There are years that seem rather amazing in how much change they wreak on a body. The change is continual, with a million whiplash-inducing surprises (pleasant and otherwise) keeping me on my toes. Years that become watersheds. 2002 and 2003 were like that for me, the pre- and post- Peace Corps bookends of my life. 2005 was like that, the pre- and post- Hurricane Katrina year. And 2007 was like that, the year I graduated from law school, left my favorite city in the world, moved somewhere that allows one to walk on water in wintertime, started running, started to lose those 80 pounds.
The years since the move have been momentous in quieter ways, more of a building-up and breaking-down in intimate increments. All that falling-in and falling-out of love business in 2009-2010 was enough to exhaust me, but good in its way. And the marathons, the half-marathons, and travels, and new friends were enough to make the crappier bits of this year passable.
2010 wasn't stellar, but it was a solid showing, full of highlights (Barcelona, running a half-marathon with my kid sister, celebrating my 30th birthday with my best best best friend by my side, other smaller, slower moments involving walks to my car in the rain, fireworks, first kisses, groovy bands that left me sweating and disgusting from hours of dancing, perfecting the art of the gingerbread cookie, singing at my Grandmother's piano). It wasn't a watershed year in and of itself, not a year that I will look back on as particularly remarkable, but it's a year that feels like a beginning of very good, very blessed things. And those are years worth loving, too.
Thank you, 2010, for being a happy, instructive chunk of experience. Thank you for new friends and new lessons, and the healing of wounds. Thank you for the optimism you've inspired and the miraculous community of family and friends that you've blessed me with to see me on to next year's adventures. Thank you for providing me, even on the cloudiest days, with endless justification for happiness and hope.
Love,
R
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
My Taste Buds' Interpretation of Heaven
I truly believe the best elements of cooking, the tried-and-true, home-tastes-like-THIS, type recipes are the ones fashioned by a combination of love and meager means. Home-cooking is not five-star restaurant cooking. It's a culmination of accidents, family folklore, and not-great-but-not-awful dishes that simply bookend years of childhood. For instance, my Mom went through a phase when we lived in Arkansas of really loving, and pushing, the Taco Salad with Catalina Dressing. There were kidney beans involved. Cheap shredded cheddar. Iceberg lettuce. Tortilla chips. When I think of elementary school, Catalina dressing is never far from my thoughts.
My family never made bread pudding. But it's the sort of dish born of some quiet moment by a fire years ago that I think must be not unlike the catalina-dressing-taco-salad creation of my younger years. Mind you, bread pudding has evolved into one of the more treasured of Southern gustatory endeavors. The Catalina-Taco-Salad has not quite caught on with that level of enthusiasm. But I bet the first women to dream up bread pudding were not unlike my Mom. Good, busy, thoughtful Moms who found something pretty yummy that worked, something simple that incorporated what was in the cupboard and didn't require a trip to the grocery store, or the market, or the fields. And it was dirt cheap.
Stale bread, milk, eggs, sugar. There are only four ingredients to the simplest of bread puddings. And like other brilliant food combinations (tomato+cheese, banana+peanut butter, chocolate+anything), its simplicity is what makes it great. Other genius Southern fare arose out of similar circumstances, gumbo, for instance, is nothing but leftover pig mixed with perfect spices, rice, beans, okra, and the most powerful of Gulf resources, the Shrimp. It's a dish born of what was handy and what could be caught or grown oneself. Bread pudding, likewise, was a child of necessity, born of a mother's desire to serve something special and sweet without the pocketbook to afford the extra flour a cake would require.
Despite all the ills associated with carbohydrates and fats and calories (and I have suffered my own share of battles in that minefield), I have never believed that food, truly good food, was an evil. It's a gift and a blessing, a provision of manna in the wilderness. The best of foods don't come out of factory concoctions and field testing. The best comes from love and making-do and the passing on of secrets and the greasing of Grandmother's best cookie sheet, Mama's rolling pin. The best of foods never mean harm, only love and sustenance, only a small slice of shelter on the days the world seems bent on cruelty. I do not believe it is wrong for food to be a comfort. In fact, in all of the worst days in history, I am positive joy was shared, peace delivered, love communicated, at a million tables around the world. There was, and always will be, bread, and sugar, and eggs, and milk. So even on the worst days, the meager days (literal or metaphorical), Heaven waves hello from the tongue.
My family never made bread pudding. But it's the sort of dish born of some quiet moment by a fire years ago that I think must be not unlike the catalina-dressing-taco-salad creation of my younger years. Mind you, bread pudding has evolved into one of the more treasured of Southern gustatory endeavors. The Catalina-Taco-Salad has not quite caught on with that level of enthusiasm. But I bet the first women to dream up bread pudding were not unlike my Mom. Good, busy, thoughtful Moms who found something pretty yummy that worked, something simple that incorporated what was in the cupboard and didn't require a trip to the grocery store, or the market, or the fields. And it was dirt cheap.
