My freezer beckoned me in the night. Frozen strawberries, blueberries, peaches and mangos had finally, slowly, organized a riot. A chilly protest against the cold. They were trapped, holding summer sun and the sugar of the sunlight, and they were exhausted by the effort. Games over, time to get out. They weren't to hold my frozen memories anymore.
The strawberries longed for heat, to feel the warmth that releases their alluring aroma. The rest of the crew felt a need to be anything but a promise holder, summer slowed and preserved. Out everyone, out. They rallied and I responded.
And so now my apartment smells of sweet, slow strawberry soup. The air hangs with this alliteration, the s's releasing off the strawberries, grabbing an S off the sugar and floating to every available corner. I sniff and sniff and smile. I think chilled strawberry soup is some sort of jam. I'll make it work.
The rest of the crew got cobbled, mixed together and baked with a biscuit-y top. The skeptics are still out with the reviews, as frozen mango does not keep it's sweet summer loving like a tiny-yet-might blueberry.
And so, with snow desperately clinging to my front garden and condensation meeting an icy end on my glass door, summer is vacationing indoors. The fruit beckoned, and I, their humble servant, listened.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Monday, May 20, 2013
Extroverted Hermit
Writing. Lately my life has felt split into two dynamically different halves. Almost like morning and night are oxymoron's .. lining them up and getting one jumbo shrimp. A teacher by day, 25 kids with 25 needs multiplying each minute, with 25 sets of parents, most of whom are skilled with emailing. By day, all talk, all personality, managing behaviors and continually taking the pulse of my room, and adjusting with whatever is made available. A dance party here, a stretch break, a million jokes, voices, you name it. I'm getting pretty good at it... but it's SO different from the rest of my day. Jumbo Shrimp. They file out at 2:30, and it's time to hit the plans, grades, emails, plans, plans, emails, plans, slowing, more plans. I work, mostly independently until hunger and exhaustion drives me home, to make/heat dinner, and either continue to work or watch something mindless on my tiny school-issues laptop. Maybe I'll read a book, strum my guitar, flip through the 100 Times I have gathered, wonder if I"ll ever go to the gym. Either way, it's always independent, and the 25 vocal voices are only in my head. Post 2:30 my sounds are music and birds and again, my gregarious brain.
Lately this chatty brain, who, somehow despite the 6 solid hours of talking, seeks companionship in the afternoon--- this chatty brain has been writing lately. Something I used to do a lot, I went through phases of intense life scripting. My thoughts unraveled and then reraveled into novels, short stories, plays, blogs, articles, editorials... all silently to the outside world. All of which I see and hear in my mind, but goes no where. It's stored in files that seem to keep the filing cabinet open, preventing me from just chilllllling out.
Where can I write? Where can I stick these thoughts that long to be typed. I feel them daily, like the dishes, waiting to be placed where they'll stop nagging me. But where to go? Where to lay all these scattered things? My laptop is gone, my school issues micro computer doesn't have WORD, and I can't stand, I mean, can't stand, my own handwriting. Must type. Must type. Ah yes, perfect-- my blog. My blog-thing I started years ago for this EXACT purpose.
I shall calm the tides of metaphors here, sooth the similes that itch like the poison oak. I will channel them here. Here I can make my comments about the woman with the wolf bag, the coffee baristas who do not know my name although I"m there almost daily, the overwhelming desire to make sweeping landscapes of words about education. Here. Finally. Who needs real friends? Who needs phone friends? I'm mastering the art of hermitism. It'll be a thing. Like the next DIY Pinterest activity.
I'll be a fabulous teacher hermit. Thats the oxymoron I need. No wait, Extroverted Hermit. Perfect.
Lately this chatty brain, who, somehow despite the 6 solid hours of talking, seeks companionship in the afternoon--- this chatty brain has been writing lately. Something I used to do a lot, I went through phases of intense life scripting. My thoughts unraveled and then reraveled into novels, short stories, plays, blogs, articles, editorials... all silently to the outside world. All of which I see and hear in my mind, but goes no where. It's stored in files that seem to keep the filing cabinet open, preventing me from just chilllllling out.
Where can I write? Where can I stick these thoughts that long to be typed. I feel them daily, like the dishes, waiting to be placed where they'll stop nagging me. But where to go? Where to lay all these scattered things? My laptop is gone, my school issues micro computer doesn't have WORD, and I can't stand, I mean, can't stand, my own handwriting. Must type. Must type. Ah yes, perfect-- my blog. My blog-thing I started years ago for this EXACT purpose.
I shall calm the tides of metaphors here, sooth the similes that itch like the poison oak. I will channel them here. Here I can make my comments about the woman with the wolf bag, the coffee baristas who do not know my name although I"m there almost daily, the overwhelming desire to make sweeping landscapes of words about education. Here. Finally. Who needs real friends? Who needs phone friends? I'm mastering the art of hermitism. It'll be a thing. Like the next DIY Pinterest activity.
I'll be a fabulous teacher hermit. Thats the oxymoron I need. No wait, Extroverted Hermit. Perfect.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Simple Concept
It's just that we should be aware of how we impact others, everyone around us. That's all.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
GREat Humor
I wrote this post while studying for the GRE's, which I've taken and passed.
I could picture people grading essays and rolling their eyes.
For the section: Rewording Cliches. The unrevised sentence is: "Be positive is my motto!"
The revised is long and also dumb, but better.
The description underneath reads: "The unrevised sentence is a particularly hackneyed cliche that is irritatingly saccharine as well."
The following funny moments are brought to you by GRE studying sessions from my book on how to write a good essay:
"In this example "plan ahead" is redundant. In what situation would you "plan behind?""
"The author of the wordy example above is just wasting words and time. Get to the point quickly and stay there."
"Using the passive voice is a way to avoid accountability (it's often referred to as the "politician's voice")."
I could picture people grading essays and rolling their eyes.
For the section: Rewording Cliches. The unrevised sentence is: "Be positive is my motto!"
The revised is long and also dumb, but better.
The description underneath reads: "The unrevised sentence is a particularly hackneyed cliche that is irritatingly saccharine as well."
The following funny moments are brought to you by GRE studying sessions from my book on how to write a good essay:
"In this example "plan ahead" is redundant. In what situation would you "plan behind?""
"The author of the wordy example above is just wasting words and time. Get to the point quickly and stay there."
"Using the passive voice is a way to avoid accountability (it's often referred to as the "politician's voice")."
You Can Never Do It All
The reality behind life is that you can never do it all, and you will always want to do more. The nice part of that realization is that you control your wishes and expectations, so, you can ebb that feeling. The reality though is, if you were raised like me, you feel the constant need to keep that feeling strong.
Not good enough. Not working hard enough. Not smart enough. Not enough. Not enough. Where did all that come from? I hear it in the back of my brain, nagging at me at 6pm at night as I sit in school, pouring over a math book, thinking through a lesson on brain cells that yawn and lag behind.
