NWAWP: Anthology piece

As part of the NWAWP Summer Institute, we are asked to produce a number of writings, one of which goes into an anthology that everyone gets a copy of.  Here is the piece I have been working on since the first day of the SI about my kitchen.

Our Kitchen

            The concrete is cool beneath my bare feet.  It’s summer, so the windows are open and the breeze rustles the leaves and carries the scent of the outdoors into the kitchen, where I stand at the counter, contemplating dinner.  The sunshine-yellow walls lend a soft glow to the shady space and the floor is a pleasant contrast to the summer warmth, a heat kept somewhat at bay by the surrounding trees.  We try not to run the small air conditioner—stationed in one of the two kitchen windows—which must work too hard to keep the entire house reasonably cool.  Instead, we rely on shade and gusts of fresh air to keep our home tolerable during the hot, thick Arkansas days.  In the winter, the floors are frigid even with thick socks and slippers on, but in the summer, it is enjoyable on bare feet.  Even when it reaches the hottest part of the day, the floor is a relief as I remove stifling shoes and spread my toes to allow the coolness to seep in, and we are thankfully past the period where they sweat from the sudden temperature changes of late spring.  I do not use our oven much in the summer.

            Neko, our tubby tortoiseshell, lies with warm belly pressed into the cold floor, regarding me with amber eyes, waiting for me to offer a treat: a dab of peanut butter, a corner of cheese, or a spoon of canned cat food.  The cat and one person are all the space holds comfortably: we live in a small duplex with only a corner that holds standard kitchen appliances as well as a washer and dryer.  Along the one wall that opens out into the living room, stand the refrigerator, the storage freezer with the microwave on top, a bookcase transformed into a pantry by simply adding food to its shelves, the finicky gas stove, and the dryer.  We don’t have much counter space, so the dryer also serves as a baking station with my beloved second-hand Kitchen Aid in a place of honor and easy reach.  Parallel to this wall and separated by a pitifully small gap reside the few kitchen cabinets full of dishes and bakeware, the sink, and the one stretch of counter, which is dominated by canisters, dish-drainer, and toaster-oven.  I often gaze out the window above the sink as my hands methodically scrub plates, cups, cast iron skillets.  No dishwasher, alas.  Along the short connecting wall—and below the home of the air conditioner—is a “temporary” prep table, housing a massive butcher block remnant from a friend’s kitchen renovation.  It is here where carrots are chopped, onions diced, tofu cubed for our latest meal.  In front of this table is a kitchen stool acquired for $5 from a yard sale that my husband loves because he grew up with a stool in the kitchen, and the cat loves because she can sit on it and beg for treats, and I love because it becomes additional space for my copy of How to Cook Everything Vegetarian or the mixing bowl that I need to set aside and have no room for. 

            The kitchen itself has a spot for every item, though it may seem a bit cluttered to the untrained eye: the bookshelf-turned-pantry is loaded with homemade pickles and jams made from our own garden’s bounty or farmers’ market purchases, as well as canned tomatoes and coconut milk, boxes of pasta, jars of beans and rices in several colors and varieties, little tins and sacks of exotic spices.  I occasionally attempt to inventory, to sort, to tidy up the shelves, but in the rush of cooking and living, the sheer volume of random ingredients acquired from Indian and Asian grocers and health food stores and the bargain bin at Marvin’s IGA bursts from their holes and spills out until I’m once again digging through piles of sacks looking for the cumin or that little blue Ziploc of matcha powder or the cinnamon sticks.  Once, in a frenzy of cleaning and sorting, I accidentally threw out cumin seeds because it looked like fennel and we already had lots of fennel and my husband had neglected to label it.  We then proceeded to yell at each other, me at him about labeling the damned spices from the bulk bins, him at me about yelling at him and throwing out items I couldn’t identify.  It ended with us laughing so hard that we had to lean on the kitchen counter and catch our breath.

            It’s afternoon, and because of where our house is, the sun doesn’t shine directly in the windows at five o’clock, as I’m removing ingredients from the refrigerator to begin cooking.  With the summer air slowing my blood, I feel like cooking something simple, light, crisp.  A salad, perhaps, with greens picked from the garden?  Or Asian-inspired summer rolls, served with a spicy peanut sauce we love so much?  A quick stir-fry sounds good, where I can toss anything and everything lurking in the crisper, along with a splash of soy, a dash of sriracha, a hearty dollop of ginger and garlic for flavor.  Served over rice and eaten with the chopsticks given to us after a friend’s trip to Japan, stir-fry is one meal we never seem to tire of because of its infinite possibilities.  I begin measuring rice to cook on the stove while I proceed to prepare the vegetables and heating oil in the large cast iron.  I rarely measure anything anymore—just a pour and a spoonful and a taste until it’s just right.  It’s an art taught to me by my husband, who cooks by feel.  I’m much more of a baker, which requires strict measuring and precision and following directions carefully, but he balances out my desire for constant order, and I learned how to cook by taste instead of methodically moving through a recipe.  It certainly makes cooking more of an adventure, though it can be unfortunate when I make something delicious and I have no idea what proportion of ingredients went into it and my friends want the recipe.

Sometimes, especially when there’s more than one cook and her cat, I wish our kitchen were spacious, all white and stainless steel, polished and stacked neatly.  Instead, I have clutter and piles and a blocked set of drawers that I keep trying to get my husband to set free.  Sometimes I wish the sacks of fragrant spices were jars lined up in alphabetical order, locked sterilely away in a cabinet instead of out for any visitors to eye and pass their silent judgment.  Like my mother before me, I long for a space that belongs in the pages of a Martha Stewart magazine, where there is a place for everything and everything in its place.  But unlike my mother before me, I know better than to think that I will ever actually live in such a space because even if I had that white kitchen, it would be spattered with cake batter or from sauce or from jams.  There would be dishes in the sink and food on the counters and the cat would insist on being on the floor, leaving bits of herself behind for me to constantly sweep up.  Occasionally, it would be in order, but only because we went out for Thai that day, or one of us got tired of the clutter and cleaned it up.  Our kitchen is simply too often used to ever be gleaming and perfectly clean—something is always out of place because of a project in process or because of a project just completed.  A true workshop.

