Monthly Archives: December 2010

smoothing over the rough edges

Holidays can be joyous occasions, but they are also ripe minefields for inevitable family disputes and apprehensions over finding the perfect gifts within our budgetary means.

Rather than focus on what went wrong, or get petty and withhold my affections toward those who really didn’t instate themselves in my life recently, I decided to send out a customized thank you card. Then, the blizzard hit and well – it became a lot more irritating to place an order, wait for it to arrive, trudge to a local post office, and buy stamps when my last venture led to me tripping and falling in a pile of snow that hit above my knee. No, thank you.

They’ll understand, I warred with myself.

No, saying ‘thank you’ is the polite thing to do, I reprimanded back.

The words from a colleague returned to me suddenly – Wait, you actually send out ‘thank you’ cards to your family when they give you gifts? Weird.

Well, those particular family members receive cards by default for their material generosity, but I also usually send out cards to those who leave more subtle impressions on me throughout the year. This time around, I decided on the quickest, cheapest, and most meaningful way without individually calling everyone up or writing out letters by hand – e-mail.

Besides, I convinced myself, you’re better with words when you type, anyway.

I attached a few recent photographs from the storm, created a custom card exterior, pressed ‘prt sc’ on my keyboard, and had an automatic image to send along with my message.

Is it strange to mail out ‘thank you’ notices to relatives during this festive season? How do you thank those who positively impact your life?

a NE blizzard

“We should leave as early as possible, before the storm hits,” my boyfriend stated seriously, reading over the weather alert on my phone:

“ATTN: 11-20 inches planned for the region. Snowfall anticipated to begin on 12/26/10 at 6 am and last until 12/27/10 at 6 pm.”

“Alright,” I bitterly acquiesced. We just arrived in our hometown. I snuggled down further into my grandfather’s armchair and moodily watched the Muse live dvd compiled for my cousin.

“You don’t want to leave yet, do you?” my mother rhetorically asked, smoothing back my hair in a gesture reserved for five-year-olds and distressed daughters in their 20′s.

My jaw clenched reflexively and I shrugged. Yes, we would leave. It was the safe, sensible thing to do.

I yawned at 7 am – much too early as a way to begin my week off from responsibilities. Reaching up with my hands above my head, my back straightened and cracked in several places. I sat up.

After another hour or so of slogging along (and getting bit in the rear by my friend’s attention-mongering dog), we were on the road. My boyfriend was a gentleman – permitting me to support my weary silence as he hummed along with the radio. Some time later, he drove down our block, miraculously found a parking spot, and turned the ignition off as the first snowflakes hit the windshield.

Here is a picture taken during the height of the storm, around 4 pm, when it should have still been light outside:

 

We settled in for a long winter night with mugs of hot chocolate and the wind rattling our windows.

“If the air conditioners fall out (because they’re duct taped in place and impractical to remove, but that’s another post in itself), we’re going to pretend like we didn’t see anything. We’re going to shut the windows and blinds,” I said earnestly.

It felt so good to lounge at home. Despite any protests by appalled relatives (who asked way too many personal questions about our sleeping arrangements, as though living together has nothing to do with actually loving each other or limited financial resources, and everything to do with a deviant desire to fornicate everywhere without supervision) and personal hesitations, I finally feel comfort in calling this little place I moved into nearly two years ago just that – our home.

 

I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and restful holiday season with those closest to you.

apricot panettone, first attempt!

Adapted from: Panettone I by Lacey Lynn

I rummaged through my kitchen cabinet, throwing down bottles of various spices and seasonings (who wants rosemary, minced onions, or tarragon in their panettone? not me!), intent on finding an imperative, scarcely used ingredient: active dry yeast.

This is only my second (going on third) year of cooking for myself, but my instincts seem to lead me in a generally favorable and flavorful (haha – get it? get it?! right), direction. Thankfully, my role models were excellent, natural cooks. Yet, as comfortable cooking as I may seem, I am a terrifically novice baker. My sister would snort in derision if she heard this, as my newbie recipes include sugar-free devil’s cake with natural cocoa, a plethora of cookies (chewy, soft, sweet, chocolate, plain ol’ sugar, and oatmeal raisin), muffins galore (see: bran, pumpkin, blueberry), and several fruit pies, like pear, a medley, and pumpkin.

But, I never used yeast before, never let dough rise, and the entire process caused great anxiety. My nightmares included a Stay Puft dough man taking over my block with great, squishy panettone legs, deliciously browned and filled with raisins. Since my Italian nonna raised me better than to let my inexperience conquer me, I gave it a go. With skepticism and heavy apprehension, I modified the recipe below with this surprisingly fluffy and yummy result:

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the small things

Sometimes, it’s the smallest things that leave a lasting impression on a person.