Stale bread, milk, eggs, sugar. There are only four ingredients to the simplest of bread puddings. And like other brilliant food combinations (tomato+cheese, banana+peanut butter, chocolate+anything), its simplicity is what makes it great. Other genius Southern fare arose out of similar circumstances, gumbo, for instance, is nothing but leftover pig mixed with perfect spices, rice, beans, okra, and the most powerful of Gulf resources, the Shrimp. It's a dish born of what was handy and what could be caught or grown oneself. Bread pudding, likewise, was a child of necessity, born of a mother's desire to serve something special and sweet without the pocketbook to afford the extra flour a cake would require.
Despite all the ills associated with carbohydrates and fats and calories (and I have suffered my own share of battles in that minefield), I have never believed that food, truly good food, was an evil. It's a gift and a blessing, a provision of manna in the wilderness. The best of foods don't come out of factory concoctions and field testing. The best comes from love and making-do and the passing on of secrets and the greasing of Grandmother's best cookie sheet, Mama's rolling pin. The best of foods never mean harm, only love and sustenance, only a small slice of shelter on the days the world seems bent on cruelty. I do not believe it is wrong for food to be a comfort. In fact, in all of the worst days in history, I am positive joy was shared, peace delivered, love communicated, at a million tables around the world. There was, and always will be, bread, and sugar, and eggs, and milk. So even on the worst days, the meager days (literal or metaphorical), Heaven waves hello from the tongue.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
The NOEL was in the Cupboard
I do not remember a Christmas without the ceramic NOEL. Four greenish, redish ceramic letter candleholders that would grace my Grandmother's piano in Mullins, South Carolina and now hold court on top of the wood cabinet beside her refrigerator in Columbia.
They aren't an exciting piece of Christmas decoration. My Grandmother and my parents each own much more impressive nuggets of frivolity to ring in the season. But these letters are a small sliver of family experience that remains important. They've been in the family for over 50 years, having been a gift from a family friend who used to babysit my dad when he was a toddler. They're simple and unremarkable, but it's hard to picture Christmas without the NOEL. Or the LEON. Or the ELON. Or the NOLE. Or, my personal favorite, the LONE.
Rearranging the letters was just something everybody did. You did it preferably when Grandmother's back was turned. Maybe she was digging in the pantry for the cookie tin of fudge. Maybe she was adding pepper to the chicken bog. Maybe she was sitting in the living room, crossword puzzle in hand. But if you walked by the letters and they happen to be spelling their intended word, well, somebody needed to rectify that.
My dad poked around online and found out that these dear letters are not, in fact, a novelty. They are everywhere. So we are clearly not the only family with this tradition and I like to wonder how many other kids grew up rearranging the ceramics to Grandma's chagrin. My dad bought a set for each of us kids and he gave me mine last year. A small gift, but a very important one.
For the life of me, however, I could not remember where I tucked them. My apartment is very small, so there really are few places where anything of a decent size could be lost. Under the bed? Nope. In the closet? Nope. Forgotten rung of a bookshelf? Nope. The infamous drawer-that-shall-not-be-opened? Nope.
I was rather heartbroken by the loss and had even begun to search online for a replacement. (Note: For those of you who want one of these, I recommend waiting til after the holidays. Somebody out there is jacking up prices on these bad boys and I just don't condone black market ceramic peddling) But, in the midst of a baking escapade yesterday and the pursuit of a long lost wire whisk (never found it), I opened a cupboard that never gets opened as it requires a chair for me to reach. And there they were, spelling L-O-N-E all on their own.
They're sitting on my window sill now. And while the broken window blind, cigar box, and #1 Lawyer mug may surround them with a bit of non-holy non-Christmas reality, I believe they look right at home.
They aren't an exciting piece of Christmas decoration. My Grandmother and my parents each own much more impressive nuggets of frivolity to ring in the season. But these letters are a small sliver of family experience that remains important. They've been in the family for over 50 years, having been a gift from a family friend who used to babysit my dad when he was a toddler. They're simple and unremarkable, but it's hard to picture Christmas without the NOEL. Or the LEON. Or the ELON. Or the NOLE. Or, my personal favorite, the LONE.
Rearranging the letters was just something everybody did. You did it preferably when Grandmother's back was turned. Maybe she was digging in the pantry for the cookie tin of fudge. Maybe she was adding pepper to the chicken bog. Maybe she was sitting in the living room, crossword puzzle in hand. But if you walked by the letters and they happen to be spelling their intended word, well, somebody needed to rectify that.
