As a twenty-something young professional, it should come as no surprise that approximately 50% of my internet time is spent on Buzzfeed. Lately it’s a result of inane personality quizzes, which Roods and I have co-opted into this odd ritual of soul-searching every few nights when it’s past dinnertime but minds are still too restless for bed. Take a quiz, evaluate the response, decide to what extent our entire existence can be penned down to words and sentences.
(Frighteningly often, apparently.)
I Buzzfeed for the articles, too. Most recently a story about a young man from Notre Dame who tore through the walls of a spa in order to eat every hot-pocket in their kitchen. Which he also heated up using the kitchen oven, if I’m not mistaken. (Truly, I admired his dedication.)
But Buzzfeed is nice in that totally-stupid-waste-of-life sort of way. Like, I’m pretty disturbed that I could be spending my excessive internet time taking a walk or writing a novel or something. But I also work with current event analysis on a daily basis, and it’s a nice escape from wars and climate change and human rights abuses.
New Years is always somewhat underwhelming to me. The days and hours leading up to it are so full of possibility, of resolution-writing and vows to make yourself better with a fresh start, of an almost-mystic or spiritual fog that seems to blur reality a bit under a soft glow of anything can happen.
Much of it also likely has to do with the fact that I neither showered nor left the house on New Years Day, so the 48 hours of New Years felt like some kind of extended, suspended reality bringing with it the thought that I could spend the next 364 days in the same warmth of PJs and hermitude and new Sherlock episodes.
But then January 2nd rolls around, and it’s back to button-down shirts and the bustle of morning metro rides and the deeply tragic realization that 1/3 of the new season is already over, and nothing feels like it has changed at all.
So, these were the first of the three desserts made for O’s recital (the other two being the mini cheesecake tarts and the mini lemon poppyseed bundt cakes). First batch was baked on Thursday. Second and third on Friday. Fourth on Saturday.
Let it be known that I only needed to bake one batch.
Okay, okay. I don’t want to whine.
I did enough of that for about five hours on Friday evening. But I will tell you the story. It’s a good one. Or will, at least, make you feel better about your own life.
Goodness, it’s been a while. I suppose time flies when it’s your last semester of undergrad and you’re caught in the middle of job and internship applications and a thesis with zero motivation to do any of the aforementioned because Netflix has finally added every great cartoon from your early childhood to its instant selection.
Luckily for me and my lack of willpower, I got to take a break from academics, thesis-writing, and job-hunting (not the Netflix, of course, let’s not kid ourselves now) for a few days of non-stop baking.
Though, I suppose I have O to thank for that.
I woke up this morning and found myself experiencing an overdue existential crisis of sorts.
Well, let me back up. I’m at the apartment, alone, for a few days, attempting to clear my head enough to get a few pages of thesis written down before the semester starts. Yeah, that’s not happening. I’m not quite sure what became of my motivation, but I’m pretty positive it had something to do with toasting the New Year while thinking to myself, FRAK IT.
Let me back up even further. It’s 2013, apparently. Or at least, according to my phone’s calendar. It’s being quite insistent about it, in fact. Which, you know, doesn’t bode well for someone who still finds herself writing “2010” on almost every assignment she’s turned in for the past 2 – no, 3 now – years.
I don’t like it.
But I guess we didn’t all go up in a fiery blaze at the end of last month, so there’s something to be said about that.
I’m not sure if you recall, but rhubarb has been the bane of my culinary existence for the past three or four years. Not because I dislike the thing, but because I’d never been able to find it. Between Whole Foods and farmer’s markets, you’d think I’d catch a glimpse of it at some point, but no. It was like the vegetable that always eluded me; either snatched up by other shoppers before I could make my trek downtown, or actually just invisible.
By early May, I was starting to think it didn’t actually exist and that the entire rhubarb market was a fabrication designed specifically to make me think I was insane.
It almost worked.