly thereafter when the typical name calling, dinner table farting, and remote control fighting ensues. Back to frat house living.
August 16th won’t come soon enough…
Thank you, Christine, for sharing this with me. It is so beautiful. It really speaks to all of you out there who say, “I could never meditate because I can’t sit still. My mind keep wondering.” Don’t think of meditation that way. Meditation is purely being alone…
(…continued from High Five!)
There I was. In an apartment, with three small children, pregnant. This was NOT part of my perfect life….
After I broke the news to my husband, right before going under for oral surgery (which he will never forgive me for), things went back to as normal. It was like I never stopped being pregnant. I still looked 6 months pregnant from my last bun in the oven, so people kept asking me when I was “due” thinking I was still cooking baby number three. I never had to stop wearing my maternity clothes, never had to go on a diet, and my 8 week post op OBGYN appointment turned into my first pre-natal check up. Easy peasy.
Only a few months later, it became depressingly apparent that our house remodel was NOT going to take the 6 months promised to us. Some of this was due to the contractor, some was due to our changes and additions, and LOTS was due to finding ancient oil drums, missing support beams, original wiring, and major drainage problems. My whole life was becoming consumed with construction decisions. I was exhausted.
So, when a good friend of mine asked me to go to an all-day seminar of some intuitive named Sonia Choquette, I got tired just thinking about it. But, I went because she asked me to and I’m usually open to anything a little different.
And, God, was she different. She had us dancing in the aisles, singing crazy affirmation songs, sharing our deepest emotional truths with strangers, holding hands and shouting things out loud. What the hell had my friend gotten me into? I thought I was going to listen to a psychic, not participate in cult rituals. I was totally unprepared and caught off guard. People were crying and confessing their deepest secrets, searching for life’s meaning and hoping to uncover the purpose of their personal tragedies. I was completely paralyzed by fear. It may have looked like I was going along, but my heart and mind were closed and I couldn’t wait to get out of there. If it wasn’t for the off-chance psychic prediction that I was going to have a girl with dark black hair, I would have said the whole thing was a waste of time.
I never thought any more of Sonia Choquette or energy or spirit or affirmations or vibrations. I was still in the mode of tasks and check lists and errands and meetings. I was completely focused on the minuscule details of making the perfect house and doing the things that make the perfect community leader. I was on various board of directors, volunteering on different fundraising committees, and attending my fair share of rubber-chicken luncheons and galas. That’s what I thought stay-at-home moms did to contribute, so I did it. No questions asked.
In the mean time, I was miserable. When I looked at my calendar and saw what meetings I had coming up, I got a pit in the bottom of my stomach. How could giving back to the community feel so bad? What was wrong with me? I felt inadequate and selfish.
All the while my relationship with my mother was abysmal. My misery was building up inside of me as anger and she was an easy target. I wanted her to take care of me, mother me, save me, but at the same time my heart was too closed to let her in.
When we realized that we were going to have to move out of the apartment into another temporary living situation (because we couldn’t put two babies in the closet, not to mention the apartment had a maximum occupancy of 5 people) I desperately wanted my mom to sweep in and take care of me. I wanted her to see the magnitude of my stress and feel the depth of my fear and invite me into her home and say, “don’t worry, come here. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll make sure you are comfortable and safe. You don’t have to do a thing.” When that didn’t happen I was crushed. I was so angry at her that my heart closed up just a little bit more.
I didn’t see that the way I was living – bogged down in the minutia of perfection and inauthentic decisions – was why I couldn’t be saved by anyone. I was blazing through life, trying to fulfill others expectations of me, totally unaware of my casualties.
But, I had one fine looking kitchen in the end. And even a few pictures in the local social paper.
