tonight I'll be dreaming of pies

This is the first day that it's really hard to post. I'm exhausted. This past week I've been color correcting 13 episodes of an Albanian sitcom, and this afternoon was my deadline. It was an incredibly fast turnaround for just about 6.5 hours of shot by shot color corrected footage. I take deadlines very seriously, and I've never had an edit project come my way with a flexible schedule. Everything always needs to be done immediately, and it's always for reasons I totally understand. I like being able to work toward dates - it focuses my efforts, and reminds me that projects end, which lets me enjoy it more. 

Knowing that today was the deadline for the director, I sat down at my computer on Saturday (yesterday) morning at 11am to get it done. I didn't leave my computer (with the exception of bathroom and kitchen breaks) until today, Sunday, at 5pm. I did not sleep last night or nap today. I sat and color corrected the same six characters, speaking a language I don't know, for thirty consecutive hours.

While working, I was worried about getting an email about how they needed the footage now, and as the afternoon passed, I kept thinking that I was less than an hour away - it always felt like less than an hour from being done - and that I could get in touch with the director when I was totally finished. By episode 13, right around 3:30pm this afternoon, I started to forget how to use the effects in Final Cut that enable color correction.  It felt like a minor stroke had wiped out that part of my mind. I struggled like hell to finish, but I did finish.  At 5pm.

Also at 5pm, I got an email from the director. She wrote that there was no reason for me to rush after all, they could just pick up the footage tomorrow, on Monday, in the morning. The timing was so insanely in sync with when I'd wrapped the edit, it was like she'd been spying on me.

So, a few things. First - not the biggest deal, but sort of a big deal - I blew off two parties last night that I'd been looking forward to for weeks. One was a birthday party for a friend who lives in LA and rarely visits. Also, this is the fourth all-nighter I've pulled for work-related edit projects in the last six months. In each of those four situations, the exact same thing has happened. I've been told it was totally mandatory that something be done in an absurd time frame, so I did it, and then I was told, eh, not a big deal, we'll get to it when we get to it. The first two all-nighters were done for a client that took five months to pay me.

I'm trying to figure out what to take from this, and how to see it in a better light. When I got the email that my blood shot eyes and twitchy hands were all for naught, I burst into laughter. I love what I do, and I try to love the stupid bullshit that leads to funny anecdotes and strong experience. Mostly I'm grateful that I'm not doing anything that actually matters.

cutting and pasting and coloring

Just, Final Cut Pro.  I am radically grateful for Final Cut Pro.  I have spent thousands of hours - actually thousands of hours - messing with this software.  And I would hazard that I have touched maybe 40% of what is possible.  The color correct ability, oh my.  I'm only starting to get my fingers in that, and I am already blown away by how attractive I can make a shot.

In honor of the all-nighter I'm about to pull on behalf of Albania, I would like to salute the team of misfits that made this fucking ridiculously fabulous software.  Much, much obliged.

saddle shoes for grown ups

I have very specific memories of wanting saddle shoes when I was a kid.  I don't even know why I was familiar with them, as they weren't a popular item in the late 80s/early 90s.  I wanted them, I didn't have them, I got through it.  But now Steven Alan is selling them!

But there's something about this shoe, as sold by Steven Alan, that looks uncomfortable.  It looks hard to break in, with a too-thick sole. The dream saddle shoes would have soft leather, worn in so you could get away with not wearing socks.  These are a stiff attempt at grown ups co-opting a kid thing.  It's been fifty years since someone had a pair of saddle shoes and really meant it, and it's been a novelty since. Yet they press on.

And this makes me think that maybe a big part of being an adult is realizing that you can have the things you wanted as a child, but also realizing that these things you thought you needed, you don't need. You don't even want, often.  Getting a cat is the counter-argument, but with pretty much everything else, wanting less and getting less turns out to be the better option.  I hate how much I love shopping.  I hate how many pairs of shoes I have that I don't wear.  I buy to get clothing I need, but this I do rarely.  Usually, I'm buying because I'm killing time, because I think I deserve something new, or because I find something that seems fun which looks just like something I already own.  That has happened a disturbing number of times.  And I never catch on until I get the thing home.