Where'd all that not enough come from? Why are high expectations synonymous with internal pummeling? Why do I have to hold the bar high and then smash myself with it when I can't reach it? (I know, that image is not possible, but you know what I mean).
Where in the world of my public education did that seed get planted? How do I get the tangle of those roots out of my brain and realize that I am capable of so much and at some point I can not do anymore. At 6pm, I need to stop and be okay with that. Oh I can stop, that is not hard, but being comfortable with that is that whole other part. Put my feet up, turn my brain off... how?
My heart is beating, even writing those words. Stop at 6? But what about stickers on paper? And laminating? Organizing? Rereading, planning, preparing? What about the endless feeling that I am not good enough for them?
How, can we encourage others, speak these wise words to others, and fail ourselves? If you were in my shoes, or slippers this moment, I would tell you to leave everything at work at 6. I would tell you that you need to take time for yourself, to work on developing your life outside of work, that it is just as important. That is what I would say. However, it seems I cannot hear it myself.
You really can never do it all, and you have to, somehow, find a way to uproot that invasive plant in your brain, and be okay with trying your best.
Not good enough. Not working hard enough. Not smart enough. Not enough. Not enough. Where did all that come from? I hear it in the back of my brain, nagging at me at 6pm at night as I sit in school, pouring over a math book, thinking through a lesson on brain cells that yawn and lag behind.
Where'd all that not enough come from? Why are high expectations synonymous with internal pummeling? Why do I have to hold the bar high and then smash myself with it when I can't reach it? (I know, that image is not possible, but you know what I mean).
Where in the world of my public education did that seed get planted? How do I get the tangle of those roots out of my brain and realize that I am capable of so much and at some point I can not do anymore. At 6pm, I need to stop and be okay with that. Oh I can stop, that is not hard, but being comfortable with that is that whole other part. Put my feet up, turn my brain off... how?
My heart is beating, even writing those words. Stop at 6? But what about stickers on paper? And laminating? Organizing? Rereading, planning, preparing? What about the endless feeling that I am not good enough for them?
How, can we encourage others, speak these wise words to others, and fail ourselves? If you were in my shoes, or slippers this moment, I would tell you to leave everything at work at 6. I would tell you that you need to take time for yourself, to work on developing your life outside of work, that it is just as important. That is what I would say. However, it seems I cannot hear it myself.
You really can never do it all, and you have to, somehow, find a way to uproot that invasive plant in your brain, and be okay with trying your best.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Back to Poems
The smell of wet leaves
stored in my mind,
stretches back to the first time I realized
that the seasons keep going,
each tripping over the other like rushing kids to the door
who's there? what's going on?
the little things I've stored away in my mind
about falling leaves and the hushing of snow
the strange pictures that float through my mind
of tulips
pushing through it all
squirrels knowing, but not wanting to accept
enjoying packing larders
an image frozen--of gray and erect bodies of
furry hurry
oh these
little wisps
of ideas.
Like steam off the pavement in the summer
that passes so clearly from seen
to nothing.
Gone to dance with clouds and bright sun.
displaced worms and dirty, hot feet
oh, and--the hour the summer melts the world gold.
the blue hour in winter,
when the snow holds everything quiet
and sound, even the loudest melodies
mute for the blueing of the world
seasons are stored in my mind:
inevitable, predictable
harsh and sweet
necessary, lovely
smelling, touching, tasting, wondering.
but often leaving
my mind holding
onto the previous season
slow, lazy, snowflakes
wet, curling leaves
the push of tulips
the steamy pavement.
close your eyes and breathe in the season.
stored in my mind,
stretches back to the first time I realized
that the seasons keep going,
each tripping over the other like rushing kids to the door
who's there? what's going on?
the little things I've stored away in my mind
about falling leaves and the hushing of snow
the strange pictures that float through my mind
of tulips
pushing through it all
squirrels knowing, but not wanting to accept
enjoying packing larders
an image frozen--of gray and erect bodies of
furry hurry
oh these
little wisps
of ideas.
Like steam off the pavement in the summer
that passes so clearly from seen
to nothing.
Gone to dance with clouds and bright sun.
displaced worms and dirty, hot feet
oh, and--the hour the summer melts the world gold.
the blue hour in winter,
when the snow holds everything quiet
and sound, even the loudest melodies
mute for the blueing of the world
seasons are stored in my mind:
inevitable, predictable
harsh and sweet
necessary, lovely
smelling, touching, tasting, wondering.
but often leaving
my mind holding
onto the previous season
slow, lazy, snowflakes
wet, curling leaves
the push of tulips
the steamy pavement.
close your eyes and breathe in the season.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Kom-boo-CHA CHA CHA
I quote Hillary for this simple post. "Most often those DIY projects are easier than you think they're going to be. Especially the ones that you are amazed by before you begin."
Well, kombucha, I thought I was always going to purse my lips and rub my chin and THINK about making you in the way I always put certain things on the bottom of my TD list. Just never going to happen, but I'll put it on the next list as well. Not for you Kombucha! Congrats.
Maine SCOBY, transported in the front seat in a jar down the coast and into a big vat of sugary black coconut posssssssibilities!
Good luck I say to you Kombucha in the cupboard, and good luck to you, Christine, on the next DIY you won't make me DIE project. And thanks to you Hillary, for your continued wisdom.
Kershaw, in the Past Tense
It's pumpkin season. These big and small, hard and sweet masses impressively find their way into everything during the months of September through November. From candles and cakes, to soaps, pies, gratins, you name it. Everything becomes available in 'pumpkin.' I mark the season of gourd goodness in two ways, the most obvious being the appearance of these at the farmers market (the future will find me saying "in my garden"). The second way, the way I am less proud of, but that still makes me smile, is the pumpkin spice coffee varieties that become front and center in the cafes I love to frequent.
My grandmother picked up a giant Kershaw pumpkin two weeks ago when I was visiting. The massive green and white striped orb did not seem to fit into any particular squash family, but is much loved by families who enjoy pie. My grandma claims it's the best for pie. Pumpkin pie is one of those things that you love to love. A rarity in my mostly pie-less childhood, but a symbol of autumn none the less.
I arrived at my parents home with chunks of sweet Kershaw, awaiting the possibilities of heat and seasoning. It was a stopping point. It was my stopping point. Weeks of free post-job travel had come to an end. My toothbrush was staying. Both the Kershaw and myself were expecting answers... what will become of us now?
Two weeks went by in a molasses of uncertainty. I belong where? What am I doing here? What do I do next? Why am I doing nothing to try to accomplish something? What's happening?
I crunched fall leaves under my feet today, in slow appreciation of change. The sun warmed the earth in the front yard and a light breeze brought that fall sweetness to me in the back, crunching leaves and tossing a frisbee to a bouncing golden lab.