            It doesn’t stop me from trying to replicate the kitchen in my head, though.  That kitchen has everything labeled and easy to find and that kitchen doesn’t have a table half-blocking the column of drawers, making opening and closing them futile and frustrating and punctuated by OWs and DAMN-ITs and SHITs.  In my mind, the cabinets have been repainted from the strange orange-pink that looks like tainted Pepto to a cheery red to complement the cheery yellow, or a demure gray.  The stove actually lights when I flip on the gas instead of intermittently working and then having to be lit by the cigarette lighter we keep in the spice rack.  The detritus on the floor has found a place and the kitchen is more spacious and open because the clutter has been tidy squirreled away.  The dishes are always promptly washed (by my husband, of course).  We have a dishwasher.  I can stand to use the oven in the summer in this kitchen, without having to stand scantily clad and pouring sweat.  And no matter how much we cook, the kitchen is always clean and tidy because we wash up as we work and the floors are swept free of any debris.

            But I love our kitchen, piles and all.  I love the rows of canning jars hidden high above the kitchen window, with the door that falls open occasionally, scaring whomever is standing by the sink.  I love the temporary table that hasn’t moved in the two years we’ve lived in the house, which hides away our recycling bin, and boxes of jars found while clearing out an abandoned attic.  It’s often a frustrating space, limited in counter and cabinet and overflowing with bakeware and ingredients.   But it’s also a space where I create.  It’s where I stir batters and release the worries from the day while pulling muffins with perfectly mounded tops from the old gas oven.  It’s where I meditate, measuring flour and sugar and butter, blending and beating into creamy perfection.  It’s where I have created the perfect pancake, baked cupcake after delectable cupcake and explored countless recipes, flavors, and textures.  When I enter the kitchen, even when it swirls with chaos, the act of opening a cookbook and setting out the ingredients and mixing bowls is an act of purification and calming.  I am totally focused when I bake, my mind devoid of the never-ending to-do list or anxiety about tasks or stress from having too much to do and too little time.  When I cook, I enter a mini-Zen state where it’s just me, the cookbook, the ingredients, and the making.  I exist because I create.

In this kitchen, my husband and I learned to cohabitate and cooperate and forgive each other.  When we first started cooking together, he would relegate me to the corner to open cans.  After I demanded more skillful tasks, he allowed me to chop vegetables, but he often hovered so much that I wanted to chop him.  He said it was because he was afraid I’d cut myself with my limited knife skills; I think it was because his engineering mind does not enjoy when other people do tasks less efficiently—basically, not how he would do them.  We move in cycles with our cooking together.  Ideally, we complete tasks in separate spaces with separate goals and reunite to bring the dish together.  I’ll make the sauce, he’ll cook the pasta.  Or I’ll chop the vegetables, and he’ll fry the tofu.  At the other end, he stands over my shoulder critiquing my pancake cooking or adding spices and ingredients to my soup without asking me, and I scold him for cooking with too much fish sauce or using butter when a little olive oil would be just fine or for dumping too many ingredients in my macaroni and cheese when I just want it to be straightforward and simple.  Yet, we generally manage to work peaceably in the kitchen, listening to music and chatting amiably, asking one another questions, such as What is it missing? Do you think it needs more salt? Do you want quinoa or rice with this?  Many of our sweetest moments happen in the kitchen, like when I walk up behind him while he’s stirring something and wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face into the best part of neck, warm and smelling of him, or when he wraps me in a strong embrace.  He has learned to wait for me to ask for help if I want it, rather than listing what is wrong, and I have learned that sometimes allowing him to dump lots of spices in a dish makes it pretty tasty.

Our kitchen is the place where we have fought over dishes, he insisting that I not wash dishes after I failed to get them clean enough (fine with me) and especially when I stabbed myself in the arm by leaving a paring knife pointy end up in the dish-drainer (no, it was not intentional); unfortunately, I sometimes have to prod him to wash them.  It is the place where he made our wedding food, beginning with durum semolina and a pasta roller and ending with trays and trays of the best vegetarian lasagnas that you’ve ever eaten and freshly baked bread.  We spend so much of our days thinking about and discussing food, followed by cooking and sharing, that the food at our wedding was required to be spectacular.  And spectacular it was, with everyone dishing up plates of lasagna, carving up pies, and diving into the cakes and homemade ales, much of it made in our small, humble kitchen.

It’s where we’ve hosted wildly successful parties, everyone standing around in the kitchen with plates and drinks in hand or on the counters, sampling the food we’ve created with our two hands or that friends have brought with them.  Many of our friends are exceptionally good cooks, and it’s always fun to see what everyone will bring to a social gathering.  When we host a party, we always have plenty of good, homemade food—I generally make a cake that is both a feast for the eyes and the mouth, and he makes these amazing steamed dumplings that are never the same—and the wine and beer are plentiful.  It turns out that a small space makes for a great gathering, since everyone is forced into close proximity and conversation and the few chairs are constantly being vacated and occupied in random rotation.  We love hosting parties in our tiny home because it makes the whole house light up and feel alive, buzzing with music and conversation and the scrape of plates and the groans of full stomachs.  On nights like this, you can almost feel the kitchen smile with the pleasure of a place satisfied with having a purpose.  And ultimately, that’s why I love our kitchen: it’s where we live.

NWAWP: Fayetteville Moment

I wanted to share my "Fayetteville Moment" with you all.  I wrote this piece as part of the 2011 NWAWP Writing Marathon.  All day, we hung out around Fayetteville and wrote.  At 1pm, the entire group stopped whatever they were working on and wrote "in the moment."  My friend J and I were at the pool, so I observed the life going on around me and wrote!