But I am grateful that saddle shoes are available some place not selling Halloween costumes, and that they're drifting back into some sort of fashionable focus.  Because I realize I no longer want them.

february showers

The water was shut off in the building today so the fourth floor bathroom could be renovated.  My day was a succession of moments where I'd forget that the water was off.  I tried doing dishes, I filled the washing machine, I kept turning up at the sink to wash my hands.  I'm working from home and woke up to a slushy snowfall.  I'm trying to take this in stride - Winter, we've had this conversation - since I don't have to go outside.  But even with the heat on, even in sweaters, all day I've been chilled.  It had to do with not taking a shower this morning, I think.

My guy came home, got us take out and wine, and around 8pm, I got to take a shower.  Showers are high on my list of favorite things to do, and often turn out to be the best part of a quiet day.  I'm grateful for showers for so many reasons.  The way it drives cold out of bones, no matter how deeply ingrained the chill.  The incredible blessing of this country and this time where I can have unlimited hot water that is clean enough to drink.  I try not to waste water, generally.  I use very little when washing dishes.  I never leave it running when I brush my teeth.  Part of this conservation is so I can take longer showers without feeling like the hulking carbon footprint that I am.

The only thing better than a shower is drinking a beer in that shower.

the library provides

I've never taken advantage of the interlibrary loan system before today, and it turns out it works really smashingly well.  The last few times I've been in a book store, I've looked for and not found Ursula Le Guin's The Disposessed.  My friendly neighborhood library didn't have it, which is unsurprising, as it wasn't written by Danielle Steele.  But it turns out if you search for a book on the main Brooklyn Library website and select "hold," they can hunt it down and send it to your most convenient library location, where it sits on a shelf and waits for you. An email lets you know when it's there - I didn't have to talk to a person once.  It's stunning.  I'm impressed with the technology of the process and with the government for funding it.  Go team Brooklyn Public Library System.

The real winner here is me, because I get to read another book by Ursula Le Guin.  The librarian told me that they always lose the science fiction books, because men take them out and don't return them.  "The men always leave them on the train," she said.  I said that I'd be sure to bring this one back, and she said, "Oh, the women always do."

The thing I love about science fiction is the lack of boundaries. Things can happen however an author wants them to.  I'd like to draw a line here between science fiction and fantasy, which is not my cup of tea. I like robots, not dragons.  This may seem subtle to people who don't like either, but it is a drastic distinction.  Ursula Le Guin is one of very few amazing female sci-fi writers, and she writes in a way that is both genderless and timeless.  Left Hand of Darkness, one of hers, and one of the best books I have ever read, could have been written twenty years or one year ago.  It is elegant and perfect as novels go.  And it was published in 1969.

I do feel grateful that she has spent so much of her life writing things that bring me joy.  Thank you, Ursula.  And thank you, Brooklyn Library.  Appreciating you takes a bit of the edge off paying taxes.

rain in my yard and on my street

I'm grateful that today it's only rain.  We've been slammed with snow, just like everywhere else, and I'm tired of it.  I'm tired of the mounds of dank grey slickness that aren't scraped off the sidewalk very well and turn first to ice and then into deep puddles at curbs.  I'm ready for Spring in a way that I have never been ready for Spring.  I mean, I'm always ready for Spring.  But this is different - Spring this year is more of a promise, and the breaking off of the past few months.  With each snow storm, I feel myself falling back a week, two weeks, and this Winter feels like it will not end, ever.  But today it's only rain.

The sky right now is a dim electric white.  Everything outside is dripping.  It smells like earth, clean and soggy.  Makes me think of rained-out summer concerts, skidding on my bike, leaks inside when windows are left open.  Summertime things.  Flowers and rescheduled picnics.  Umbrellas and galoshes and light jackets.

