“I was reading this Thought Catalog piece titled something like ‘Signs your Friend is a Badass’, and you fit them all.”
My phone chirped brightly, signaling a message from Roods. Having lived together for over half a year, it was disconcerting not having seen her for
four so many days. The distance apart left us communicating via text and the occasional FaceTime chat – though mostly so I could help her remove the attachments on the stand mixer – and inciting looks of incredulity from my mother for our unanticipated bout of codependency.
I glanced at the screen and scoffed at her message before typing one of my own. “Did it mention getting into fights with pieces of wood and losing? Because if so then I can understand the sentiment.”
A few seconds later, another chirp. “You have a BLACK EYE. That is SO badass.”
I winced and absentmindedly reached a hand to brush at the cut near the corner of my eye. “That’s because I SLAMMED MY FACE into a kitchen cabinet, in case you’ve forgotten.” I pressed the ice pack gingerly against the still-bruising lid, feeling the coolness wash over the blinding stinging in a wave of relief.
“Whatever. Still badass.”
I snorted and tapped the screen off, stretching off the couch and slinking back toward the kitchen for the day’s third round of pain pills.
Day #12 of 2014 is coming to a close, and I can safely say that I’ve thrown out most of my resolutions. Much of this was a result of list-making – a top OCD tendency of mine, below only washing dishes immediately after I’ve cooked with/eaten in/accidentally touched them – and seeing in print the things that I will not accomplish. Which, you know, I’d usually be upset about, but certain friends have been urging me to be less like April Ludgate and more like a normal, cheerful human being. Not in so many words, of course, but I can tell.
(I mostly blame the pending 2-year hiatus following 4.5 hours of new Sherlock, which, honestly, is just criminal and actively ruining my life.)
“Ah, but remember that the city is a funny place
Something like a circus or a sewer
And just remember, different people have peculiar tastes
And the glory of love might see you through”
–Coney Island Baby, Lou Reed
I hate taking hiatuses from baking and blogging, because they tend to stretch on for eons. Time escapes me and days get lost among the neat boxes of calendar pages. What I’m left with is a slew of photos and nothing to say. Nothing that I could fathom into any sense of coherence, anyway.
(That’s the problem with time. Each moment holds a horizon of infinity that no words can adequately paint.)
The stage is set: a 9-foot-long island covered in plates of heaping mashed potatoes and buttery green beans, pies scattered between a tray of not-so-canned yams and jars of homemade cranberry sauce, apple cider spiced fresh off the stove, all surrounding an enormous plate housing a beautifully golden-brown turkey, after having spent the past 5 hours roasting in the oven and permeating the house with smells of autumn nights and Claude Debussy.
And then, of course, family arrives, and the display goes from something straight out of a Taste of Home magazine to a raucous event of Modern Family proportions.
Some mornings I wake up, totally determined to go to the gym, do some pilates, head off to work wide awake and cheery, spend the day getting my fix of fruits and veggies, and head to bed early for a full night’s sleep. They are wonderful days, to be sure, mostly spent reading in between work and interning with a cup of iced coffee and a mind totally at peace, well-fueled and clear.
(It may seem uncanny, but I actually genuinely enjoy being healthy.)
And then other days I wake up, go to the gym, do some pilates, head off to work wide awake and cheery, get home, flip straight to the Euro Cup, bake a pie, and crash down onto the couch to watch the game with my feet on the table and a bowl of leftover peanut butter filling in hand. Fruits and veggies be damned.
Today was one of those days.
I really actually despise hot weather.
I should also clarify that anything above 80 degrees is ‘hot’ for me.
Perhaps it’s after two decades of mum warning me not to go out in the sun for fear of tanning until I’m black as night, but mostly it’s that I’m not particularly fond of having my shirt sweat-stick to my back the second I walk into a marginally cool building after strolling outside for less than 10 minutes.
And maybe that’s more information than you wanted.
Finally getting around to a long overdo pie.
April 26, 2012
So, I now understand why Momofuku oh-so appropriately dubbed this a ‘Crack Pie.’ I mean, if I were in need of a serious hit, I’d rather dish out $44 for one of these than the more illegal alternative.
[Not to mention it’s probably the cheapest crack you’ll find in the US.]
Or I could, you know, just bake one of my own for the fraction of the cost, and get it whenever I need it.
Making the most of a sick day.
April 15, 2012
I don’t take well to being sick. Mostly because illnesses hit me hard. It’s been one of those weekends: unprompted illness surfacing yesterday – a common cold blown out of proportion in the drama-queen-esque way aspects of my life are wont to do, most likely – leaving me with a head full of cotton, throat sore and swollen, and achy limbs screaming out in protest of any sort of physical exertion.
Incidentally, I had set an alarm to get up early enough to hit the Farmer’s Market with Noosh. This resulted in me returning home with a cup full of vegan curry and rice and falling into a 4-hour nap that took up the entirety of what could have been a highly productive afternoon.
Well, damn it all, I hate losing precious time to silly things like napping.