I let the question fall on me again. What am I doing? It's that time, yes. I realize that. I did this intentionally, I did this because I wanted to wonder, to try, to change. I want to, rather. Past tense is far from print on this issue yet. Here I find myself, crunching leaves and wondering what changes I can make for myself, what new job, new community, new friends can I make? What passion can I plunge into? And where?
I turn back inside, where a quarter of a huge kershaw still wonders in the moderated temperature of the fridge, what it will become.
I turn on the oven. Some things can't wait any longer. Something needs to cook. The kershaw pie I baked the previous weeks sits unattended under foil in the fridge. The remaining chunks of pale orange and striped skin are thrust into the oven. An hour of mashing and stirring and a giant, warm pot of kershaw and butternut squash are simmering fall flavors into the house. It feels like change, out and in now.
Well, my kershaw is done. It feels good. Time to make the list a bit bigger. Time to find my heat and my spice. Time to love fall and not think I've fallen. It's what I wanted, and even in the loneliest moments I need to realize that a lot of this intense uncertainty with one day, in the nearish future, be written about in the past tense.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Tone Check
Really?
I went into McDonalds to get internet, already feeling like a terrible person for supporting them as I purchased a coffee and a medium fruit smoothie. It took awhile (in McDonalds time) for my order to come up, the restaurant filled and I waited. I plugged into the wall with my drinks on the table and an older couple came over to me.
"Why did you take those?" They asked sharply, pointing to my drinks.
"These? Because I ordered them." Was my reply. I thought maybe they wanted to know why I was having a coffee and a cold fruit drink simultaneously. But there tone was harsh, so then I assumed they had something against the combination. I looked at them, puzzled, "Why do you ask?"
"She put those out for us. Those are ours!"
"This is exactly what I ordered."
"Ridiculous!" And they walked away, abruptly.
I got up and went over to make sure I had not indeed taken their food. Their tray had food and the same combination of drinks as I had.
"I'm sorry, perhaps we ordered the same thing?" I said, confused why they were so upset.
"Whatever."
"I ordered expresso and water, would you like to make sure that's the coffee you ordered?"
"No, whatever."
I realized after sitting down, that I had their coffee and their small smoothie and they had my expresso and medium smoothie. After all this, I feel guilty and I don't have what I ordered.
But really, after all this, I just pondered to myself the way people communicate... really? You need to be startled and aggressive by a simple order mistake? How about a little tone check America?
I went into McDonalds to get internet, already feeling like a terrible person for supporting them as I purchased a coffee and a medium fruit smoothie. It took awhile (in McDonalds time) for my order to come up, the restaurant filled and I waited. I plugged into the wall with my drinks on the table and an older couple came over to me.
"Why did you take those?" They asked sharply, pointing to my drinks.
"These? Because I ordered them." Was my reply. I thought maybe they wanted to know why I was having a coffee and a cold fruit drink simultaneously. But there tone was harsh, so then I assumed they had something against the combination. I looked at them, puzzled, "Why do you ask?"
"She put those out for us. Those are ours!"
"This is exactly what I ordered."
"Ridiculous!" And they walked away, abruptly.
I got up and went over to make sure I had not indeed taken their food. Their tray had food and the same combination of drinks as I had.
"I'm sorry, perhaps we ordered the same thing?" I said, confused why they were so upset.
"Whatever."
"I ordered expresso and water, would you like to make sure that's the coffee you ordered?"
"No, whatever."
I realized after sitting down, that I had their coffee and their small smoothie and they had my expresso and medium smoothie. After all this, I feel guilty and I don't have what I ordered.
But really, after all this, I just pondered to myself the way people communicate... really? You need to be startled and aggressive by a simple order mistake? How about a little tone check America?
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Rains and Change in Budapest
I'm in Budapest right now, sipping some mint tea and hoping for a room of ten to be a quiet place for a weary traveler. Hah, jokes on me, ms. save-a-buck.
Right now I'm on the must-save-every-cent, as I have zero on the cash scale. Well, that's an exaggeration, I have about 10 dollars in Fint... or huf, or whatever its called. 10 dollars of fint, or huf, or whatever it's called is actually about 5000, numerically... which feels incredibly lavish. Oh, how much is in my wallet, a mere 5000 dollar bill. What??!?
I want to recall all the moments of my journey, but my tired shoulders and blistery feet tell me i should be horizontal and leave this 'chair' business to the man next to me who is actually being paid to sit and type. So, I shall only back up to the morning.
I woke in Paris, too early for my liking with about 6 hours of sleep under my pajama belt. I begrudgedly showered and packed my stuff, mostly. In a whirl of what was less than 3 minutes Anne and Jo were ready and at the door, and I was shoeless and flustered.
We got the car from Jo's parents,' and I felt very lucky to have a brother-in-law (almost) who drives in Paris (and is also an awesome guy). They were tired, the fiance-ed couple and they hauled my quiet and tired petoot to Orly, the airport disconnected from connections to Paris. Well, Orly is actually two airports, South and West... but my ticket did not indicate any difference. So, suffice it to say, I felt like even more of a jerk sister.
They dropped me off in a flurry which felt a little bit like the curtains had been drawn open and light flooded back into their life. I thought I heard a sigh of relief as I shuffled into the EasyJet crowds and they turned back to their life of two. Not two, and a bumbly sister living in the living room and not having her own schedule, but just two. The more time I spend with them, the more I feel like life has a long road for their relationship, and they are all too ready to get on that road, whatever it may bring. Bless his heart, that Jo.
Hunger and cramps ate at me as I waited in line and were easily replaced by the feeling of smugness that I had traveled lightly, ahhhhh... yes one duffel, one 'sac a main.' I gave easyjet my duffel and grabbed a coffee, sweet nectar of life, and proceeded to play "pajama-ification." This is a game where I guess everyone's favorite pajamas and place them into them as they walk by me. Simple, and fun. This is a great way to make the cool kids, well, just kids.
A few aironautical bumps and some unecessary screams from the back row and we'd landed in Budapest. CRAZY TALK. I got off the plane, and that's when it started to rain.
It was bright and sunny, and to stay that way for several more hours. However, the atm machine decided instead to provide some storms. No money for you Christine. How about you remember your pin number? I swear that I do, evil machine, I do, I do, I do!
Thank you foreign money exchange and my good sense not to use up all my money (Annie and Jo must be thanked on this as well). 50 exchanged euros and I bought a train ticket and 30 minutes of gut gnawing concern (and real gnawing, as food was needed). Money, how will I live without you? Cash, the bread and butter of gluten-loving Budapest. Damn!
Country side, lacking country, rolled by as i sat in the ticket checkers booth on the train, which pleased them about as much as my blisters please me. I listened and enjoyed the softness of Hungarian which I thought would have sounded like rice getting stuck in the throat. It was rather pleasant. I would have enjoyed it more had it not been for that dreading "i suck at traveling" feeling which was enhanced by many factors listed so aptly by a man named Maslow.