I love being on this side of a season change, looking forward as opposed to holding on.  I've got my eye on you, May.

radio, radio

Today, I started color correcting an Albanian sitcom called Radio, Radio.  I'm matching shots to other shots and making minor adjustments in the depth of the blacks and whites.  It's minor color correction as these things go, but I think it's making a nice difference.  It's strange and fascinating to watch a sitcom in a language I don't speak.  I had assumed that because of the formulaic style of the genre, I'd follow along just fine - this turned out to be wholly untrue.  I get moments, like physical gags and flirtations and screaming, but I can't figure out how the characters relate to each other or to the show.  I'm only one episode in (out of 13), so it's likely some of this will shake a bit clearer.  Eventually.

But I adore watching these actors work.  They're all Albanian, and they are acting their hearts out.  It's a lot of fun to see people in this set style of performance when I'm not distracted by their words or the details of the story.  I can just watch their faces, and how they throw focus to each other, over and over.  I'm impressed by them, and watching what they're doing makes this project really interesting for me. 

I'm grateful that I have this job to work on, that I can do it from home, and that it's making me happy to watch.  I want to cast all of these people in everything. 

my insane enthusiasm

There's a thing that Christopher Moltisanti does in The Sopranos that I find really charming. When he's heading to rehab for heroin addiction and learns he can't talk to his girl for two weeks, he decides to keep a journal. And he tells his girl, Adriana, that when he gets out, he'll try to get it published. He does that all over the series; an idea appears, half-formed, and Chris immediately assumes the best outcome. He's lazy and often fails, but these dreams are light and their failure won't bruise him.

When I started college, I had to pick my first semester's classes the summer before I got there. I read the booklet of course descriptions and kept my requirements in mind. Knowing I'd need to take two phys ed classes at some point, I decided to take fencing. I had never tried it. I took ballet and gymnastics as a child, but I was gangly, lazy and uncoordinated. But when I saw the three-sentence description of fencing, my first thought was: What if I'm so good at fencing, I have to drop out of college to pursue it? Would I be willing to do that?

Similarly, on our honeymoon in Bali, I assumed I’d really take to scuba diving, and the guy and I decided to get certified. When I was reading the training manual (and this was before our first dive), I thought about what color wetsuit I’d get when we started traveling every year to a new scuba destination. For when we were both so good at it, we would need our own equipment.

This is generally how my brain works. In a development that surprised no one, I was terrible at fencing. My thighs hurt so much I could barely take stairs the first few weeks of classes. Even through the padding, getting stabbed with the blunt tip of the épée really hurt. And I couldn't deflect well, so I was stabbed a lot. When I took the first dive in Bali and tried breathing under water, I almost had a panic attack. I couldn’t get enough air and felt like I was suffocating. I spent fifteen minutes under water, the entire time holding the instructor’s hand. My guy did get his certification, and the instructor was kind enough to fully refund my half of the class.

But I really like my insane enthusiasm. I like the way it reliably appears in spite of known facts - I’m gangly, claustrophobic, asthmatic, etc - because I always believe that I’m a little bit better than I am. I believe that I have more potential and less fear.

I hope that I keep this attitude forever.

my mother's father

My grandfather was an astonishing photographer.  His name is A. Aubrey Bodine, and he died in 1970, twelve years before I was born.  My parents sell reprints and originals of his artwork.  I have framed reprints in my house now, and this one is my favorite.  That's my mom on the far left.

Bodine was a photographer for the Baltimore Sun from 1923 to 1970, which astounds me.  People who have been at the same job for 5 years seem like lifers to me, and I know very few of them.  But he was enough of a force at the Sun that HBO's The Wire used some of his images to prove their Baltimore authenticity.  He would travel hundreds of miles, take one picture, and drive home.  Although he couldn't swim, he would hang off the side of a boat at sea to get the angle he wanted for an image.  He responded to criticism that he was only good because of his expensive equipment by hand-making a box camera and still taking better photos than anyone else.  He would do things in the dark room by hand that I can barely do with Photoshop.  My parents have to remove fingerprints from the pictures when they scan them - the man didn't even use tongs when working with chemicals.  He had a single-minded focus and incredible, searing ability.  He was self-made.  I wish I could have met him.  As difficult as I understand he was, I would want very much for him to like me. 