Wilson Park Pool: 12:58 PM

            There’s this little kid, like maybe four years old and his mother has just yanked him into the water because he was splashing at us.  I find that as a childless woman who teaches adults that I have little patience for small, mischievous children.  Sure, my baby nieces are cute and I enjoy hanging out with my friends’ children, but kids I do not really know?  Not so crazy about.  This might change when I have my own child, maybe.
            The Wilson Park Pool: a Fayetteville oasis for summer-freed kids and their parents and for NWAWP fellows who need freedom from chairs and tables and sitting.  The smell of spray-on sunscreen wafts through the air, accenting the scent of chlorine and trees.  The water glistens like my sapphire-like drop earrings, warmed slightly by the sun but still refreshing on the hot, sunny day.  Children’s excited voices blend with splashing and gasps of air: the large plop of a little boy leaping into his mother’s waiting arms, the kick-kick-kick! of a little girl practicing her swimming, the gaspcough of novices learning how to dunk the heads beneath the water’s surface.  I’m amazed by the bravery of these children, who splash and leap and submerge as though water were just wet air, posing no threat.
            Adults—mostly parents and two NWAWP fellows—watchfully guard their offspring, occasionally joining in the delight of the water.  They sun themselves, apply sunscreen.  You can tell the families that come regularly: they have their routines, their designated places, their friends who come by smiling and greeting.
            A tall lifeguard comes by, tanned and clad in red shorts and chacos, the summer uniform of the teenagers who watch over these waters.  They patrol, blow whistles, and keep children from breaking the laws of the land.  The pool is its own country and it is dominated by youth and controlled by the posted rules and enforced by the red-suited adolescents.  They are wary, watchful, aloof.
            We are here to write, of course, but while we’re here, why not take a dip?  We leap…well, we lower ourselves, anyway, into the water feeling how it flows over our skin.  I move my arms and legs fluidly and cut through the water.  I cannot stay still, just as I cannot be near the water without being in it.  I would swim until I passed out, if I could.  I always regret that my mother never taught me how to swim properly when I was young because I harbor a deep fear of jumping in and remain jealous of the six year olds who leap without concern.  And although I’m a perfectly adequate swimmer, I’m uncomfortable straying too far from a hand hold.  I watch these kids who dip and dive without fear and hesitation, and I wonder how different my life would be if I were bold enough to leap, anxiety-free, from the diving board.
            The hourly break time is over, and at the sound of the whistles, the kids let out a collective cry and leap as one into the water.  It’s just like a movie, and we are so stunned at the sight that we laugh.  They resume their activities, and the new arrivals pause only for a quick douse of sunscreen before joining their fellow creatures.  One mother wrangles her little girl into a swim vest before releasing her into the wild.
            Two of the regular adults, a couple wearing their matching sunhats, leap into the pool to cool off.  They look as though ten years ago, they were wild and free, into punk rock and possibly smoking pot.  Having children and growing older, they find those days have faded to fond memories and hazy impressions and cautionary tales to tell their children.  The man is heavily tattooed, an impressive and lovely tree curling across his back, an owl perched at his left shoulder.  The tree and owl are artfully done, and I find myself admiring it and thinking that the fact it is not realistic is a point in its favor.  I also wonder what it means to him.  They reemerge from the water, refreshed, to resume their napping and reading.  Their kids are old enough that they do not feel the need to guard them, as the parents of the toddlers do.
            A little girl rushes up and plaintively complains of hunger, but her mother is busy scribbling in a notebook and shoos her away.  Other children should CANNONBALL while jumping into the water in a manner other than ball-like.  I think they just want to shout something and cannonball lends itself nicely to being screamed while leaping through the air.
            Everyone complains that the Wilson Park Pool is too filled with children (and children’s water) to be any fun for an adult, but I disagree.  For one, the concentration of young swimmers is the shallow end; only the older and bolder venture far from where they can’t reach the bottom, leaving plenty of space for the adults to swim laps, leap from the diving board, or float peaceably far from the splashing and cannonballs and shouts and squeals.  For another, there’s something essentially summer about the sounds of individuals who come to the pool not because they need to exercise but for the pure pleasure of moving in and under and through the water.  They form small clumps of associates, dare each other to dive or to jump, and chatter excitedly.  They are full of joy and life, thinking not about how many calories swimming burns or that their form isn’t just right.  All they seem to consider is that the water is cool and refreshing, that humping in is enormously fun, that learning to do handstands impresses their fellow swimmers, and that swimming freakin’ awesome.
            A man, approximately as round as he is tall, asks us if we are doing homework.  “Writing,” we reply.  “About what?” “Well, the pool.”  “Good place for it.”  We smile and return to our notebooks.  It’s almost time to leap into the water again and then to try off and head to our next location. The breeze stirs the trees above us and dries the water off us.  If you listen closely, the sound of leaves clattering complements the splashing, shouting, and chatter, and here we are in the midst of a snapshot of a perfect July day in Fayetteville.

In Which Jenn Querulously Writes

I don't know if it's just that time of the semester (where we all need a break) or what, but I'm finding myself becoming crankier.  More cantankerous.  Querulous, even.  So today I shall discuss particular points of complaint.

One: students on campus.  Okay, so I know I work at a university and am a student, so I really shouldn't complain about this.  However, I'm looking specifically at how students move around on campus.  Since I'm on a bike, I'm hyper-aware of my setting (because I want to stay alive to bike another day), but I've noticed that most students don't pay attention to their surroundings.  I've almost run students down because they are too busy texting or looking at their feet to remember that they are surrounded by potential obstacles.  (FYI: they don't even hear my bike bell.) They also can't walk in a straight line, which makes biking around them surprisingly difficult.

But here is my main complaint: I usually ride on the sidewalk for a short bit, then switch to the roads that run through campus.  However, students don't even look before they cross those roads! And I'm not talking about using cross-walks--they just walk.  Wherever.  Everywhere.  And yes, cars do drive on these roads.  Today, I almost ran down three students who just randomly crossed in front of me without even looking up.  Normally, I would just roll my eyes, but today I scolded them loudly.

These kids seem so lost in their own little words (which I'm sure are infinitely fascinating) that they can't even observe the world around them.  This leads me to my next point: individualism is not all it's chalked up to be.  Bear with me a minute as I make the connection:  we as a nation are obsessed with the individual.  Thinking that one is a unique butterfly in a world of unique butterflies leads, in my thinking, to this inability to remember that one exists in spaces with other people.  Be considerate. Look around.  And watch out for angry girls on bikes.