Some confusion at the train to tram transition and some more on the street of the hostel, and finally, I lugged myself into a cool and calm and ancient building to find my hostel. Big Fish, it's called, and I could kiss this fish.
After a few hours online with ESL and some people who spoke some english, I realized that cash was not coming. I was a fool, and I would pay. No changing that sometimes.
An orange and some peanuts smuggled in from Paris changed at least the hungry part of my hungry foolishness.
My roommates arrived and I immediately was granted the serenity that I can find in well-timed human interaction. Laughing, sharing, all that jazz. Portugese kids on an eastern europeean whirlwind tour. And some overly curious and overly nice Nigerian guy who now resides in Sweeden (he appeared much later).
A not-so-friendly girl from LA asked if I wanted to go to dinner, and I pounced on the idea. This is how I would make my wallent jingle with change. I would buy her dinner on my credit card, she would give me cash. Cha ching!
I doubled my 5 dollars, for the price of boring conversation and the refreshing feeling of not being from LA. Oh, you drank too much last night and the night before that and so on and so on.... NOT interesting.
I returned to the hostel, deposited my food and hit out again. I was to stroll before night fell.
I laughed to myself about silly signs and calmed my feet with promises of a hot shower as I walked to the 'second largest' synagogue in Europe. Before that, however, Budapest's big buda belly rumbled with anger. Rain was coming, and I was happy.
It would ruin my walk's length, but not it's quality. I passed many restaurants and funny signs that I wanted to dwell on, pronouning them slowly and giggling in a way that only a foreigner could. It's like the joy that the french get when an american says "do you want fries with that?"
I picked some ginko leaves, and let rain push me back towards a shower, some tea and some blog debriefing. Now, I will read in bed, and awake early in budapest to have some coffee with the big fish and plan my day with the big Buda.
It took just some rain and the realization that I would be fine. After all, a deep breath, some coffee and the ability to ask for what you need from the universe can sometimes really work. If not, there's some free candies at the reception desk, you can live on those.
Right now I'm on the must-save-every-cent, as I have zero on the cash scale. Well, that's an exaggeration, I have about 10 dollars in Fint... or huf, or whatever its called. 10 dollars of fint, or huf, or whatever it's called is actually about 5000, numerically... which feels incredibly lavish. Oh, how much is in my wallet, a mere 5000 dollar bill. What??!?
I want to recall all the moments of my journey, but my tired shoulders and blistery feet tell me i should be horizontal and leave this 'chair' business to the man next to me who is actually being paid to sit and type. So, I shall only back up to the morning.
I woke in Paris, too early for my liking with about 6 hours of sleep under my pajama belt. I begrudgedly showered and packed my stuff, mostly. In a whirl of what was less than 3 minutes Anne and Jo were ready and at the door, and I was shoeless and flustered.
We got the car from Jo's parents,' and I felt very lucky to have a brother-in-law (almost) who drives in Paris (and is also an awesome guy). They were tired, the fiance-ed couple and they hauled my quiet and tired petoot to Orly, the airport disconnected from connections to Paris. Well, Orly is actually two airports, South and West... but my ticket did not indicate any difference. So, suffice it to say, I felt like even more of a jerk sister.
They dropped me off in a flurry which felt a little bit like the curtains had been drawn open and light flooded back into their life. I thought I heard a sigh of relief as I shuffled into the EasyJet crowds and they turned back to their life of two. Not two, and a bumbly sister living in the living room and not having her own schedule, but just two. The more time I spend with them, the more I feel like life has a long road for their relationship, and they are all too ready to get on that road, whatever it may bring. Bless his heart, that Jo.
Hunger and cramps ate at me as I waited in line and were easily replaced by the feeling of smugness that I had traveled lightly, ahhhhh... yes one duffel, one 'sac a main.' I gave easyjet my duffel and grabbed a coffee, sweet nectar of life, and proceeded to play "pajama-ification." This is a game where I guess everyone's favorite pajamas and place them into them as they walk by me. Simple, and fun. This is a great way to make the cool kids, well, just kids.
A few aironautical bumps and some unecessary screams from the back row and we'd landed in Budapest. CRAZY TALK. I got off the plane, and that's when it started to rain.
It was bright and sunny, and to stay that way for several more hours. However, the atm machine decided instead to provide some storms. No money for you Christine. How about you remember your pin number? I swear that I do, evil machine, I do, I do, I do!
Thank you foreign money exchange and my good sense not to use up all my money (Annie and Jo must be thanked on this as well). 50 exchanged euros and I bought a train ticket and 30 minutes of gut gnawing concern (and real gnawing, as food was needed). Money, how will I live without you? Cash, the bread and butter of gluten-loving Budapest. Damn!
Country side, lacking country, rolled by as i sat in the ticket checkers booth on the train, which pleased them about as much as my blisters please me. I listened and enjoyed the softness of Hungarian which I thought would have sounded like rice getting stuck in the throat. It was rather pleasant. I would have enjoyed it more had it not been for that dreading "i suck at traveling" feeling which was enhanced by many factors listed so aptly by a man named Maslow.
Some confusion at the train to tram transition and some more on the street of the hostel, and finally, I lugged myself into a cool and calm and ancient building to find my hostel. Big Fish, it's called, and I could kiss this fish.
After a few hours online with ESL and some people who spoke some english, I realized that cash was not coming. I was a fool, and I would pay. No changing that sometimes.
An orange and some peanuts smuggled in from Paris changed at least the hungry part of my hungry foolishness.
My roommates arrived and I immediately was granted the serenity that I can find in well-timed human interaction. Laughing, sharing, all that jazz. Portugese kids on an eastern europeean whirlwind tour. And some overly curious and overly nice Nigerian guy who now resides in Sweeden (he appeared much later).
A not-so-friendly girl from LA asked if I wanted to go to dinner, and I pounced on the idea. This is how I would make my wallent jingle with change. I would buy her dinner on my credit card, she would give me cash. Cha ching!
I doubled my 5 dollars, for the price of boring conversation and the refreshing feeling of not being from LA. Oh, you drank too much last night and the night before that and so on and so on.... NOT interesting.
I returned to the hostel, deposited my food and hit out again. I was to stroll before night fell.
I laughed to myself about silly signs and calmed my feet with promises of a hot shower as I walked to the 'second largest' synagogue in Europe. Before that, however, Budapest's big buda belly rumbled with anger. Rain was coming, and I was happy.
It would ruin my walk's length, but not it's quality. I passed many restaurants and funny signs that I wanted to dwell on, pronouning them slowly and giggling in a way that only a foreigner could. It's like the joy that the french get when an american says "do you want fries with that?"
I picked some ginko leaves, and let rain push me back towards a shower, some tea and some blog debriefing. Now, I will read in bed, and awake early in budapest to have some coffee with the big fish and plan my day with the big Buda.