He took a picture of my grandmother's nude torso, arms raised, just from neck to navel.  This was framed and in the stairwell of the house I grew up in.  My grandmother, who passed away when I was a child, was in her 30s when the picture was taken, and she was gorgeous, but it was still VERY UNSETTLING to have it up in the house when I was a teenager.  I've mellowed since high school, and I think that I'm finally a person who could reasonably have a framed (life-size) nude picture of my grandmother in my home.  Because she was absolutely beautiful, and she was loved by a man who knew what to do with beauty.

I love that I have him in my family, if not my memory, and that the art he left has become a career for my parents.  For a stranger, he's had a huge impact on my life.

oh, little beans

Today, I feel a bit rattled.  Some technological irritations all up in my face.  No food in the house except quinoa and cans of whole tomatoes.  This Friday is taking an awkward landing.  So I'm going to talk about Beans.

This is Beans (a.k.a. "Little Beans"), or, if you were to check the proper name on her tax filings: Little Vonn Tyrone Boling.

(Note: This picture is 2.5 years old.) 

She's a slight cat with gingivitis and a caramel tuft under her belly who crawls up on my chest and purrs and flexes her little paws against my neck.  This is her doing that, from this morning:

 

The guy and I spend a lot of time talking about our cats, especially Beans.  We have another cat, Cholula McFate (commonly known as "Chicken" or "Beast"), and I have a very complicated relationship with her.  Beans is much easier to love, which does not mean I love her more.  She's shy but very affectionate.  She makes these wonderful chirping sounds when she wants to be fed. 

As a child, I had always wanted to have a cat.  So, so badly.  This was shot down by my parents, and we only had parakeets and hamsters.  When the guy and I moved in together in 2006, we immediately got Chicken from a rescue operation.  It was an extraordinary experience to actually add something to my life that I'd spent two decades actively craving.  Beans came from our next door neighbor when we moved to our new place in 2007.  Their cat had had kittens, and they were looking to place them quickly.  I didn't think we could handle two cats, as Chicken was reacting very poorly to the move.  But our neighbor found me in our back yard, and kind of foisted this tiny five-week-old peanut of fluff into my hands and told me to play with it for an hour.  So I took it inside, Chicken freaked out, and I tried to return the kitten to my neighbor.  Turns out she'd left to run errands for a few hours.  So I took the kitten back home, totally unsure of what to do with her.  She was so tiny and so terrified.  When my neighbor did come home, I tried to give the animal back again, but she told me that since the mother cat had already spent a few hours away from the kitten, she didn't want to reunite them.  She's a forceful woman, and I didn't know how else to tell her that I didn't want this cat, so I brought the kitten home again, and set it on the floor of the bathroom so I could close the door and keep Chicken from getting near her.  I asked the guy if he could handle returning this kitten to our neighbor, as I apparently couldn't do it.  We went into the bathroom and saw that the kitten had hidden herself behind the toilet, crouched down to make herself as small as possible.  The guy reached his hand out to pick her up, and she just put one little paw in the air.  Like: Stop, please, I'm harmless.  It was the cutest, saddest and most helpless thing I've ever seen an animal do.  I saw that and said, OKAY.  We'll make it work.  She can stay. 

Beans makes my life so much more fun.  I think of how close we came to not having her, and that's a crazy awful thing to consider.  I love my cats so intensely that I cannot process what it would feel like to love a child.  It must be so much deeper and richer than this, but where would all that love come from?  And how do you live without it choking you with its size? 

Oh, little Beans.  Napping under the bed with your soft fur.  Thank you for putting up with me always trying to touch you.

and what do you do?

There was a guide in Vanity Fair a few years ago called How To Tell If You're An Asshole.  One of the points was that it takes more than one sentence to explain what you do for a living.  I thought, yes, okay.  That makes sense.  I definitely feel like an asshole when people ask me what I do.  Or at the very least, I feel inarticulate.  Because it does take me more than one sentence.