In Feminist Theory, we keep hitting on this idea of the individual, which frustrates me because, yes, while, we are all individuals with individual experiences, we also exist within a social order, a society, a culture(s), structures, and institutions.  We are who we are because of our place in the world, not because of some unique individualism that is inherent to human nature.  We love, share, and communicate because we can understand other people: we have shared experiences, thoughts, ideologies, and perspectives.  Emphasizing individualism is detrimental to society because we all think we're entitled to step on other people to get to where we want to go instead of trying to work together to make the world a better place.  You are not a unique snowflake.  Deal with it, and remember that there are other people in the world besides you.

I'm Sticking With You

In my transition to someone who would major in English, I encountered this John Donne poem:

THE GOOD-MORROW

I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then?
But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly/
Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?
T'was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd , and got, t'was but a dream of thee.

And now good morrow to our walking soules,
Which watch not one another out of feare;
For love, all love of other sights controules,
And makes one little roome, an every where.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,
Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plaine hearts do in the faces rest,
Where can we find two better hemispheares
Without sharpe North, without declining West?
What ever dies, was not mixt equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

I love the emotion expressed throughout this poem.  It is intense passion, the joy of finding an awaking of soul in another person--in finding that one lacked, but simply didn't realize it until the speaker met his love.  Donne is well known for being a physical poet; he evokes the senses.  In this poem, the lovers are lying in bed, in their "one little roome," gazing so intently that they see each other in the other's eye.  Instead of saying that they find themselves reflected in each other's heart or something non-physical, he gives us that lovely image, where they literally see.  Their love is so intense that they can lose themselves in one another (and, knowing Donne, he means emotionally and sexually), and their tiny bedroom is "an every where."

Donne is one of my favorite poets, and I've enjoyed his poetry since I was a high-school senior; my AP English teacher's use of him to show how intense and full of meaning poetry can be is one reason that I became an English major.

I liked this poem, but after Lance and I had been dating for a while, it suddenly made more sense.  I could understand the intensity of the speaker, feel a love that makes one feel like the world wasn't complete until that person appeared.  There is no worrying about the future in Donne's poem; he simply seeks to capture one little moment full of love, passion, and joy.

All of this discussion of love and great poetry is my long-winded way of announcing that Lance and I are engaged (though most of my readers probably know by now from other sources).  I was happy to be a girlfriend, but I'm excited to move into a new phase of our relationship as fiancée and wife.  I'm not sure I could ask for a better partner, and I'm so glad that six years ago I tagged along with some friends to a party where I first met this cute curly-headed guy and tried to get his attention by playing four-square and smiling.  We have made our own little world with one another, and the possibilities of the future are endless.

For the Love of Kittens

A. shared an article about kittens adopted by soldiers in Afghanistan.  And it was more adorableness than I could stand.  I'm glad when defenseless creatures find good homes, and I have to hope they give something to those soldiers as well.

Which then reminded me about the wee little kitty in our home.  You would not believe how much better she is.  She was listless and sleepy when we first got her (we realize now that she likely would have died if we hadn't rescued her), but just one week later, and she's eating enthusiastically, playing, pouncing around, begging for love, and just being as adorable as a tiny cat can be.

We're still hoping to find her a home. She's got a sweet personality, but she still has a tiny feral streak and gets occasionally a little freaked out by random things.  She's taken to following us around though, and doesn't seem to mind one bit when I scoop her up and carry her around.

Yes, I know it sounds like I'm attached, but who wouldn't be?

At least we haven't named her.  I hope that her new owners find her soon--she needs a good home.  We'd keep her, but we have two cats already, and one is very angry about the new kitten (she, in fact, has an "anger box" where she goes to sulk about the tiny cat).  If you are (or know!) anyone who would be a good fit for this little rescue cat, let me know!

In Which I Resolve to Speak My Mind

It had been almost a year since I had an actual conversation with my dad.  Due to a series of announcements, misunderstandings, misfires in communication, and a general reluctance to simply deal with our issues, the last time I talked to my dad was Father's Day 2009.  It's been a tough year.

I've been angry, sad, unhappy, annoyed, resolved, and myriad other adjectives about the whole situation.  I doubt that everything is fixed, really, but I think we're finally making a start.  We cried, laughed, apologized, and talked for two hours.  I got off the phone emotionally drained, but optimistic.

The one thing I've realized after wading through our reasons for how we dealt with each other is that I need to be more assertive.  If you met me ten years ago (or even five), you'd realize that I'm much more assertive than I used to be.  But I need to be bold, be unafraid to speak my mind, and stand up for myself.  They (my parents and others) may not like what I have to say, but I think that being upfront and honest is the best way to handle a lot of situations.  Things get ugly, I've discovered, when people don't communicate and deal with problems.  By speaking my mind, the other party has the opportunity to voice theirs and perhaps clear the air, instead of sulking and having the wrong ideas about the situation.

It was easy to blame them for a lot, but I have to take a bit of responsibility myself and admit that I was afraid to directly confront some of the issues.  I honestly didn't think they would listen--or I thought they did listen and just weren't interested in what I had to say.  And part of that is true.  I can't expect everyone to handle situations the same way I do, and I can't expect them to confront something.  Sometimes, they need to be forced to confront it.

Anyway, I'm glad the situation is changing, at the very least, and hopefully it'll be a change for the better.  And I am learning that I should just be strong and speak my mind, even if it's a little uncomfortable.  Of course, speaking my mind doesn't mean I should be tactless or undiplomatic.  I'm just thinking about it as good practice for both life and my future career.

Ten Years Later

Ten years ago, I was standing before a crowd of 17 and 18 year olds, giving a painfully brief valedictorian address.  Because I was so shy, I had a hard time coming up with something interesting to say and I probably just read it hurriedly, saying nothing of note or interest.  I barely remember what I said, only that it was short.  I was proud to be up there, proud to have the honor, but I had no idea about how to give a good speech.  I still think about it with a twinge of regret, and will likely avoid watching the video of it, if asked.