It took just some rain and the realization that I would be fine. After all, a deep breath, some coffee and the ability to ask for what you need from the universe can sometimes really work. If not, there's some free candies at the reception desk, you can live on those.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
An Ode to Sonia, Brian, Allison, Margaret, Marsha and the Pet Announcement
So JFK, is now a past thought, as I sip my Americano in a comfortable coffee shop on a day so sunny it makes snow seem like a laughable thought.
If you read my previous entry you would deduct that JFK was a miserable experience, but alas, life changed that emotion. It was miserable to miss my flight, and sleeping on the cold floor was miserable, but enjoyment was also present in what could be recounted over several entries.
To be realistic, I likely will not take the time to detail the two days I spent getting to know the "Gate 16" community (yes, our very own gated community!). But, know that in the face of what could have been a very miserable day there were silver linings.
Often mentioned, the silver lining, became a focus of our bonding. It became how we settled a clearly uncomfortable situation (why do the chairs all have arm rests?) into a place of reason and humor. "What's the silver lining... do you want a cookie?"
It never fails. It never fails to use humor in a situation where you've lost all your 'power.' Okay, you can't make those planes fly, or stop that beautiful snow from falling so heavily, so, we learned at Gate 16 to gripe together, problem solve together, eat tiny bags of airplane food together and, most importantly, laugh together. That might just be the simplest of all the silver linings.
If you read my previous entry you would deduct that JFK was a miserable experience, but alas, life changed that emotion. It was miserable to miss my flight, and sleeping on the cold floor was miserable, but enjoyment was also present in what could be recounted over several entries.
To be realistic, I likely will not take the time to detail the two days I spent getting to know the "Gate 16" community (yes, our very own gated community!). But, know that in the face of what could have been a very miserable day there were silver linings.
Often mentioned, the silver lining, became a focus of our bonding. It became how we settled a clearly uncomfortable situation (why do the chairs all have arm rests?) into a place of reason and humor. "What's the silver lining... do you want a cookie?"
It never fails. It never fails to use humor in a situation where you've lost all your 'power.' Okay, you can't make those planes fly, or stop that beautiful snow from falling so heavily, so, we learned at Gate 16 to gripe together, problem solve together, eat tiny bags of airplane food together and, most importantly, laugh together. That might just be the simplest of all the silver linings.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
JFK does not stand for John F Kennedy Airport
...but it's inappropriate what I want to call it right now.
The last entry was about fall. And now, I'm sitting in JFK at 4:30, where I've been since 11 am staring at the snow I've longed for for a long time now.
I've been on the road since 5:30am. One 15 dollar veggie burger later, and a lot of whiney people, and I'm still sitting in JFK wishing I didn't wish for snow.
Really, what I need to do is wish for a seat on this fully booked flight... seems like wishing for things out of my control worked for me when I wanted all this white stuff--- which is keeping me from my destination.
And today, the day is about the destination, not the journey. During this journey, a tired version of myself has steered away from chatting up a storm like I would normally do, instead I listened to a lot of whiners, a lot of unhappy people, and even my own wailings about 'unfairness' of flights and snow and blah blah blah.
After listening to a lot of it, it does make me want to just shut them up, shut up myself and then go play in the snow. Snow angels on the runway? Maybe that'll make me not want to call J.F.K. Just F.... nevermind. Fingers crossed. Snow angels in Rochester.
The last entry was about fall. And now, I'm sitting in JFK at 4:30, where I've been since 11 am staring at the snow I've longed for for a long time now.
I've been on the road since 5:30am. One 15 dollar veggie burger later, and a lot of whiney people, and I'm still sitting in JFK wishing I didn't wish for snow.
Really, what I need to do is wish for a seat on this fully booked flight... seems like wishing for things out of my control worked for me when I wanted all this white stuff--- which is keeping me from my destination.
And today, the day is about the destination, not the journey. During this journey, a tired version of myself has steered away from chatting up a storm like I would normally do, instead I listened to a lot of whiners, a lot of unhappy people, and even my own wailings about 'unfairness' of flights and snow and blah blah blah.
After listening to a lot of it, it does make me want to just shut them up, shut up myself and then go play in the snow. Snow angels on the runway? Maybe that'll make me not want to call J.F.K. Just F.... nevermind. Fingers crossed. Snow angels in Rochester.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Falling for It
I'd like to Thank the Fall season for always being true to itself and for renewing each year my love for fall, and to echo Elena "making me want to eat pumpkin flavored everything."
It's like a baby. You could see a million babies--- but their little baby feet would still bring wonder, amazement, and the desire to cover them with ink and walk them across oaktag. I've had 25 Fall's, and I still want to smell the smells, taste the tastes and find another way to consume a pumkin.
It's like a baby. You could see a million babies--- but their little baby feet would still bring wonder, amazement, and the desire to cover them with ink and walk them across oaktag. I've had 25 Fall's, and I still want to smell the smells, taste the tastes and find another way to consume a pumkin.
Attachment and Caring
Caring about something is an interesting, lovely and sometimes slippery slope. Attachment and Caring seem to go hand in hand. A wise being would probably interrupt to inform me, at this moment, that infact Attachement and Caring do not have to go hand in hand. They can walk seperately.
I guess I just wonder if their hands would get cold... and, inevitebly join for warmth.
I guess I just wonder if their hands would get cold... and, inevitebly join for warmth.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
A Querks and the beginning of the Desert
So. I want to finish blogging about my trip for the single reason that I want to finish some journey here in blog land. I always get distracted, have a poor finish record.
Thursday.
I hiked in Black Kettle National Grasslands and at the sight of a Native American slaughter by we friendly whites back in the times of covered wagons and 'rights to land' we thought we had. I cried and walked through amazing grasslands at the exact place of the murder of so many innocent native americans and 200 ponies.
After that walk, I walked in the bright sun on a trail in the Grasslands were I scared pheasants (?) and collected burrs on my shoes and sun on my skin. Lovely warm breeze, hot sun... great walk.
Thursday.
I hiked in Black Kettle National Grasslands and at the sight of a Native American slaughter by we friendly whites back in the times of covered wagons and 'rights to land' we thought we had. I cried and walked through amazing grasslands at the exact place of the murder of so many innocent native americans and 200 ponies.
After that walk, I walked in the bright sun on a trail in the Grasslands were I scared pheasants (?) and collected burrs on my shoes and sun on my skin. Lovely warm breeze, hot sun... great walk.
I found Celeste easily in Albuquerqe, we had a brief chat before she left for her class. I spilled my bear story and chatted with the flair of a twelve year old girl who had been grounded. She left for class, I showered, (amazing!) and settled on watching New Moon, the second of this crazy vampire story that has taken the 10-20 year olds by storm the past several years. Angrily, I did some sit ups as I watched an insufficient female star lack personality, remaining, however as the woman everyone loved and fought for. Also, my closing comment on the matter is this: it is not necessary to have the main character hit her head so often and have a man run to her side each time. Get up, girl, and make your own path in life from time to time.