I freelance.  I often work from home.  I do a lot of video editing but also the occasional short-term production job.  I'm about to start color correcting the first Albanian sitcom.  I was at HBO for a few months last summer working on a documentary for and about kids.  I've been paid for voiceover work a few times.  I've traveled to music festivals for Rolling Stone magazine to rapid fire edit video interviews with bands.  I once production managed a reggaeton music video, and the band's entourage spat their gum directly onto the floor of the stage, all day long.  I stayed late after the shoot scraping it up with a pen.  I've scouted locations for commercials, which has involved going a mile and a half inside a West Virginia coal mine and watching a rattlesnake get beheaded with a shovel on a Texas cattle ranch.

Cons of the job(s) are that sometimes people take a long time to pay.  Like, one to even six months later.  I'm taxed at the end of the year, which I don't have the hang of yet.  A few clients have gone out of business in the last year.  Winter is generally very slow, and a month might go by where I'm not working at all.  This is fun for four days, and then it stops being fun.  Every time, I think I will never work again, and then, every time, something happens that pulls me back in.  I get an email from someone who got my name from someone who got my name, and am I available to start next week?  And more often than not, projects go away.  Projects go away after I've already been awarded them.  Projects go away after they've already started.  I don't assume a project is for sure happening until I've been paid for it, sometimes months after we wrap.  This makes me sound like a pessimist in conversations, but I think it's a sign of great optimism that I keep taking jobs like this, even when so many fail to happen. 

Oh, but the people I've met.  I love, love, love the people I've met on jobs.  These things are self-selecting, as it's a very specific group who are drawn to these types of unstable work situations.  And as it's largely based on recommendations, people who are unpleasant to work with or inept tend to get weeded out.  Plus, the variety of projects and locations and people make it really interesting and exciting.  One major life skill I've picked up is to imagine the various ways something (a shoot, often) could go wrong, and to try to head off those possibilities.  This was helpful in planning a wedding and honeymoon.  I'm an excellent negotiator, and I'm good at getting things done (the key is lists, and checking things off lists).  I'm grateful for the ability to have these weird and often fun experiences, and I hope that I'm able to continue getting hired.  I'm grateful for my husband, who is responsible for a lot of the editing jobs that I have.  I'm grateful for the people who have given me the opportunities that I've had, and hopefully will continue to have.  And I love working from home, as I get to hang out with my guy and my cats, and often I can cook dinner. 

I just got word about a new project today, and I hope it works out. 

where the love comes from

One thing I feel staggeringly grateful for is the family I married into.  That's one thing you don't get to pick.  Except maybe you do, sort of.  The guy is a perfect tribute to how well he was raised, and I see his parents in him all over.  But that wasn't something I knew I was seeing until I met them, a few months into our relationship.  Since then, they have shown me nothing but unabashed love and accepted me as part of their tightly knit family. 

I do not take this for granted.

My guy married into a pretty awesome family, too.  This luck is something we've talked about a lot, especially as it relates to his brother and sister.  The three of them are very good friends with each other, another thing I don't think is so common.  Because I'm an only child, I don't understand at all what it would be like to have a sibling.  That bond doesn't seem to have anything in common with the friendships in my life, as strong and long lasting as some of the best ones are.  I have lovely cousins, but I don't know any of them particularly well - which is a shame - and we're all scattered around the country.  But someone to share your parents with, someone who has seen all your phases up close, from within the same generation... I can't picture that. 

The guy's brother and sister are very, very cool.  Very kind, very smart, very good-looking.  Much like their parents, the siblings have done so much to make me feel like a loved part of the family.  I consider them both close friends of mine.  And for this I am so thankful, as it has enriched my life and my holidays and my sense of self.  I love you guys.  So much.  Thank you for your openness and friendship and love.  I'll do all I can to deserve and return it.

dancing and union busting

A wonderful and incredibly generous friend took me to see Billy Elliot last night on Broadway.  Neither of us had seen the musical, although we'd both seen and enjoyed the film.  Oh, it was great.  Our seats were outstanding and the whole show was vibrant and manic and deeply felt.  It's especially impressive to see so many young children in a show that tightly choreographed.