Finally, in April, 2006, we moved back in our house. We moved out with a 3 month old, and a year later, moved back in with a totally different different 3 month old. Yes, I finally got that girl I had been desperately trying for (but got the irresistible, hilarious, and #1 shit-disturber, Dalai Daniel instead) I found it ironic that 12 months of trying for a girl got me a boy and one night of unplanned please-don’t-touch-my-breast sex (the timing, of which, convinced me that it had to be another boy) brought me a little girl. A beautiful, funny, black haired little devil. Pissy Missy. (Be careful what you wish for)
My life was more of the same: following a path laid by other’s expectations. Or, rather, what I thought others expected of me. But, the feeling of emptiness, confusion, yearning, and anxiety still lingered. I didn’t know what I wanted or why I was feeling this way. I had the perfect life! I was a stay-at-home mom who didn’t have to worry about money. I had a beautiful home, healthy children, lots of friends, and (finally) a size 6 ass – what more could I want? I didn’t feel entitled to be unsatisfied. That was for people who had to struggle FOR THINGS. I had all the THINGS you were supposed to have to be happy.
Then, one day as I went to get my mail I found a bag at my front door. I looked inside and found a copy of Diary of a Psychic by Sonia Choquette. It had been 2 YEARS since I had participated in the spirit orgy and I hadn’t though of the cult meeting since. There was no note, so I had no clue who gave it to me.
It sat by my bed for a week until the girlfriend who took me to the seminar called and asked me if I got the book she had put on my doorstep.
“Oh, it was you!” I said.
“Of course it was me! I promised you I would give you a copy.”
I hardly even remembered the conversation and couldn’t believe she remembered her “promise” 2 years later. But, we had a vacation coming up and I needed a book, so I took it with me. Totally unaware of the monumental shift that was about to occur in my life…
I couldn’t stop reading it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. There were answers in there, clues, to a different path. It wasn’t about being psychic, it was about listening. She talked about meditating, something I thought only weird people with turbans practiced. She talked about an energy force that we could all tap into for answers. Being intuitive wasn’t a gift, it was a right. Anyone could use their intuition, exercise their vibes, and tap into that wealth of information. She spoke of intentions and visualization. I was blow away at the thought that I could paint a visual picture of what I wanted and just that intention would send ripples into the universe on my behalf. I had the power to create! In a different way that the pushing and forcing that I was used to. This was EARTH SHATTERING stuff for me. She was simply describing the law of attraction (way before The Secret came out), but it was the first time I had ever heard of such a radical idea.
Looking back I realize it was no coincidence that I got the book 2 years after our seminar. I was completely closed off the the idea in the beginning. That book came to me at exactly the right time. I was now fully open and ready to receive the information. And now I couldn’t get enough of it.
I was desperate to learn and understand what she was talking about. I ravaged one spiritual book to the next. From more of Sonia Choquette’s books to Eckhart Tolle, Deepak, Jack Canfield, Thich Nhat Hanh, Judith Orloff, Shakti Gawain, Jane Roberts, Easter Hicks, and probably a dozen others. I finally felt like I was on the right track to living the life I wanted. I had been feeling void of spirit, purpose and clarity. That’s why I felt miserable! Empty. Lost. Bored. Impatient. Selfish. I was stuck on someone else path. Someone else out there loved to plan parties, help fundraise, and go to board meetings. They were all worthy contributions. They just where not MY life’s contributions.
It’s funny how once you get a toe on your authentic path things start rushing in to support you. Within months of that book showing up on my doorstep I happened upon a long-time gym acquaintance. I didn’t really even know what she did. But during a 5-minute “elevator” conversation I found myself telling her I was seeking more spirit and found out she was a spiritual life coach. How’s that for timing?
What happened next was a year-long purging of all un-Dalai obligations. I quit every board, got off every committee, said no to every fundraising request, and can almost say I haven’t been to another rubber chicken gala since. When someone asks me to do something I notice how my body feels as the question enters my consciousness. Was I neutral? (tell them I need to sit on it) Was I intrigued? (tell them I’m interested in learning more) Did I feel my chest constrict? (tell them NO thank you!)
That opening of space is why I am who I am today. It is how Dalai Lina was born. It is why I have a passion for helping people realize their power. Whether is is the power of choice in food, health care practitioners, products, careers…everything is our choice! Own your health. Own your body. Own your life!