Celeste returned much later than planned, and we went out with her friend Jamie to a local pub. Pub faire did not treat me well. I foolishly ordered a blue cheese dip, served with brown Irish bread and Irish potato chips. This can be boiled down, or fried down, into a simple description: cheesy fat. It hurt my heart to eat, but through alternating with Celeste’s nacho’s and Jamie’s green chile cheese fries, my heart went from hurting to pumping slowly past closing arteries. The conversation was delightful, as well as the beer and the surroundings. You win some, you lose some, and some leave you on the toilet.
The next morning I took a 20 minute jog, hoping to dislodge some of the cheese and grease. Short, but successful, through the warming streets of Albuquerqe, I was so glad to work up a sweat and be moving, not sitting. There was a breeze in the air, and I greeted pancake cacti and prickly pears as I jogged to the grocery store, made stock of the flower choices, and then jogged back and forth again to make my sweaty purchases. I should have run longer, that’s clear, but that I got my butt in gear is something notable, I’d say.
I left the Querk (as I’d like it to be called) and took off for the petrified forest. As I drove I created a new goal: take petrified photos in the petrified forest. I enjoyed my coffee and scones as the mid day southwest lay out before me along I-40.
Vistas. This began a whole new land of vistas, a whole newly designed horizon, like the Midwest and the southwest decided to etch out something unique, in order to be unique. Dry and flat, with tufts of tough green shrubbery and the occasional tumble weed (I kid you not). The mesas in the distance, flat tables of earth, were so different than everything I new mountains to be. I’d seen these before, and I was no stranger to the horizons of the southwest, but, even so, I was impressed. Being easily impressed is a great personality trait, I’ve decided.
I met a NY couple who huffed and puffed quickly with me on the many short hikes, trying to beat the sun and the clock and the ranger that threatetened to kick us out when the sun dissappeared.
Petrified, and a camera filled with petrifed photos, missing the big horn sheep (?), I left to the unknown yet familiar Flagstaff.
I Know I Overreacted
I'll be the first to tell you. The first. I. Over.Re.Act.Ed.
Ozarks were wet, green and foggy but wet wet wet. Up the mountain, 15 miles away from any human and I met a bear on a lovely trail. A mountain side rim trail. Blues babies in the moring, bears in the evening... oh yeah, lots of driving in between. AND. Here is where Bill Bryson comes into play.
In the third chapter, maybe, of Bill Bryson's 'A Walk in the Woods' he discusses his fear and factoids about bear attacks. This goes on for about 5 minutes in the Hoda Fit as I ascend White Rock Mountain in the fog, rain and mud of the Ozarks.
This was a poor choice, you see, when, 45 minutes later, I met a bear on the trail. We could have high fived really, the bear and I.
Let's just say when I sing "Singing in the Rain" I will fondly remember this moment... jacket over my head, shouting the chorus over and over again... no, not the chorus, the one line I know... because it seemed appropiriate to not getting eaten by a bear while alone on a mountain rim in the rain and fog.
Now we can go back to that earlier post that describes my fitful sleep on the lonely mountain. This is where stories join and the journey continues. Details about the bear have been left out, this is one too many posts for one day.
Ozarks were wet, green and foggy but wet wet wet. Up the mountain, 15 miles away from any human and I met a bear on a lovely trail. A mountain side rim trail. Blues babies in the moring, bears in the evening... oh yeah, lots of driving in between. AND. Here is where Bill Bryson comes into play.
In the third chapter, maybe, of Bill Bryson's 'A Walk in the Woods' he discusses his fear and factoids about bear attacks. This goes on for about 5 minutes in the Hoda Fit as I ascend White Rock Mountain in the fog, rain and mud of the Ozarks.
This was a poor choice, you see, when, 45 minutes later, I met a bear on the trail. We could have high fived really, the bear and I.
Let's just say when I sing "Singing in the Rain" I will fondly remember this moment... jacket over my head, shouting the chorus over and over again... no, not the chorus, the one line I know... because it seemed appropiriate to not getting eaten by a bear while alone on a mountain rim in the rain and fog.
Now we can go back to that earlier post that describes my fitful sleep on the lonely mountain. This is where stories join and the journey continues. Details about the bear have been left out, this is one too many posts for one day.
Blue Babies of Memphis
Memphis.
Sunday Night, Monday and Tuesday Morning. Carlos time.
Wonderful sweet Carlos the now kindergarden teacher of some cute babies, I mean children in the land of the blues.
The highlights of my time with Miestro Navarro?
Sunset on the Mississippi River, Big Ass Beers on Beale street and the adorable kindergarden class of characters. Each little baby's first time in school-- only 5 years on the planet and you could write a book about eacho of those little munchkins.
Sunday Night, Monday and Tuesday Morning. Carlos time.
Wonderful sweet Carlos the now kindergarden teacher of some cute babies, I mean children in the land of the blues.
The highlights of my time with Miestro Navarro?
Sunset on the Mississippi River, Big Ass Beers on Beale street and the adorable kindergarden class of characters. Each little baby's first time in school-- only 5 years on the planet and you could write a book about eacho of those little munchkins.
Smokey Mountain plus Every human in the bistate area...
Brevard. Saturday I rememebered that this particular Saturday was the worst Saturday to be where I was.
Great Smokey's National Park is the most visited national park in the country. Labor day weekend, the clear marking to the end of summer. The end of family camping, RV's and picnics, carefree swimming in rivers and barbeques.
While it may mark the end of this, it does so by overdoing all of these things. All of which fit perfectly, or can be crammed perfectly, into the smokies and the adjoining Pisgah National Forest, which is where I searched for a campsite.
I had read that you could camp anywhere on the main road that went through the forest. Perfect! I'll throw down my tent on the side of the road somewhere and meet Jason for dinner in Brevard. I called, letting him know I would need 1/2 hour to find a spot and rendez vous in town, and that, after a year, I was excited to see him.
Well, you can't camp on that road. That is clearly stated in a large sign with lettering that would make our nys health inspector proud (everything over 2"!). You can, however, camp on the sides roads, where the brown tent signs are posted... which happen to very few and far between.
After almost 45 minutes of gravel road hunting in the Fit, I headed back to town, ready to try out the camper feature of the car (lowering the front seat as far back as it will go), and sleep in a parking lot. Happy Labor Day!
The town of Brevard, is a cute little southern brick town at the foothills of the Pisgah National Forest, just south of Asheville (or Ashvegas as Jason calls it), with the slight air of a new england college town. Very slight, but noticable if you turn your head the right way and the breeze is blowing just so.
I headed the right way to pick up Jason and head into town for dinner. Seeing him was great! Seeing old friends you haven't seen in awhile is almost always great. We enjoyed a nice dinner in town and drank local brews as we caught up and told stories from the previous summer. From the goodness of his heart he let me stay in his extra bed, albeit against the rules of his housing arrangement. 6 days later I would sleep in my car, utilizing the 'RV setting,' and would be reflectively grateful for the bed in Brevard.