That failed speech, however, taught me a lot.  I still get nervous speaking in front of people, but I'm getting better about delivery and actually saying something interesting.  Thanks to a great freshman year speech class, the constant requirement to speak in front of large groups, and my desire to be a professor, I've worked on it.  I've also become a lot less shy, which helps enormously.

Ten years ago, I was a high school graduate, naive and scared of the big, wide world.  Now I'm beginning a Ph.D. program in the fall and setting my sights on scholarship, research, and teaching.  It's exciting, this life of mine, if only to me.

I feel like such a different person now, but the reality is that I'm still that teenaged girl, just grown up and with more life experiences.  I'm different because of my experiences: college, travel, friendships and relationships.  Each taught me something new and helped me learn more about myself and how to navigate this not-so-scary world.  I used to be terrified of the unknown, but now I embrace it and acknowledge that it's still a little scary.  But part of the fun is the twinge of anxiety when facing something new.  I've learned to see the world differently, and that's why I feel so different now, ten years after leaving high school.

When we were at Lance's parents' church last weekend, the service was dedicated to the high school (and college) graduates.  One guy said something about how high school was the best time of his life.  I have to disagree: high school was okay.  I didn't hate it, and I have some good memories.  It wasn't bad, but I don't think I'd ever go back (even to redo my valedictorian speech).  I feel like my life is getting better every single day: I'm in love with a wonderful man, I have purpose and goals to work toward, I have great friends and family, and am surrounded by people I love and who love me.  I have cats who like to snuggle with me in the morning.  I am satisfied with my life and know that more good experiences await me.  Right now is the best time of my life, and if you talk to me in ten years, I hope that I say that that moment is the best.

A New Year

It's that time of the year, you know, the beginning. When we're all congratulating ourselves for making it through Christmas without bodily harming any relations, even when they blare Fox News in the background. (Oh, wait. I didn't see my family on Christmas this year...)

Regardless, it's always nice to feel that beginnings and fresh starts are possible. I try to resist the urge to make resolutions, but the fact is that I like making lists, and resolutions are really just the things I think about the rest of the year anyway, so why fight it?

Jewish traditions have a period of reflection and repentance at the end of the old year and a fresh start to the new one. While I don't really go for the whole confession of sins to expunge them from my conscience sort of activity, I do think some reflecting on the year past is in order. You'll see this in another form when I post my Archies.

2009 was an exciting year for me. I graduated with my MA in English after defending my thesis, I job hunted (and interviewed but was not successful, alas), and I moved in Lance to a new place. I now have steady access to a washer and dryer. I saw the Decemberists twice and love them more passionately than ever before. I watched the other building in my apartment complex explode and lived through Ice Storm 2009 and survived to tell the tales. I got a new cat, who is cute and fuzzy. I watched as close friends graduated, bought houses, and moved on to new jobs and places and exciting new prospects. I quit running for six months, only to pick it up again with a renewed love and devotion. While feeling increasingly isolated from my parents, I feel that I'm growing closer to my brothers and my extended family. I cooked and entertained and became a full-fledged vegetarian (well, pescatarian). I took the plunge and applied for Ph.D. programs.

It was a good year.

What does 2010 hold for me? What am I planning, hoping, and wishing for? My goals for the next year are as follows:

1. To post here more often.
2. To do less in general (i.e. no running around like crazy all the time)
3. To foster my creative side more
4. To continue running regularly, culminating in a half-marathon in the spring and a full marathon in the fall
5. To start my Ph.D. somewhere awesome!

I think those five will do at present. Lance and I are thinking of the possible move ahead of us (but of course, nothing is certain), so we are working to purge some of our excess belongings waaaay before packing it up is an issue.

I'm exciting about 2010. But then again, when do I not delight in my life? It's a pretty good one if I do say so myself--I have awesome friends, a fantastic partner, fulfilling interests, and a strong sense of where I want to go. Happy New Year, friends!

Being a Daughter

I am one of five children. Out of those five children, I am the only daughter. I grew up with two older brothers and two younger brothers, and although our teenage years weren't particularly pleasant, we all made it out relatively healthy and happy. I talk to my brothers regularly, and I enjoy visiting them when I'm able to. They would probably like to loom protectively over me as I move through my life, but they mostly keep that to themselves. We have learned to be adults with one another, and I have to say I really like it.

There's a scene in the last season of Gilmore Girls where Rory is lamenting having to act like "a grown-up," and Lorelei comments, "You know, real grown-ups don't call themselves that. They say adults and pronounce it aw-dult." I feel, sometimes, that I'm in that intermediary space where I'm a grown-up who hasn't quite figured out how to act like an adult.

The hardest part of it is how to deal with parents now that I'm, well, grown-up. The relationship shifts--parents can offer advice or comment on their child's life and actions, but in reality, they have no say. All they can do is comment, smile or shake their heads, and realize that they can no longer control what goes on. Or at least this is what I think.

There comes a point when the child (now an adult) gets to examine the values and belief-systems that she was brought up in, and she gets to discard bits, keep bits, add new bits; in other words, she forges a new system that she uses to live her life. Sometimes it resembles that of the parents, but sometimes it doesn't.

I'm in that situation now: I'm living my life as I see fit, with my own beliefs and values. I make my own decisions and don't feel any compunction about not doing the things my parents think I ought. I am twenty-seven, and I have worked hard to get to a place of happiness and contentment in my life and with the way I'm living.

My parents, however, seem to think that I still need to live by their rules. And since I broke a major one by living with my boyfriend, they have seen fit to attempt to punish me for my "misbehavior".

Here's the thing: I'm not thirteen; I haven't officially lived under their roof since I was twenty-two (when I graduated), and unofficially since I was nineteen. I paid my own way through school, bought my own clothes and food and glasses, paid for my own healthcare, and bought my own car and paid to insure it. By living with Lance, however, I have made it clear that I no longer follow the rules that they wanted us to live by. I'm sure they suspected it as I grew increasingly vocal about my political leanings, but Lance and I moving in together was concrete proof. And now I'm struggling in that place where I know I'm an adult and am responsible for myself, and craving my parents' respect and acceptance (and approval).

