A Simple Recipe

I could feel a blister forming on the side of my middle finger as I turned the attention of my spoon to a different part of the dough in the bowl.  It revealed more dry flour under the mixed dough on top.  A mental sigh inevitably escaped in my brain.  I wasn't annoyed, or exasperated, but I recognized that I had more to do before I could come close to immersing all of myself and my senses into the sensational taste that only comes around for a brief season of the year: it was that of a peanut- butter kiss cookie.

The recipe is simple enough.  In total, the dough is made up three ingredients, add another two after the dough is finished, and voilaa- you've made yourself your own little heaven.  Amazing.  A few basic ingredients just seemed to make everything better.  But it was also easier said than done, as the blister made clear to me.  It also likely did not help that this was my third batch of cookies today, but traditions are necessities come Christmas time, and I didn't mind this activity.  All it required was literally following step by step instructions on a small recipe card, steps simple enough that six year old me could follow; which was fine by me, I had experienced enough excitement for the last three months that this time seemed like an easy escape from all of that.

My tranquil state was soon interrupted.  "So, have you ever read that book, that book, Wild, by what's, what's her name? Cheryl Stray?"  My mother's brain was too smart and over-calculating sometimes.  She knew I had read the book, a likely result of peeking around in my room while I was away.  I pushed the thought of what else she may have found out of my mind, as I simultaneously bit my tongue to not correct her on the author's name.  It's Strayed, by the way, Cheryl Strayed.

"Yeah, why?" I answered, trying to seem patient, trying not to seem tense.  I knew there were parts in that book my mother wouldn't like, but I just couldn't remember for the life of me which parts were specific to this book were.  It can be hard to keep track, after reading so many books, so many books that carry such varied points of view between the two of us.  She just didn't know that.

"Oh, I just was wondering.  I'm listening to it on tape now, and I- I, well I really don't care for a lot of what is going on in the book."  She looks at the dough she is stirring with a dismissive book on her face.  The expression makes me grateful I didn't express how it was one of favorite books that I had read in years.  I made a mental note to remember not to be too enthusiastic about my new role model.


"What do you mean?" I said carefully, voices alone can now walk on eggshells, didn't you know?

"Well all of her sleeping around.  And she goes on the Pacific, Pacific Trail? Without ever having done a hike before!  Like who would do that!"  Her voice has changed into that of an outraged girl gossiping over who likes who.  "And the heroine! OH, and the fact that she brought condoms on the trail.  Like why would she do that, she thought she was going to have sex on the trail! Ugh."

I keep my eyes on my cookie dough, as I begin to roll it into balls the size of my thumb, "mom have you finished the book?"

"Well, no.  I just think her habits are absolutely disgusting and I can't believe she would go on the trail with the gear she did.  Why would she bring a chair?"

"Mom, finish the book.  If you judge her whole story you aren't going to take anything away from it.  The story is supposed to be about how she doesn't bring anything on trail,"  my voice was gaining strength.  I feel like I should be more concerned with my very true opinion coming out about the book, but at this point I had refined the odd skill of containing my feelings to that of her approval.  Still, I was tempted to rant about how Cheryl Strayed's sex life didn't matter because the point of the story was the trail changing her life, and changing her.  Sleeping around could represent any of our bad habits, and we have to find our trail to overcome them.  But somehow, I couldn't see my mother following this simple logic of the book's symbolism.

As I started to place the first cookie tray in the oven when my mother then decided to argue against Cheryl Strayed's swearing in the book.  I began to zone her out as I put the sheets both in and closed the door to the oven.  I threw a quick comment about the swearing was a part of her personality, and  glanced down at my fresh blister, touching it lightly with my thumb- fuck that hurt.  The sensitive spot on my finger sent a shot of pain down through my hand.  I shook my hand out to get rid of the feeling, thinking to myself how completely unaware she is of her own daughter's habit of using "such unladylike words."


J

The Most Natural Way of Self Improvement

It was 5:45 pm on a Sunday evening when I started taking life advice from a ginger youtuber in glasses and a hat.  Actually, that's incorrect.  This youtuber was simply a translator.  More accurately, I was taking advice from a dead madman.  The name: Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher, doubter, and pessimist.  But for someone who has been somewhat considered to condone Nazis and at one point he was unable to take of himself due to his illness (insanity?) he makes sense.  The concept he figured best for humans was to follow instinct.  He saw us moderns as too comfortable, and too willing to settle for that comfort.  By following instinct, we would be growing, pushing past that comfort level we all hold oh so close to our hearts, and pushing ourselves one step at a time forwards toward greatness.  

My friend was worse than I about paying attention during philosophy class, but suddenly we were both drawn in, as we had to be, with finals approaching.  She watched a video online of some guy driving around in a car discussing Nietzsche's philosophy, and how he believed Socrates to be a sick human, and basically completely wrong.  Wow right?  Maybe the reason not many people disagree with Socrates is because so few take the time to learn about him, but even so, I wouldn't be surprised to find few people with a big enough head to think their theories rival, if not triumph, that of Socrates.  Needless to say, it sparked my interest.  And so I went and watched the video, and it made sense to me.  It's natural for us to follow our instincts, hence them being our instincts.  