The next day--- Sunday?-- found me plus every human in Tenesseee and North Carolina attempting to reach clingman's dome (by car, of course). Before this several hour fiasco I enjoyed a delightful hummusy breakfast by Looking Glass falls after meeting Eve, who used to travel a lot and admired my solo nature. Before Clingman's I also had an amazing, but short, hour walk beside a stream where I splashed in the cool waters of a babbling brook in the heat of the afternoon. Oh so nice.
Clingman's dome was a test in my patience, and I passed with flying colors. I mean, waiting a traffic line in nature is not quintessential outdoor fun... but, a sunny sunday with amazing views was just pleasant. What could I do anyways? I was stuck, physically, might as well be stuck mentally.
When I got to the walking up the mountain part, I was so relieved to be sweating in the sun, a delicious cool breeze bringing startelingly piney smells that stopped me suddenly in my tracks. I must have looked drunk, pausing with my eyes closed to smell the air and smile serenely. Anyways, we huffed and puffed and made it to the 60's era concrete rampway above the mountain. 'We' is the aforementioned mob of humans. Everyone, from fit hikers to the grandma and the out of shape every-year-olds pushed ourselves up the hill. Everyone muttering that they would work out more after that evening's barbeque.
"I can't doooo it" a little plump girl around five puffed, her red curls and pink face stopping on the side of the trail.
"You can do it!" Her father said, " You have to say that you can do it, you have to to think that you CAN. So let me hear you say it, say you can do it! We'll do it together!"
He was so motivational it stopped me. I looked at the little girl, "You're almost there, and doing a great job!"
"See," the father said, "we're going to do this together!"
Hours of traffice, HOURS through a town whose name I forget, but is excellently described by Bill Bryson in A Walk in the Woods.
Bryson's book would fill the Fit for the next several hours, a timing mistake to be noted in another entry.
Great Smokey's National Park is the most visited national park in the country. Labor day weekend, the clear marking to the end of summer. The end of family camping, RV's and picnics, carefree swimming in rivers and barbeques.
While it may mark the end of this, it does so by overdoing all of these things. All of which fit perfectly, or can be crammed perfectly, into the smokies and the adjoining Pisgah National Forest, which is where I searched for a campsite.
I had read that you could camp anywhere on the main road that went through the forest. Perfect! I'll throw down my tent on the side of the road somewhere and meet Jason for dinner in Brevard. I called, letting him know I would need 1/2 hour to find a spot and rendez vous in town, and that, after a year, I was excited to see him.
Well, you can't camp on that road. That is clearly stated in a large sign with lettering that would make our nys health inspector proud (everything over 2"!). You can, however, camp on the sides roads, where the brown tent signs are posted... which happen to very few and far between.
After almost 45 minutes of gravel road hunting in the Fit, I headed back to town, ready to try out the camper feature of the car (lowering the front seat as far back as it will go), and sleep in a parking lot. Happy Labor Day!
The town of Brevard, is a cute little southern brick town at the foothills of the Pisgah National Forest, just south of Asheville (or Ashvegas as Jason calls it), with the slight air of a new england college town. Very slight, but noticable if you turn your head the right way and the breeze is blowing just so.
I headed the right way to pick up Jason and head into town for dinner. Seeing him was great! Seeing old friends you haven't seen in awhile is almost always great. We enjoyed a nice dinner in town and drank local brews as we caught up and told stories from the previous summer. From the goodness of his heart he let me stay in his extra bed, albeit against the rules of his housing arrangement. 6 days later I would sleep in my car, utilizing the 'RV setting,' and would be reflectively grateful for the bed in Brevard.
The next day--- Sunday?-- found me plus every human in Tenesseee and North Carolina attempting to reach clingman's dome (by car, of course). Before this several hour fiasco I enjoyed a delightful hummusy breakfast by Looking Glass falls after meeting Eve, who used to travel a lot and admired my solo nature. Before Clingman's I also had an amazing, but short, hour walk beside a stream where I splashed in the cool waters of a babbling brook in the heat of the afternoon. Oh so nice.
Clingman's dome was a test in my patience, and I passed with flying colors. I mean, waiting a traffic line in nature is not quintessential outdoor fun... but, a sunny sunday with amazing views was just pleasant. What could I do anyways? I was stuck, physically, might as well be stuck mentally.
When I got to the walking up the mountain part, I was so relieved to be sweating in the sun, a delicious cool breeze bringing startelingly piney smells that stopped me suddenly in my tracks. I must have looked drunk, pausing with my eyes closed to smell the air and smile serenely. Anyways, we huffed and puffed and made it to the 60's era concrete rampway above the mountain. 'We' is the aforementioned mob of humans. Everyone, from fit hikers to the grandma and the out of shape every-year-olds pushed ourselves up the hill. Everyone muttering that they would work out more after that evening's barbeque.
"I can't doooo it" a little plump girl around five puffed, her red curls and pink face stopping on the side of the trail.
"You can do it!" Her father said, " You have to say that you can do it, you have to to think that you CAN. So let me hear you say it, say you can do it! We'll do it together!"
He was so motivational it stopped me. I looked at the little girl, "You're almost there, and doing a great job!"
"See," the father said, "we're going to do this together!"
Hours of traffice, HOURS through a town whose name I forget, but is excellently described by Bill Bryson in A Walk in the Woods.
Bryson's book would fill the Fit for the next several hours, a timing mistake to be noted in another entry.
Georgia Georgia Bush
I always think about that song snippet when I think of Georgia. "Georgia, Georgia--BUSH." Anyways, Georgia was a short, yet pleasant saunter out of the way of my cross country trek. 6 hours of driving, 8 hours of socializing and 4 hours back to hit the 'start' of my westward expansion.
Friday night and Saturday morning I spent with my brother, his adorable son Adam and my soon to be (hm?) sister in law Jinsie. We walked to the park, went to dinner and in general soaked up Adam's infinite cuteness. Three years on this planet and I still want to coddle him in my arms like a baby. Maybe all that time away from him freezes him in an infant state? Either way he's cute, and intelligent, and creative... I forgot how creative little minds are.
Adam reminded me of this several times. Hissing like a cat in the grocery cart at the store, high fiving trees and giving branches back to their 'family' when the leafy relatives were found infront of his tricycle...did I mention how cute he is? I sometimes feel concerned that I can't properly interact with him because I just want to watch him and duck in to pinch his cheeks every few minutes.
Anyways, leaving the dog for his vacation, I shoved off and headed to Brevard to meet Jason and well 'start' what felt very started. Movement. West.
Friday night and Saturday morning I spent with my brother, his adorable son Adam and my soon to be (hm?) sister in law Jinsie. We walked to the park, went to dinner and in general soaked up Adam's infinite cuteness. Three years on this planet and I still want to coddle him in my arms like a baby. Maybe all that time away from him freezes him in an infant state? Either way he's cute, and intelligent, and creative... I forgot how creative little minds are.