Because the lead part is huge and requires an 11-year-old boy, every night the Billy actor changes, and they rotate five boys in the role.  The boy who played Billy last night was an incredible dancer (as I imagine they all are), and the audience loved him.  Whenever he had extended dance sequences, the audience just lost their minds over it.  His standing ovation was so effusive that it seemed to make him really nervous.  Group bow, group bow, finally he was alone on stage, everyone stood up and went crazy, and he smiled - the most delicate, beautiful smile (playing the role, he mostly frowned) - and then he nervously motioned for other people to get back on stage with him.  It was beyond charming.

I love watching theater.  I love it second only to doing it, and there's nothing I love more than that.  It was such a tight, beautiful show; expensive-looking and well put together, but also heartfelt.  The audience appreciated how well a child could hold a room that large.  It was impressive.  It was just so impressive.  I wanted to eat the moment when the boy was alone on stage, looking out at the crowd that adored him. 

I'm not sure what the message was of this feeling.  I'm grateful on behalf of this 6th grader who is living a life I would have KILLED FOR at 11.  Would still kill for.  I want to appreciate, always, when other people have success.  It's easier not to feel jealous when I'm watching a middle school-aged boy performing, (rather than, say, a 27-year-old woman), but the tendency is there anyway.  He doesn't know how lucky he is, etc.  I want to always and only take pleasure in successes - those happening to my friends, total strangers, the man I married, and myself.  The alternative is useless and destructive.  I'm so happy for the boys playing Billy Elliot, the one I saw and all the others.  I sincerely hope they are having a fucking OUTSTANDING time.

coffee with my morning, and the bread recipe

Every morning, if we're both working from home, the guy makes coffee.  It's his job, the same way sorting recycling is his job and laundry is often my job.  This ritual is so ingrained that when he travels for work and is gone for a week or two at a time, I don't make coffee for myself.  It's just better when it comes from him.  The smell of it, with him flitting around the kitchen grinding beans, makes for a pleasant process to watch from the outside.  The ritual of this is tame as rituals go - it's skippable or missable and the day continues on.  But right now, we're both at home, on different floors doing different things.  And I am grateful that we had that connection this morning, where he made the coffee, knew to add the milk to the cup before pouring the coffee in, and then handed it to me to start my day.  I'm grateful that I'm known this well by someone I love, and that he cares how I most want to drink coffee.  And I'm grateful for how coffee makes me feel, which is probably a different post altogether. 

With our coffees, we're having chunks of the bread that I baked yesterday.  I'm publishing that recipe below (with gratitude but without permission).  How well the loaves turned out is a testament to how easy the recipe is.  I've added notes in italics where I changed or clarified recipe aspects.

Finnish Cardamom Bread
(From the Feb 2010 issue of Relish magazine)

1 tbsp active dry yeast (I used one packet, which was about 3/4 tbsp)
1/4 cup warm water
1/2 cup, plus 1/2 tsp, sugar
1 cup 2% milk
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp crushed cardamom seeds or ground cardamom (due to lack of cardamom, I used 1/4 tsp cinnamon and 1/4 tsp nutmeg)
4 1/2 cups bread flour
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, softened
1 beaten egg for glaze
Granulated sugar for sprinkling (optional - but I did it)

1. Mix yeast, warm water and 1/2 tsp of sugar until yeast dissolves. Set aside.

2. Heat milk in saucepan over low heat until small bubbles appear along the edges. Cool to about 120F. Add beaten eggs, remaining 1/2 cup sugar, salt, cardamom and 3 cups flour. Beat well. Add butter; beat well. Add yeast mixture. Add remaining 1 1/2 cups flour in three additions, mixing well after each addition, until dough has a soft to medium consistency.

3. Knead on a lightly floured surface or with a mixer fitted with a dough hook (this is what I did) until smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes, adding as little additional flour as possible.

4. Place dough in an oiled bowl (I used extra virgin olive oil), turning to coat top. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise until almost doubled, 1 to 2 hours. Punch down dough and let rise again until almost doubled, about 1 hour.

5. Place dough on a lightly floured surface and divide into 6 pieces. Roll each piece into a rope. Braid 3 ropes together to form a loaf. Repeat with remaining 3 ropes. Place loaves on a greased baking sheet (I used Pam, the organic canola oil variety) or in greased 8.5 x 4.5-inch loaf pans. Cover with a cloth and let rise until doubled, about 45 minutes.