I have no problem with them disagreeing with how I live. No parent will ever fully agree with all of their daughter's choices. All I really want is them to respect my decisions and let me live my life in the way that I have decided is best. Yet, they can't seem to let go. My father to the point where he won't talk to me. It's cruel and harsh, but it's reality. Hopefully they'll get over it because I have no plans of changing who I am and how I live to gain their approval.

Until then, I'll be the black sheep and the prodigal daughter.

Dear Bus Driver

I'm generally a fan of buses. I think that you drivers are probably underpaid and have to deal with the tedium of driving the same route over and over again with little thanks from those who ride the buses. Buses are also often harried by impatient folk who don't want to get stuck behind them. But does that give you the right to mistreat a poor cyclist?

Yes, I realize you have a schedule to keep. And I know that bicyclists are slow, especially when grinding up a Fayetteville hill. And it's not so much that I mind being passed, especially given that most drivers wait until they can give me a wide berth before they pass me. But did you really have to scare me half to death?

Pushing up a steep hill is a lot of work when you're using your leg power. Often, that is distracting enough, since all my attention is focused on urging my body to keep pedaling and keep up a decent speed. I do try to pay attention to the cars on the road, and I stay to one side so they can easily pass me, especially since it's both foolish and dangerous to ride a bicycle on the sidewalks, especially Fayetteville's poorly maintained sidewalks. And no cyclist likes to feel that there is a line of impatient cars silently cursing her.

How would you like to be focusing on climbing the hill and suddenly feel and hear the swoooosh as a bus comes rolling by? How would you like to feel your heart stop as you realize that the bus is no more than a foot away, so close that the startling noise of a large vehicle passing you could possibly make you, say, fall down underneath that bus? How would you like to feel that while you did not fall and your stomach is flipping and your heart won't quit racing that you narrowly avoided a very messy end? All while trying to be environmentally-conscious and save money by not parking on campus?

You probably wouldn't like it much.

So, dear bus driver, please be kind to the cyclists out there. We will try to be kind to you when we're in our cars and stuck behind you or forced to make every stop along with you.

No. 27

When I was younger, birthdays were always a day I looked forward to so much that I could never sleep the night before. I'd be so excited that I would just lay awake waiting to fall asleep so that tomorrow could come SO MUCH SOONER. Of course, it never worked, and I'd lie awake until finally my tired self would succumb.

I would leap out of bed early, rush to living room, and see what my parents had set out for me. It was usually a package wrapped not in store-bought paper, but newspaper--usually the funny pages--and a bow stuck to it. Sometimes the package would appear later, but there were cards placed on our entertainment center that I could look at. My grandparents always mailed a card with a crisp five-dollar bill tucked inside, and the constancy of that card was wonderful.

With five children, it would be easy to gloss over birthdays, but my parents never did. August 5th was always MY day to do what I wanted. I got to pick out my flavor of birthday cake (I loved the confetti cakes when I was young; my brothers favored chocolate cake made with mayonnaise) and ice cream. I always went for Rocky Road or mint chocolate chip--when I got older to think about flavor pairings, I would try to pick something that went with the cake I wanted.

And we always got to pick what we got to eat for dinner. Early childhood meant favorites like macaroni and cheese or burgers with my mom's macaroni salad. We all love that macaroni salad, probably to the point of irrationality. I don't even like mayonnaise, and I still LOVE that salad.

No one questioned the supremacy of the individual whose birthday it was. I wouldn't have to do chores, like wash dishes or put them away. It was my birthday.

I love my birthday, and I always have. I've been mildly mocked for making a big deal about my birthday, but I really love it. I still feel like it's my day, and I try to treat my friends' birthdays the same way. Thinking about all those childhood birthdays helps me to see why I feel the way I do about birthdays.

Today was my birthday. After believing for a week or so that it would shape up to be a subdued, somewhat ignored day, I was proved dead wrong. My Facebook wall is covered with birthday wishes, and attentions from friends and family alike have been wonderful. I got to eat dinner with three lovely ladies, and have drinks with another and her fantastic boyfriend (whose birthday is also today). I even chronicled the day's happenings in pictures, which I will share tomorrow. And, AND! I have a birthday party this weekend to anticipate.

So, remember. Birthdays are wonderful days. You should use the day to appreciate that many people love you and are happy that you are in the world--because that's how my day went.

Home Again, Home Again

I had lived at my new residence for approximately one week before I left for five days. Thus, my return felt a little odd in many ways, as though it was not quite my home I was returning to, but a place with home-potential.

For one, my new house is not yet completely in order. Lance just finished moving all of his belongings in, so there were new items to contend with and to think about placing. On the other hand, my belongings were all here. My cats greeted me as I walked through the door. I knew where I could comfortably drop my bags, and where I wanted to go first. My bed was comforting and cozy. It's a familiar place tinged with strangeness. It's not quite home--not yet, anyway.

Tonight, I went to celebrate the conclusion of the teacher training institute for a group of English teachers from Mexico. I was a teacher buddy, a person who was to provide social interactions for the teachers apart from their class lessons.

The dinner was interesting. In the past, the teachers were told not to speak Spanish. They are here to practice their English, after all. But tonight, the teachers chatted merrily away in a mixture of Spanish and English, which I and another American joined right in. Of course, my Spanish is a little rusty, but it's encouraging to think that I can still understand a great deal and speak a significant amount, enough for a reasonable conversation.

I wonder what it will be like for those teachers to return home tomorrow. Will they hug their husbands, children, or other family members? Will the collapse in a pile, exhausted from the long journey home? Will they immediately feel different?

Journeys change us, yet we don't always know how. I feel that I've been journeying a lot lately, and not just geographically. I traveled to Portland, but I've also be journeying from one home to the next. This time, my journey toward a new home is not solitary, but with a wonderful person. We're moving toward making our first home together, and while I don't yet feel changed by this journey, I look forward to what the path we're treading has in store for us.