Adam reminded me of this several times. Hissing like a cat in the grocery cart at the store, high fiving trees and giving branches back to their 'family' when the leafy relatives were found infront of his tricycle...did I mention how cute he is? I sometimes feel concerned that I can't properly interact with him because I just want to watch him and duck in to pinch his cheeks every few minutes.
Anyways, leaving the dog for his vacation, I shoved off and headed to Brevard to meet Jason and well 'start' what felt very started. Movement. West.
The Days Before
The Days Before my last post take us out of chronological order.
I go back to the beginning, it's a very good place to start.
After purchasing my car, my amazing Honda Fit (which I am trying to stop loving so that I do not create an attachment to a hunk of metal and plastic), I headed north to visit my grandmother in Charlottesville, NC.
I had been, previous to Virginia, more careful about what I consumed. Nothing after dinner, small meals, few processed foods and exercise one or two times a day. Virginia, however, while for lovers, is also for cooks.
My grandmother greeted me with an amazing late lunch after the three hour drive, the practice test for the grand cross country trip. She made a surprising cold peach soup, black bean and rice burgers on bread with a chipotle sauce and huge slices of bright red heirloom tomatos, a slightly creamy corn salad and corn on the cob. All, minus the corn, fruit and burgers were from her garden. Grown, in the heat of an unusually dusty Virginia summer.
It felt like she had wanted me to be there for breakfast and so had cooked for two meals. Eating too much is a strange sort of punishment. Even if you only tasted everything she served, your stomach would have ached. Luckily I knew this was coming and had eaten only a peach earlier. However, dinner was still in the future.
We chatted up a storm, like two hens at tea. Sharing stories of the summer, gardening tips, recipes, travel stories and general life dramas or pleasures. I could have sat at that table for hours chatting and watching the humming birds. Is it terrible that this is one of my favorite things to do? Not eat, although that is obviously up there on the list, but rather, to share food with good people at a table? You could even take away the table and I'd still be happy, although I think my grandmother in particular would not like being denied the joy of setting the table.
After dishes we looked through photos, chatted more and then as our bottoms fell asleep we rose to prepare another meal, this time together. We had corn on the cob, or maybe that was lunch, or maybe dinner, corn was there in some form (definently as a sugar in something). Vegetable lasagna and that day's garden pickings of cold cucumber dill salad paired with a chilled white wine and followed by a Hawaiian pie made for a summer dream.
As we ate the fresh strawberries, pineapple and pecans buried in the whipped cream my Grandmother told me stories of the past. Stories of the old days, of early 20th century, were something I craved when I got near my grandma. Perfect stories, told with her friendly yet deep southern accent and dotted with opinions and the laughter that recollection always brings were better than the pie.
Basement grape wine, thunderstorms, her sleepy head tendencies as a child, poverty, great grandmother, brothers, sisters, cousins and a great deal to do with living off the land because that's how you lived.
After an equally impressive breakfast (french toast, omelettes, fruit and spinach quiches) and the collecting together of my grandma gifts (hand picked and made blackberry and strawberry jams and oregano) I set off back to Raleigh. This trip, to this today, was the worst in my Fit.
I was feeling less than fit. Dizzy, hot and well, dizzy. I stopped and purchased (yes PURCHASED in this country) bottled water thinking maybe my bottle was causing the problem, I bought an air freshner and some crackers. Doesn't fail that we always consider combinations when ill. Could it be the car smell and the sun, or maybe the smell and the bumpy road? Maybe my body was rebelling from the decade's worth of food that I had presented it? Either way, I made it back, with a little help from David Sedaris and bottled water.
Next day passed, and then I set off, leaving my mom in tears, and the dog slobbering all over everything in the car down South now, to leave my brief mark in Georgia.
I go back to the beginning, it's a very good place to start.
After purchasing my car, my amazing Honda Fit (which I am trying to stop loving so that I do not create an attachment to a hunk of metal and plastic), I headed north to visit my grandmother in Charlottesville, NC.
I had been, previous to Virginia, more careful about what I consumed. Nothing after dinner, small meals, few processed foods and exercise one or two times a day. Virginia, however, while for lovers, is also for cooks.
My grandmother greeted me with an amazing late lunch after the three hour drive, the practice test for the grand cross country trip. She made a surprising cold peach soup, black bean and rice burgers on bread with a chipotle sauce and huge slices of bright red heirloom tomatos, a slightly creamy corn salad and corn on the cob. All, minus the corn, fruit and burgers were from her garden. Grown, in the heat of an unusually dusty Virginia summer.
It felt like she had wanted me to be there for breakfast and so had cooked for two meals. Eating too much is a strange sort of punishment. Even if you only tasted everything she served, your stomach would have ached. Luckily I knew this was coming and had eaten only a peach earlier. However, dinner was still in the future.
We chatted up a storm, like two hens at tea. Sharing stories of the summer, gardening tips, recipes, travel stories and general life dramas or pleasures. I could have sat at that table for hours chatting and watching the humming birds. Is it terrible that this is one of my favorite things to do? Not eat, although that is obviously up there on the list, but rather, to share food with good people at a table? You could even take away the table and I'd still be happy, although I think my grandmother in particular would not like being denied the joy of setting the table.
After dishes we looked through photos, chatted more and then as our bottoms fell asleep we rose to prepare another meal, this time together. We had corn on the cob, or maybe that was lunch, or maybe dinner, corn was there in some form (definently as a sugar in something). Vegetable lasagna and that day's garden pickings of cold cucumber dill salad paired with a chilled white wine and followed by a Hawaiian pie made for a summer dream.
As we ate the fresh strawberries, pineapple and pecans buried in the whipped cream my Grandmother told me stories of the past. Stories of the old days, of early 20th century, were something I craved when I got near my grandma. Perfect stories, told with her friendly yet deep southern accent and dotted with opinions and the laughter that recollection always brings were better than the pie.
Basement grape wine, thunderstorms, her sleepy head tendencies as a child, poverty, great grandmother, brothers, sisters, cousins and a great deal to do with living off the land because that's how you lived.
After an equally impressive breakfast (french toast, omelettes, fruit and spinach quiches) and the collecting together of my grandma gifts (hand picked and made blackberry and strawberry jams and oregano) I set off back to Raleigh. This trip, to this today, was the worst in my Fit.
I was feeling less than fit. Dizzy, hot and well, dizzy. I stopped and purchased (yes PURCHASED in this country) bottled water thinking maybe my bottle was causing the problem, I bought an air freshner and some crackers. Doesn't fail that we always consider combinations when ill. Could it be the car smell and the sun, or maybe the smell and the bumpy road? Maybe my body was rebelling from the decade's worth of food that I had presented it? Either way, I made it back, with a little help from David Sedaris and bottled water.
Next day passed, and then I set off, leaving my mom in tears, and the dog slobbering all over everything in the car down South now, to leave my brief mark in Georgia.
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