6. Preheat oven to 375F.

7. Brush loaves with beaten egg and sprinkle with sugar (fig. 1).

Bake 25 minutes or until loaves sound hollow when tapped on bottom. Invert from pan and cool on a wire rack. Makes 2 loaves. Serves 20 (fig. 2).

My last note - best when eaten VERY HOT.  Like, directly out of the oven hot.  We have a lightly spicy red pepper jelly that is extraordinary on this, but fruit jams are also wonderful.  Or just butter.  Or plain, chewy, with your coffee the next morning.  The recipe claims leftovers make great French toast, which I totally believe.

happy valentine's day

The guy and I had brunch in our neighborhood this afternoon, and then we went by the grocery store so I could buy makings for black bean tacos and fresh cardamom bread.  They didn't have cardamom at the store, so I searched online until I found suggested substitutes for the spice.  Half nutmeg, half cinnamon is what I'm trying.  Right now, the dough is in the middle of its first rising phase.  My impatience with baking is an issue.  I don't like waiting for eggs to get to room temperature before starting, I don't like waiting for the simmered milk to cool to 120 degrees before I mix in the eggs.  My favorite kinds of cooking are loose recipes, where I can just add elements that I like eating and amounts are casual.  This is possible with the bulk of recipes.  But not baking; baking is precious.  Baking is severe.  Baking requires exactitude.  Sifting, gah.

Okay, that said.  Coming through a made-from-scratch endeavor like that of making fresh bread... It's rare that I can feel this kind of self-satisfaction.  I cannot start a fire from scratch but I can make bread with yeast and flour and my hands and the better part of a day.  I often feel very far away from the food that I eat, (I don't hunt, I don't garden), but making bread brokers a connection. 

I am grateful for this ability to make the food I eat.  I want to care about what I'm eating, and how much it's gone through before I get to it.  I like controlling the ingredients, and the flavors, and the smell.  I will never stop appreciating how much food matters.

forever my guy

There's a fair amount of putting up with someone when you're in a relationship.  It seems like after a while, you not only stop hearing them, you also stop seeing them.  I've been married for five months, and in love with the beau for more than five years.  I often have to remind myself that this person is separate from me, and he can't necessarily read my mind.  Because it feels like he should be able to - he's my guy. 

We wrote our own vows for the wedding.  One thing I said: I vow to never stop feeling honored that you are choosing to live your life with me. 

That's what it is; the sensation is absolutely that of being honored.  This guy is incredible.  He's funny, he's gorgeous, he's motivated and passionate and presents beautifully when I introduce him to friends.  He eats whatever I cook.  He will make an astonishing father.  He's supportive even when he doesn't necessarily approve.  He expects me to be as true to myself as possible, and this is all he asks.  There are, yes, things I wish he did differently, music I love that we don't have in common, times when he pushes a joke so far I get instantly furious.  But so much of that is on me.  It becomes natural (and easy, normal, a habit) to take the goodness for granted without feeling grateful for it.  But when I do consider how lucky I am to have this man in my life, all the minor bullshit is absolutely irrelevant.

To my Valentine, on Valentine's eve.  Just thank you.  I am grateful to you and for you.  And I will make that known every day. 

sometimes these things start with sorrow

About a month ago, I lost a close friend.  He died while rock climbing, trying something ridiculous without enough rope, something he shouldn't have done.  But that was Garland - trusting his body against odds, against physics and gravity - and when you test your luck that often and that vibrantly, it only takes one failure to matter.  My life is lessened without him.  The world is lessened without him.

And so a chain of thoughts later, I decided to start this.  I am not in therapy, and I don't believe in God.  I dealt with the loss of Garland by staying in bed for 9 days and deciding to get a tattoo.  But because of his loss (and also having nothing to do with his loss) I feel outrageously grateful for what my life is, and who I have in it.

I want this to be a chronicle of the joy that can be found all places.  Cynicism is boring. 

I am radically grateful for so much.

I miss you, Garland.