Moved, In So Many Ways

I have so much I want to blog about, but I haven't had time! First there was the packing. And painting and other prep work. Then the moving. And now? The unpacking. Oh, the unpacking seems like it will never end, though it was satisfying to put all of our empty boxes out in the recycling the other day. Other satisfying moments have been moving furniture to places where it looks good, unpacking most boxes, being able to find all of my clothes, and enjoying the new space.

The Good
I realized that we may actually be able to successfully integrate all of our stuff--and that it would look homey. (Lance hasn't brought his piles of wood and various random objects over yet, so this may yet me tested).

K and M left us a lovely entertainment center, and it holds all of our cookbooks (4 shelves, M, 4!!), our various bottles of homebrew and liquor, DVDs, and other detrius that I haven't found a place for yet.

M also left me a *drumroll* KitchenAid. Now, you all know that I'm a baker. And I've been obsessed about the KitchenAid (as has Lance) for a long time. After using a different brand of stand mixer, I can tell you that it's really a well-designed machine, meant to last and really be used. And if you cook a lot, it's totally worth the investment. I honestly thought I'd have to wait until I got it as a wedding gift in 300 years or was rich or something.

We also have a huge front yard and back yard! When I came over from the apartment, I found all the friends who helped us move sitting out front, happy. I anticipate having parties in which people hang out in the back yard.

Problems
We have a ceiling fan and light fixture, and his name is Shocky. Shocky doesn't like it when you touch the chains to turn on and off the light, and he will let you know by transmitting an electrical current through your body. Luckily, Lance discovered this and not me. Unluckily, I touched Shocky's cords with a metal shelf and got a nice jolt.

The new place also has no closets, which means I can't hide all of my craft/hobby stuff away neatly. It also means that our kitchen is woefully lacking in storage. This will be remedied by putting up shelving and purging excess belongings. Of course, I love clothes and own lots of them, so closet-sharing should be...interesting.

******************

I have lots of pictures, so many pictures. And I will take more once the dust has settled. But for now I'll leave you with a picture of the newest addition to our family, Neko.

July! July!

July is shaping up to be a hectic month. Or eventful, at the very least. I gave myself June to relax and recharge after finishing up my degree, but now it's time to start looking ahead to PhD programs or new jobs.

The largest event on the horizon is our impending move. We found a wonderful duplex through a friend that's still within biking distance of work for me. It has a yard. I can paint. Best of all, we'll only have one shared wall and won't have to listen to the sounds of construction when they work on the burned-out apartment complex.

Moving--or at least how I like to move--requires time, organization, and dedication. I like to sort through my belongings and cast off the things I don't have a use for anymore. The new house is kind of small, so it becomes even more important to get rid of useless stuff and creatively use the space we have.

Other July events include a trip to Portland later this month. I get to go for work, which is really exciting, so when I'm not doing conference stuff, I'll be checking out Portland sights. Best of all, I get to travel with a good friend. Conveniently, we'll be moved right before the trip, so hopefully it'll be a good break from sorting and unpacking!

The Media and the Fire

It's funny to realize how much the media has gotten wrong about our fire on Wednesday. It's really small stuff, but it's still amusing. And it really makes me wonder how much else they get wrong with other stories.

I'm not going to link to any stories in particular (though this one is probably the most accurate), but the general errors include the timeline of events, how much was damaged, who was affected, and what happened. They all claim that swift action on the part of the police department was responsible for getting everyone out safely, when really it was the swift action on the part of residents that got everyone out. And the fact that when you hear a giant explosion and see flames, you're likely to leave the building that's on fire as quickly as possible. Also, a few UA staff members were affected but no faculty. Details, people, details.

Anyway, hopefully our friends in the affected building will be able to go home soon.

Never Shout "FIRE"

I've occasionally been asked the question: if your house is on fire, what would you save? Personally, I'd save Rory, Lance (if he needed saving), and my grandmother's poetry book and our mutual correspondence. Everything else is pretty replaceable.

Of course, the question was purely theoretical...until it wasn't. Tonight, my apartment complex caught fire
.
There are two buildings in my complex. I'm on my porch, so my building was fine--but the other building lost several apartments on the end, and everyone in that building had to be evacuated. They cannot return to their homes until tomorrow, and who knows when their power and gas will be turned on, or if they'll even be able to live there.

What caused this splendid display of pyrotechnics? Well, the university hired a contractor to dig out the pond in front of the apartment building above because their recent construction had caused a great deal of sediment to be dumped into our pond. Through a series of mishaps, the big backhoe ended up in the drained pond, sunk into the loose mud and sediment. Then they broke the gas line. The gas company came out and was presumably taking care of the situation.

Lance and I were sitting in my apartment when an explosion rattled our windows. "That's a gas line blowing," said Lance. We dashed out the door--to see what was going on, to rescue our friends in the building, something--and we saw smoke. Then little flames. Then MASSIVE FLAMES. The people in the two apartments that were on fire got out (including our landlord's mother), so no one was hurt, and all the residents and area citizens watched as the firetrucks came screaming from down the road (the advantages of living downtown, two blocks from a fire station).

Since it was a gas fire, it took a good half hour to contain. Meanwhile, we bounced from outside to a friends' apartment across the street. It is cold, after all. I offered floor space to my now homeless friends (two of whom are now staying here). Everyone's okay, though it was pretty frightening.

So what would you save if your home caught fire?

Accomplishments and Events

They are small accomplishments, but here they are:

• Almost one page of thesis writing! Okay, so it looks miniscule when I type it out...but if I do one page tomorrow...and maybe two pages the next day, that's four pages before the end of the week*.
• I got up and ran 4 miles this morning
• I sketched out a rough, preliminary outline of my thesis. Just to get thing moving.
• I printed off some documents for the engineering class so I can start working on my syllabi
• I read a chapter of a book for my thesis.
• I started a new knitting project that should be finished soon. More details later.
  

*My goal is gradually increase what I'm doing until I've got it done. Or something like that

And now, for events:

• I went to the dentist today, and I have groovy teeth. Groovy is good for music or hippies, but bad for teeth apparently. Even though I'm a good brusher and I floss and I don't drink soda, I have some teeny spots that have to be filled next week. Uggh. My first non-cleaning dentist appointment.
• They later called to tell me the price. It is then that I discovered that my dental insurance sorta sucks.
• I've thus been weird about my teeth all day. I think I'll go brush them now. And floss.
  