I’m still on my journey. I certainly don’t have all of the answers. I still struggle with “what I’m going to do when I grow up.” I know I’m just on the tip of my iceberg. I can still get impatient and want the Universe to do all the work. (You mean I can’t just visualize it? I may have to DO something?) But, I have the tools and trust the process. I am supported.
So are you.
(…continued from The Perfect Family)
It was agony waiting for my amniocentesis appointment. Plenty of time to torture myself on the internet. By the time my appointment came, I was armed with all sorts of disturbing information. One thing that kept sticking with me was the hands. Yes, the baby’s hands. Trisomy 18 babies generally hold their hands uniquely: with all of their fingers in a fist except the pinky finger. In an Austin Powers/Mini-Me form, so to speak. I knew those hands would be my answer.
Before the amniocentesis, we had a mandatory meeting with a genetic counselor to really understand the numbers. She was no more encouraging and, in fact, said she has never seen numbers like mine in her 20-year job history. They were that abnormal. Way to stand out.
Next stop, sonogram/amnio. The doctor was using the wand to look for fluid pockets to draw from, but I had one thing in mind. The hands. If I could just get a glimpse. The doctor put the wand on my stomach and the very first thing that could be identified: a perfect hand giving us a high-five. I was crying for joy. Even though the doctors told me it wasn’t definitive, I knew. My baby was letting me know everything was going to be ok.
I was so full of joy that the next sighting – another set of testicles – was a welcomed relief. I don’t make defective girls! I just make boys! And this one likes to fuck with me. He’s going to add some entertainment to this family, I can tell.
So we named him Daniel. Sometimes call him Shmaniel. And if you have read enough posts, you know this kid was not going to come into this world without a little drama. I’m surprised he didn’t flip us off instead of giving us the high-five (but he would teach that to his friends years later).
With such an overwhelming scare, the thought of having a girl was far from my mind. The universe was slowly softening my perception of perfection. Three boys was feeling…perfect. I knew I would make an amazing boy mom. I felt special. Part of a unique club of moms that understood boy behavior and gave you a compassionate smile. They knew that peeing on trees in the front yard is simply encoded on their DNA, not a parenting flaw.
Now we could move on to raising our three kids in our forever house, which was just about ready to get its face lift.
Six months. That’s how long our kitchen-basement-why-not-the-bathroom-floor project would take us. No homes out there would rent for only 6 months, so we were forced to look at apartments. Finally, we settled on a 2-bedroom apartment close to our house that had a huge walk-in closet perfect for a baby bassinet.
It was a little tight for a family of five. But, Max was 5, Thomas was 3 and our scary baby was 3 months old, so they didn’t need much. The simplicity of an apartment filled with rental furniture was actually nice. Barf on the couch, no problem. Drawing on the walls, oops. Spilled juice on the carpet, oh well. If it wasn’t for the nocturnal sex addict living above us who ended his performance with some dumbell weight training and jumping jacks, we may have never moved out.
However, the 3 am moaning and the barf stains everywhere did us in. We had only been there a month when barf on the couch, bed, and carpet really did happened. The stomach flu went through our entire family, making it to me last. In the end, only the corners of the apartment were untouched by the vomit and diarrhea. It was THAT BAD of a bug. Which turns out to be an important part of the story, as you will see.
Two weeks after the projectile vomit experience, only 6 weeks after we moved in, I realized I was missing something. Missing something very regular and very critical to my current mental state. OMG. No. This can’t be happening. WTF. I don’t remember ever consenting. Did Dalai Dan Roofie me? That bastard. I am so screwed.
Pee on stick.
Yep, I’m screwed.
How do I explain this one to my friends and family without sounding like a total hobag? Who has sex on a rental mattress with a 3 month old in the closet? Apparently Dalai Dan does, to a wife in a sleep-deprived coma.
Remember the stomach flu? I’m convinced it is the sole reason I got pregnant (and the act of sexual intercourse, of course, which is essential) Since I wasn’t back on birth control yet, I was using the trusted “rhythm method” (failing thousands of Catholics across the globe, but it seemed reasonable at the time). Remember, I had these ovaries of mine pinned down to a fraction of a second. Sex 7 days after ovulation? Child’s play. I was totally free and clear.