My feelings were confirmed when after class that very day: my friend had been bugging me about talking to this guy and I, finding my shy side, could not bring myself to do it.  It was our last class of the semester, out walked my friend; I was close behind, with no reason to stay any longer.  However, I stopped right outside the door by my friend who stopped walking, turned around and trying to shove me back in, body slams me into wall right next to the door.  My friend then runs down the hall into the bathroom.  With my luck, there was tour going on right outside our door at that moment, all of whom watched me get body slammed by my best friend into the wall then take off.  I glanced over with an apologetic smile at the door guide, and sped walked away from the situation, down the hall and towards the exit.  I stepped outside, and watched the guy I wanted to talk to pass by a few seconds later, alone.  I could easily step inside and talk to him, not even ask him to hangout or anything too radical, just talk.  I felt the timing, it was ideal, and perfect.

I chose not to follow my instincts, and five minutes later found myself filled with regret.  Nietzsche also points out the more we follow our instincts, the stronger they grow.  I found this interesting as it parallels Socrates idea of repetition in cultivated the soul.  The reality of both being that we need to repeat the same way of living in order to grow and better ourselves, and create a better way of living for ourselves.  

After this moment of regret, specifically of not asking this guy in my philosophy class out, I decided to start trying to follow my instincts, when I recognized them.  It's a commitment, and one following a somewhat odd pattern.  For example, it led me to stop writing on my politics final sooner than I would've, I didn't overdo it.  It has also led me to give up Instagram for a week (like I said, a bit of a commitment), as well as text that guy to hang out.  

It's a different type of self improvement; it's not exercising everyday, or only eating green.  It's listening to yourself, as your body tells you what you need to do.

J

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SWPGr0_cPZM 

Snow Globe Home

For the past two years, the main form of communication between my brother and I has been random phone calls and Facetime calls, usually mid week and only for about ten minutes.  The exception would be every few months when it seemed like so much more had happened and the conversation packed together for a continuous hour or so.  There was a phase around last summer when I was calling every other week out so- at that point in the summer the heat had drained me and left me in a lazy haze that didn't provide me the energy to much else after coming home from my summer job.

I should mention the reason for the phone calls, as they replaced random shopping trips or Dunkins' dates that were principal aspects of the flourishing friendship my sister and I shared- he was across the country, literally in the exact opposite corner of where I was.  He had three more years of vet school at that time, and he had practically gone straight there from enduring three months doing fieldwork.  I missed him; another reason for the consistent phone calls.

During these mid summer weeks he mentioned a few times this feeling of daze, amazed at his own life, how he ended up where he was: in a small townhouse office for more hours of the day than not.  He was on such a strict schedule with studying, but caught up in reflecting back upon his adventures in Costa Rica and Madagascar, the locations of his fieldwork.  He viewed his life now through the lens of a snow globe, the scene now being him going crazy in that shoe box of a room.  He described this snow globe scene numerous times to me; each was followed with a vague response on my part, as I could not relate nor imagine that feeling, only empathize.

It wasn't until this past week I found myself hurriedly walking out of the dining hall in between classes that I felt the same way.  I had found my snow globe scene.  My first class that day had gotten out ten minutes early which left me just enough time to rush to the dining hall to replenish my coffee supply.  Walking out, I was still going to be early for my class, and after seeing a teacher in a wheelchair in front me, I felt the urge to not rush.  I took slowly strides and tried to enjoy my cold walk.  Snowflakes were calmly falling, they floated down softly touching the ground before I stepped on them.  At that time the chapel bells started chiming a Christmas tune I could not place; the bells slowed the melody down, it seemed to be in sync with me; both trying to contain the speed of our natural pace.  And in that moment, I was in a snow globe.

I thought about my past year and a half.  My mind raced through the events, each flicking through my head quickly as if my life were an old film roll and I was quickly skimming over the pictures: from coming home from Panama, to hiding a relationship from most of my friends, to going to Mexico with my best friend, and coming back from Asia puking through the whole fifteen hour plane ride.   I thought about all the people I encountered in the past year: from my new head basketball coach who cared so much he even fixing a girl's flat tire last year, to the gas station worker in LA who opened the store just so we could grab some cookies when we snuck out of our hotel, to my tour guide in Asia who had survived the Cambodian genocide, to the professor in the wheel chair in front of me.  My mind skipped over to moments, moments that stimulated all my senses, moments I knew I wouldn't forget.  Tasting Mexican hot chocolate with the cool breeze of the Caribbean running through my hair and my bare legs, as I modestly crossed them under my flowy dress, entering a bake shop in DC and smelling the fresh cookies and sugar, hiking with my mom in the White Mountains after a rainfall and smelling the fresh scent of trees and dirt.  Walking on a snowy day to class with church bells ringing in the background as I try to slow my pace to not put pressure on the professor in the wheelchair to move faster.  The hot coffee staining the top of my travel mug as it bounces with each step I take.  How did I get here?  How did I get here?

A name of one of the freshman seminars offered here is "Place and Placelessness."  I didn't take it, I almost took it.  I didn't understand what the concept of 'placelessness' would be.  I don't even think it's a real word.  Yet somehow I was feeling it, I was feeling placeless.  I was not homesick, I did not want to be home, but this new place isn't my home yet either.  It was my snow globe home, for the moment.

J