My dad poked around online and found out that these dear letters are not, in fact, a novelty. They are everywhere. So we are clearly not the only family with this tradition and I like to wonder how many other kids grew up rearranging the ceramics to Grandma's chagrin. My dad bought a set for each of us kids and he gave me mine last year. A small gift, but a very important one.
For the life of me, however, I could not remember where I tucked them. My apartment is very small, so there really are few places where anything of a decent size could be lost. Under the bed? Nope. In the closet? Nope. Forgotten rung of a bookshelf? Nope. The infamous drawer-that-shall-not-be-opened? Nope.
I was rather heartbroken by the loss and had even begun to search online for a replacement. (Note: For those of you who want one of these, I recommend waiting til after the holidays. Somebody out there is jacking up prices on these bad boys and I just don't condone black market ceramic peddling) But, in the midst of a baking escapade yesterday and the pursuit of a long lost wire whisk (never found it), I opened a cupboard that never gets opened as it requires a chair for me to reach. And there they were, spelling L-O-N-E all on their own.
They're sitting on my window sill now. And while the broken window blind, cigar box, and #1 Lawyer mug may surround them with a bit of non-holy non-Christmas reality, I believe they look right at home.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
The Garden Level
When I was looking for a new apartment over a year ago, I heard anti-garden level apartment shpiels from everyone. The level most likely to be robbed. The level with the least sunlight. The level most likely to be burdened by backed up sinks, noisy upstairs neighbors, and crappy heating.
I've never been robbed (and honestly, I think the bars on my windows are kinda pretty). I get plenty of light. My sinks have been fine (notsomuch the occassional toilet issue). My next door neighbors are the noisy ones, courtesy of a boisterous toddler. And my heating issues were copious until I called my landlord and said, "well, I'm cold. And the heater sounds like a cat stuck in a washing machine."
I really love my little home. It's ridiculously small, yes. But I'm only one person and have no need for large amounts of space. I'm walking distance from my favorite brunch place, my favorite bluegrass place, my favorite coffee place, my favorite lake, my favorite spring roll place, my favorite ice cream place, my favorite place to buy milk and peanut butter, and my favorite place to buy and sell clothes. In short, I could survive quite happily without ever getting in my car, which is ideal.
And now I've discovered a new benefit to garden level urban living in Minneapolis. When we get a doozy of a snowstorm, I'm as cozy as can be thanks to the igloo-erific view of snow drifting up my window.
A ribboned and tinseled silver-stemmed tree Perches on the edge of my 2nd hand desk
And the smell of butter and sugar and sugar and sugar
Warms the kitchen in its Christmas-themed mess
The warmth of my oven can't reach the window
Can't free the ice 'round some neighbor's squealing tire
But it toasts my insides, roasts them from within,
Replaces the snow drifts with a cushion of fire
My first near-blizzard, in my favorite nearly-Home
Builds bricks of winter against iron-graced glass
And as the wind whips it higher, encasing me in white
This sleigh-bells-ring-are-you-listening? oatmeal cookie heat must last.
I've never been robbed (and honestly, I think the bars on my windows are kinda pretty). I get plenty of light. My sinks have been fine (notsomuch the occassional toilet issue). My next door neighbors are the noisy ones, courtesy of a boisterous toddler. And my heating issues were copious until I called my landlord and said, "well, I'm cold. And the heater sounds like a cat stuck in a washing machine."
I really love my little home. It's ridiculously small, yes. But I'm only one person and have no need for large amounts of space. I'm walking distance from my favorite brunch place, my favorite bluegrass place, my favorite coffee place, my favorite lake, my favorite spring roll place, my favorite ice cream place, my favorite place to buy milk and peanut butter, and my favorite place to buy and sell clothes. In short, I could survive quite happily without ever getting in my car, which is ideal.
And now I've discovered a new benefit to garden level urban living in Minneapolis. When we get a doozy of a snowstorm, I'm as cozy as can be thanks to the igloo-erific view of snow drifting up my window.
And the smell of butter and sugar and sugar and sugar
Warms the kitchen in its Christmas-themed mess
The warmth of my oven can't reach the window
Can't free the ice 'round some neighbor's squealing tire
But it toasts my insides, roasts them from within,
Replaces the snow drifts with a cushion of fire
My first near-blizzard, in my favorite nearly-Home
Builds bricks of winter against iron-graced glass
And as the wind whips it higher, encasing me in white
This sleigh-bells-ring-are-you-listening? oatmeal cookie heat must last.
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