Yesterday, there was a schnauzer that jumped up on my legs to say hello, its body wriggling with excitement to make up for its nub of a tail. I asked if she was alright to pet. The owner nodded in approval and watched our interaction silently. After a half minute or so, she said, “This old girl doesn’t get much visitors, but she likes you!” Her eyes watered slightly, but her mouth was smiling – there was a depth of emotion there. Loneliness.

Afterward, an elderly man who lives in my side of the building, whom I never interacted with, thanked me for holding open his door; he forgot his keys. We wished each other a happy holiday season.

I apologized to another man at the laundromat, for taking up some room by a washing machine with my laundry basket. He laughed it off and said he was usually in the way for other people, and didn’t mind the reversal of roles.

These observations culminated at an annual holiday event, as I caught up with an old professor of philosophy who taught me many lessons. He asked me what is one thing that I’ve noticed since my time out in the professional world, and I replied, “Loneliness. People feel it, everywhere, and combat it in the most minute ways.” He laughed wholeheartedly, patting my shoulder, and said, “Loneliness is the human condition, my dear.”

We are all wandering across this earth, trying to make sense of our lives to some degree or other. I believe it is beautiful when we seek meaning in one another.

Low Sodium, Guilt-free, Delicious, and Easy to Cook Soup

I decided to join FoodBuzz, so here’s my first recipe:

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#game – round un!

In response to my ‘annoying number game‘ post below – keep submitting the numbers, and I’ll continue writing about you, and why you’re awesome!

#8 – I remember reading your posts on the same forum we frequented and adoring your icon. Then, I thought you were witty and visited your blog. Your posts were down-to-earth and holistically written. We seem to have a lot in common (a love of food, a desire to travel) – you are a truly beautiful, inspiring person. I am glad you share your thoughts so freely with others. You certainly bring sunshine wherever you go (even across the Internet).

#1992 – You are the only person I know offline who reads this website regularly. You are the only one who gets to dress me in wild colors; you understand me, my limits, yet drag me merrily out of my comfort zone with a wicked, knowing smile. Your strength and tenacity are admirable, and I know you’ve learned that even the lions among us should look both ways before they cross streets.

an annoying number game

Apparently, it’s become a quick fad on Facebook to have a person anonymously message a friend a number. Their friend then posts the number followed by a message about them, something personal and indicative of what they find meaningful about their relationship.

Instead of caving and creating a Facebook page on behalf of this blog, I’m going to give you an option to DM me on Twitter. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know you personally – I can review your blog, if you’d like, or answer any other question. So, get to it!

Direct Message me on Twitter or ask a question on Formspring!

And as a tease to those who I do know on a more personal level, here’s one number post to start:

41 – You are the loudest silence I’ve never heard.

Expect a post

tonight.

adoption was not the underlying goal

but it certainly was, in a sense, a wonderful cure.

For a brief period of my life, I worked in a therapeutic setting with adolescent clients living in foster homes. It was a brutal job, emotionally, but fulfilling (the only reason why I left was to pursue my graduate degree). The premise of my organization was to have a small caseload with consistent, individualized attention given to each child. Lining the pictures of our office were “success stories,” past clients who were legally adopted by their foster parents or reunited with their biological families.

“Adoption is never the goal,” my supervisor mused one day, watching me look at the pictures, “but in a sense, it is a wonderful cure.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, eager to learn from this woman, who was not only remarkable at her job, but a great mentor.

“Well, you might notice that most of our kids are hurting, at the end of their rope in the system and some are nearing the age of emancipation from the state – getting adopted is a godsend because they found a nurturing, loving environment, people who are willing to take them in as their own and offer the stability that we (and their biological families) have not afforded them.”

It is true. Our clients certainly were not “perfect” as many new foster parents unrealistically hope – that is why many agencies will require parent training skills for interested families. My caseload consisted of jaded, insecure, hurt, and bitter teenagers who learned that everything and everyone is temporary.

One client acutely noted my eventual departure with a shrug, “I knew it was going to happen, but I understand.”

We spent a lot of time discussing who was going to take over her case, and several sessions resolving her feelings of inadequacy – my leave had nothing to do with how she was as a person, but foster children often quickly learn about conditional love and limitations of that affection. Sometimes, I reminisce and believe that witnessing conditional affection over and over would have led to my burnout. I did, after all, get pulled over by the police for the first time after leaving a particularly brutal day (but we’ll get to that tale another time).

I am at a physical standpoint where I may have difficulty conceiving one day. Yet, I am financially unprepared (thank ye ol’ student debt) to raise children at the moment, so it is not as though my internal clock is ticking, urging me to procreate any time soon. I have several adopted relatives, and believe that adoption could be a possible route if bearing children who share my genetics is not an option. Maybe when I’m older and more established, I could be a foster parent candidate. Maybe I’ll have the courage.

This (late) post honors a past event at BloggersUnite for National Adoption Day.