• It's raining. My cat is hiding under my chair (she doesn't like bad weather).
• My new boss started today. I think he's all right. He even poked fun at me about my thesis.

And now I'm heading to bed so that I can run and work on my thesis tomorrow. I really want to graduate this semester, and I'd also like to say I've been productive when six people in one day ask me about how my thesis is going.

One of Those Days...

I woke up feeling woozy this morning. I managed to get dressed, after dragging excess chairs back to their homes to help me wake up a bit. Then, on my walk to work, I discovered the lid of my once-full water bottle was slightly ajar, meaning the book*, notebook, journal, and planner in my bag were now sitting in water. To make matters worse, my skirt was not staying put, so I was having to tug, readjust, and otherwise deal with it while fretting about the wet paper in my bag.

All of this meant that I was a little grouchy when I walked into the office. But instead of losing my temper, I pulled the books out, dried out the bag, and realized that the damage could have been much, much worse. My impulse was to call the beloved filler of said water bottle and chew him out...but I didn't. And I was glad. Acting (instead of giving into anger) cheered me up.

Thus, the rest of the day has passed in relative calm. I've been dealing with my blood sugar bouncing all over the place, but I've successfully avoided eating sugar. I've already eaten four servings of veggies and two servings of fruit today**. The day has been lovely, and I ended up taking a longer walk over lunch than I usually do, since I forgot my ID and couldn't use my extra time to go to the library.

And I get to go to a swim lesson tonight, not to mention bowling with teachers from Mexico who I'm partnered with. So, really, a day that could have been potentially very, very foul has been quite fine. Life is better when you concentrate on the good, even when it's drenched by the bad.

*Which belongs to my thesis adviser.
**Usually it's two servings of veggies and three of fruit. Fruit is good for you, sure, but it's important to not eat too much of them too!

Et cetera

• Cream of chanterelle soup is of the gods. Chanterelle mushrooms are delicate little things, and paired with a simple mixture of cream, onion, butter, salt, and pepper, they are to die for. If you're envisioning condensed cream of mushroom, flush that naughty thought right out of your head. My stomach is so happy right now. And I have more mushroom dishes to look forward to*!
• I finished Lost and Found on Saturday. It's so good. Post coming shortly about it. (And also Lady of the Snakes).
  
• Thanks to Facebook, I'm in some hot water with my parents. We'll see how long it takes to blow over. Lesson learned: never refer to your family as racist on Facebook**. Especially if they are sensitive to being called racist.
• I missed Ultimate Frisbee last night. It made me sad, but I was tired, depressed from dealing with my family, and dealing with stomach cramps. But I got to swim on Monday! And I'm sure the time away from frisbee will be good for my leg.
  

*Lance scored a bag full of dried morels from his brother. Yum. I love having a mycophile for a boyfriend.
**So stupid. I don't mind if they find my blog post about it, but Facebook status remarks offer no explanation. I'm going to stay off of there if I'm angry. Stupid, stupid.

Fruit and (Going) Nuts

I keep thinking of lots to write, but then I never get around to sitting down and doing it. Partly because I've been working a lot this past week with the start of new student orientation at the university. I worked until 8 both Monday and Tuesday*.

My main reason for writing is to relay my current happenings and to share a recipe. Friday, I went out with two of my friends to see Sex and the City, a delightfully girly film that I truly enjoyed--even though I've only seen a few episodes of the show. I've discovered that I really like films/TV shows that concentrate on the relationships between women, leaving relationships between men and women on the periphery**. Gilmore Girls is a lot like this too--and we all know that I love Gilmore Girls.

Afterward we went and enjoyed the most amazing sushi and a decent cosmo (appropriate, no?). I ate my weight in sushi rolls and sashimi, and it was the best I'd ever eaten. I had a hard time stopping, it was so good. Shogun gets my vote as best NWA sushi-seller.

Saturday, I goofed off most of the day, went to farmers' market and a pool party, then headed to my parents' house for the rest of the weekend. Sunday being Father's Day and all, I hung out with my dad, ate, glared at Fox News until it got turned off, rolled my eyes at politics, and played with my nieces. Overall, a fun day. Since everything in my parents' house is processed and contains corn syrup, I brought a lot of my own food (tofu dogs, sprouted grain buns), including something tasty to share. My contribution to the party was the following fruit salad.

Fruit Salad

• 1/4-1/3 fresh pineapple, cut into chunks
• 2 nectarines
• 1 orange, peeled and sliced against the segment grain and cut into smaller pieces
  
• 1 mango, cut into chunks
  
• grapes
• blueberries
• unsweetened shredded coconut
• crystallized ginger chips (I love The Ginger People)
  
• lime juice
• rum

Put all of your fruit into a bowl in the quantities you desire. Splash in some lime juice, and a bit of rum (maybe one shot's worth). Stir up and enjoy with yogurt*** or some whipped cream.

VARIATIONS:

• If using more berries, omit the lime juice and use some lemon juice. Rum might still be good--but a bit of vodka might work too. Or none at all...
• Some citrus zest would look pretty.
• Go for a variety of colors and flavors. Avoid banana since it gets weird when it sits for too long.
• Citrus juice keeps the fruit from browning or getting a little weird. No browned apples!
• Obviously, the varieties are endless. I particularly enjoyed my variety.
  

(Incidentally, fresh pineapple kicks canned pineapple ass. Seriously. You can use it, but you might not get the same deliciousness I did.)

*The upside is that I got to use my extra time by taking off early on Friday. I went home and lazed about and watched the rain.
**Those relationships are important, but they seem almost secondary or more transient than the friendships among women. Male-female relationships seem to carry with them the threat of deterioration; friendships among women are more lasting. If you break up with your lover, you always have your girlfriends to talk to about it.
***Greek God yogurt (plain, or with honey) is AMAZING. So creamy, so delicious. I may be converted away from my precious Brown Cow.