But this brain-drained new mom forgot one critical thing – illness postpones ovulation. Crap! How could I be so stupid. When your body is busy fighting off invaders, it puts ovulation on the back burner. Sayonara, 12 months of ovulation charting. You are useless to me now.
There I was. In an apartment, with three small children, pregnant. This was NOT part of my perfect life….
to be continued AGAIN!?! Shit, this is taking longer than I thought…check out Timing is Everything
(…continued from Back to the Beginning)
How the book came to be on my doorstep actually started a year prior. I was pregnant with my fourth when my good friend invited me to a self-help seminar.
I was exhausted, living in an apartment with three kids, one of them only 7 months old, and was reluctant to accept the invitation. I didn’t know if I was up for an all-day, touchy-feely workshop.
Why was I pregnant AGAIN and living in an apartment? Good question. Maybe the story doesn’t actually start at the seminar. Perhaps it starts earlier, in a house on 58th street. Allow me to explain…
We moved into our 74-year-old “forever” house in August of 2002 with Max, age 2 1/2 and Thomas, 9 months. We knew at some point we would want to rehab our kitchen, but it wasn’t until about a year and a half later that we decided to work with an architect. Coincidently, it was about the same time we decided to try for our last addition: baby #3.
Knowing it was going to be our last baby, and my final chance at a girl, I read the book, “How to Choose the Sex of your Baby” by Shettles.
This was going to take some work. And a thermometer.
For 9 months I took my temperature every morning when I first woke up, before setting even one toe on the carpet. I would meticulously pencil the results in my notebook and later enter them into a computer program that helped calculate my exact ovulation day.
Being a typical, type A first born, I also went through dozens of ovulation kit predictors for further proof of my body’s rhythm. I wasn’t going to take a chance on this one.
All the while, our kitchen project was expanding. May as well add the basement. Family room will need to be tweaked. While we are at it, I never did like that bathroom floor. From my body to my house: I was in full swing to make the “perfect” life.
Finally, around the 9th month, I had my female cycle down to the minute. It was time to start tying for that girl.
Low and behold, the first month of trying the prescribed timing “method” for a girl worked! I was pregnant!
All hopes where dashed, though, on a weekend trip to Boston. An epic snowstorm left us stranded an extra couple of days, just enough time to have a miscarriage in the three star hotel. What a way to spend a blizzard. I began to fear my body rejected baby girls.
Back to the drawing board.
Round two was successful, thankfully. With the past behind us, we ventured forward with the pregnancy and kitchen design. All seemed to be going well until my pre-natal triple screen test came back abnormal.
I knew the drill with this test. It wasn’t definitive. It is merely a “likely hood” that there is a problem based on your levels of AFP, estriol, and hCG. I had many friend who’s ranges were slightly outside “normal” on the bell curve and everything came back fine. So, maybe for my age there was a 1/1200 chance of Down’s Syndrome but my levels increased my change to 1/800. It was only a probability. I wasn’t worried.
Until I talked to the doctor. Feeling upbeat and unfazed, my spirits began to fade with the doctors tone. I could tell she was upset.
“I am so sorry to tell you that your triple-screen test came back abnormal”
“I know it isn’t definitive. It is only an increased chance that something is wrong, right?”
“Right,” she said.
“So, what are my increased odds? What are the actual numbers for Down’s Syndrome?” I asked, feeling like a veteran.
“Well, in your case, it isn’t Down’s Syndrome. It is something called Trisomy 18. It is a conditional that is fatal.”
My heart sank. She sounded so disappointed and certain.
“For a person your age, there is a 1/2000 chance of having a trisomy 18 baby. But, your results show an increased probability. We will need to schedule you an amniocentesis to get definitive results.”
Yes, I know all this already. “Right, I get it. And what is my probability, exactly. What do my levels increase the chances to?”
“With your levels, you have a 1 in 2 chance that the baby will have Trisomy 18.”
My heart sank. 50/50 chance. Oh, that was bad. Maybe Dalai Dan and I just don’t make healthy girls. Maybe I was messing with nature, trying to force my perfect vision of a family on it, and this was the consequence? Is this my punishment? I began to wonder, especially when research lead me to find out that most Trisomy 18 babies are girls, since Trisomy 18 boys miscarry much earlier. I convinced myself I had finally gotten my girl, but my selfish desire had pushed Mother Nature too far and she was pushing back.
(…continued on High Five!)
Where did it all begin for me? Is it as easy as a book?
I remember the first book I read that rocked my food world: Dr. Fuhrman’s Eat to Live. Until then, food was something to avoid, then gorge myself on. It was like an enemy that I needed to have control over. In my mind, I had control if I ate less or if I ate food with the least amount of calories. I never once considered that food had a purpose. That it had healing properties or that it was my friend, not enemy.
I remember avoiding fruit because it had sugar, avocado and nuts because they were high in fat, and salads because dressings were usually fat laden. Instead I ate Lean Cuisines, sandwiches on “fat-free” bread, cereal with milk, protein bars, “fat-free” candy like gummy bears, gallons of aspartame sweetened yogurt and pudding, and enough dry bagels to considered myself a New Yorker.
I had bought, hook line and sinker, into the myth of the fat-free, Standard American Diet.
It is funny to look back and remember how novel, no, mind-blowing, the idea of nutritional value was to me. You mean, sprayed-on vitamins aren’t the same? How could a Vanderbilt graduate with an MBA be so clueless? The concept is so straight forward and logical, yet it took a 300+ book to help me see the obvious: your body is perfectly capable to being disease-free if you provide it with the right whole foods. Food can literally heal your body. Actually, a more correct way to put it is, your body can heal itself if it is provided with the right tools. Food is one of those tools.
So, for months my entire focus was to eat as many vegetables, fruits, and quality whole foods I could get my hands on. I didn’t care about calories, fat content, or enticing marketing. I just ate the hell out natural food. I didn’t tell myself I COUDLN’T eat my old food, I concentrated on what whole foods I HAD to eat. Slowly, the old foods faded away because there was no room for them.
My belly was full of roughage, and my entire house was full of gas. I literally went through 3 months of constant, overwhelming farting. My poor body was in shock as it was slowly acclimating to the new flora and fauna from my new diet. The fiber was also likely unearthing 35 years of toxic, decaying intestinal matter. Pleasant. I remember once having so much offensive gas during a massage, I offered my therapist a gas mask.
It was that bad.
As my exploration of food continued, it naturally went hand-in-hand with an intense spiritual curiosity, sparked, too, by a book. An unsuspecting book left for me in a bag on my front door by a friend who couldn’t have known the can of worms it opened for me.
How the book came to be on my doorstep actually started a year prior. I was pregnant with my fourth when my good friend invited me to a seminar.
(continued on The Perfect Family post)
I have to confess that I sometimes get extremely frustrated. I put a lot of pressure on myself to figure out my life’s purpose. It can appear so clear to some people: as if they knew from day one how they were going to save the world.
I wonder why it doesn’t seem obvious to me. I see others grand scale accomplishments and want to make a difference like them. Since I don’t have a book, haven’t traveled across the world speaking, or have my own line of organic food, I can’t be making that big of a difference, right?
I can be really hard on myself. There are times that I throw up my hands and think “what the heck am I doing with this website!? What’s the point?!”
And then, like a whisper from my angels, I’ll stumble across an article or video that will help it all make sense. Ah Ha! You are so right, universe! Now I understand…
This video gave me one of those moments. Sometimes it is the quietest interactions that have the loudest impact. The most unassuming people can make the biggest difference.
Don’t underestimate what you are contributing to the world. You are influencing lives every choice, word, and smile you make.
Have a great week!
1. Christine Macdonald, author of PoletoSoul blog and book, Pour Some Sugar on Me: Tales from an Ex-Stripper, never fails to crack me up one moment, and have me thinking about the meaning of life the next. How many ex-strippers/recovering addicts out there are using their crazy past to enlighten others? She just kicked off a new website that is as beautiful as it is inspiring. When you go over there to peruse, check out some of these posts: Evolution of Sanity, It’s a Jungle Down There (you will pee in your pants), Holy Sh*t!, and Can you Tell?
2. I ravaged The Fire Starter Sessions by Danielle LaPorte. If you are wanting to get a little fire lit under your butt, this is the perfect book for you. She is sassy, funny, and serious all at the same time. I love her soulful approach to finding success. More than just a book, LaPorte provides “work sheets” and break out sessions so you can really hone in on your passion and what is holding you back. Put it on your list to read because we all need a little fire.
3. My Sseko sandles. Here is how they work: you buy the soles, which have a few little loops to hold the straps. The straps are sold separately and come in a ton of different colors and prints. Plus, there are a gazillion ways to tie the straps. The coolest thing, however, is that the company was created as a way to give back to the women of Uganda.
Liz Bohannon, founder of Sseko (and from Kansas City, baby), came up the idea after spending time in Uganda. By offering a business that allows women to work in dignity, Sseko supports talented women who desire to earn income for their University education. Every woman who has “graduated” from Sseko is now pursuing her college degree. And non-university bound women who desire full employment can break the cycle of poverty in a supportive, honorable environment. Maybe the best thing is how inexpensive they are!
4. Ultima electrolyte drink. This stuff rocks. The website is totally cheesy and makes you want to punch the man talking, but don’t let that stop you. It is the only all natural electrolyte drink out there with no sugar or artificial sweeteners. They add a little stevia to make it taste good, but it is also filled with water soluble vitamins and antioxidants. It is going to be record highs over the next few days in Kansas City, so I keep making my kids down it! Since it is slightly sweet and flavored, they will drink MUCH more than regular water. Ditch the Gatorade and pop, guys. Your kids will drink this!
What are some thing you are loving at the moment?
It feels like ages since I have been able to do any decent cooking.
If my children aren’t eating some form of fried, processed pool food (horrors!), they are eating something I can whip up in 10 minutes. What is that, exactly? Let’s just say the Dalai isn’t opposed to serving bowl of cereal for dinner when desperate. Hey, I may add some bananas.
I got the most amazing, beautiful, local yellow cherry tomatoes in my CSA box that I couldn’t wait to make into gazpacho. This recipe comes from a good friend, wonderful cook, and talented artist. (who, coincidently, I just commissioned a piece of art from that I’ll show you soon)
The recipe is SO easy and SO good, it is redonculous. If you are a gazpacho fan, you will ADORE this healthy, vegan recipe.
Do you like how few ingredients there are? I like that. And the fact that I know what they are and have many on hand on a daily basis.
Chop a pound of yellow tomatoes, 1/2 yellow bell pepper, 1/2 yellow onion, one garlic clove and 1 small cucumber (seedless, or scrape out seeds of a regular one)
Process them in a food processor or blender in two batches for a few minutes until frothy.
You nearly done, but I feel like I should write more.
How about I tell you that my children are the biggest bunch of tattle tales in the universe? I keep telling them there is a sibling pact that they should follow, but they believe in the philosophy ‘every man for themselves’. As much as I try not to get involved, how can I resist when I hear Dalai Daniel called his brother a b-i-t-c-h. Yes, that’s right. It’s not a typo. My son is either going to be the CEO of Apple or end up in jail because he is a crazy hot head.
Phew, I feel better after getting that off my chest. Back to soup.
After you chill the purée for a couple hours at least, add the olive oil, white wine vinegar and salt. There, you are done! And now you have a soup that your children will not eat, so you can have it for lunch all week long. Clever.
- 1 pound yellow onions, roughly chopped
- ½ yellow bell pepper, seeded and chopped
- ½ yellow onion, chopped
- 1 garlic clove
- 1 small seedless cucumber, peeled and diced
- 4 Tablespoons white wine vinegar
- 6 Tablespoons olive oil
- 1¼ teaspoons kosher salt
- Blend the first five ingredients in a food processor or blender in batches.
- Process for a few minutes until frothy
- Refrigerate for at least a couple hours until completely chilled throughout
- Add the vinegar, oil and salt before serving.
- It is even better the next day!