The Comfort of Toast

College dining halls are less glamorous than how ever low you're thinking right now.  Within in my first semester and two weeks into my second dining at college, both a screw and maggot have been found in meals of girls in my very own grade alone.  It's a taunting thought honestly, the idea that one second you could be fooling yourself into being satisfied with meals like every other day, the next second your day is genuinely ruined, and likely the dining hall is completely ruined for you as well (as if just ruining your day wasn't enough, as underclassmen you have literally no other option for your meals than to return to the same dining hall three times a day).

As a fellow eater at the hall, I try to push these memories out of my head whenever I am thinking of or going to eat there.  I also try to stick to salads and oatmeal as ninety-nine percent of meals*.  I figure these meals to be healthy options, as well as safe.  The only meat I eat here is stir fried chicken or (likely extremely processed) chicken patties, with the exception of turkey everyone once in a long while.  Oatmeal is so straightforward and simple, I figure no one can mess it up that much.

I was late into another day of my little routine, grabbing some lettuce to put into one of the dining hall's weird plate bowls, and then topping it with craisins and cucumbers per usual as I waited for my chicken to cook at the stir fry station.  Once it was done, I topped off the chicken with buffalo sauce and enjoyed my meal as if it was the first time I was eating it.  Really.  The mixture of craisins with lettuce and buffalo has been a long time favorite, and realizing I could consistently make my chicken buffalo chicken was a big time game changer.

Alas the salad was done, and now I was stuck.  See, every since I was a little one I have had a major sweet tooth.  Chocolate, caramel, cinnamon, vanilla, and basically any other sweet flavor you can image, I likely enjoy to an alarming extent.  And I detest the feeling of my palette after meals if the last thing I have eaten isn't something at least somewhat sweet.  This is not that big of a problem, even in the reality that is my dining hall.  There is always yogurt and granola out, and some fruit (which may or may not be edible depending on its ripeness), I also have granola, graham crackers, and gum in my dorm, if extreme measures must be taken.

My friends contemplated if they were going to get ice cream, I contemplated if I was going to get yogurt.  But yogurt didn't seem to want to hit the spot for me; for starters, I had eaten it the night before and secondly I didn't want to hold up my friends from continuing on with their nights just so I could eat some yogurt that I didn't really want.  I walked back up to the food and figured I might get some toast with peanut butter and honey on it, but then realized the flavors of peanut butter and buffalo would go well for my palette either.  Just honey? Too drippy to not eat sitting down.  I realized then what I needed to do.  It was going to be a jam and butter on toast type of night.  A rare night, a night that has not yet happened this whole school year, or likely last year school year.  My friend asked me what I was getting and when I told her she scrunched up her nose and said she was putting peanut butter on hers.  But I stayed true to my decision and on my way out, did not regret it in the least.

I took a bite of the toast, the crunch of a toast that had been through the dining hall's toaster two times through filled my ears.  The taste was sweet, and the mix of bread and sweetness reminded me of some random summer memories.  It took me back to the days of my sleep-away summer camp, where the food was so bad that my cousin and I literally chose to eat this for a minimum of two of our three meals a day, every day, for two weeks during the summer.  I had never eaten it before I went to that camp with her, but seeing that she was escaping the gross mashed potatoes and pasta, I took to her vice.  Jam with butter on toast became our lifeline.  It was our comfort food.  And now, it was my comfort food, when I didn't even realize I needed comforting.  I have truly never enjoyed two pieces of toast more.


J






*The two foods the screw and maggot were found in were both said to be from the burrito station.  Oatmeal and salads have not been known to be contaminated in any unappetizing way.

A Small Saving Grace

I stepped out of my dorm building, my winter jacket open, as the weather said it would be in the forties today, and black sneakers on my feet to celebrate the warmth after four consecutive days of my nose freezing as soon as the air from outside hit it.  My choice of footwear quickly turned into a regret as I stepped into a puddle as my first step onto the pavement. I glanced ahead at the path I had to take to get to the dining hall, a massive puddle blocking my way. The choice to go upstairs and change was not really tempting; at eight am I had no desire to walk up the four flights of stairs I just bounded down, and with only one class, I figured I could get through it.  

The puddle was outline with a mixture of slush and snow and ice, a very typical combination for the walkways around campus.  That crust of ice was clearly my only way to get across to the other side without soaking my sneakers. I tiptoed onto it, carefully placing my feet to on sturdy looking parts to not slip.  Glancing around, I thankfully saw that know one was there to see me encounter this goofy looking obstacle course.

Though I made it without slipping to dining hall that breakfast, the rest of the day continued with a monotone grey filling the sky for the fifth day in a row.  Getting out of the class was another elongated process filled with the question of why I chose sneakers. I trudged back to my door and laid down in my bed momentarily before finding the strength to make a fresh coffee.  In hopes of bringing some color into my life, I chose my pristine white mug with a floral ‘J’ on it and a gold colored handle. Though my favorite mug, unfortunately also had the worst memories attached to it as my ex gave it to me.  But I use it all the time, figuring if college life gets the best of me (a reasonable and quite relevant thought at the moment) and for whatever reason it breaks, well it was just another gift from my ex that I wouldn’t have to feel unsettled about having. The steam the mug wafted the smell of French Vanilla coffee into my nose.  I packed my backpack with the Bible and the third edition of “The Christian Theological Tradition” (the essential books for my Christianity history class) and headed out the door, this time in Bean Boots and a hot mug of coffee in hand. I stepped out of the dorm and once looked out at the pouring rain from the steps.  Against the grey of my campus, the cleanness of the mug stood out. There was a burst of happiness in seeing the little object of such appreciation against the dreariness of the day. It brought a sliver of sunshine to my day. The mug, with its tiny flowers and gold trim was a small saving grace, a tiny reminder that spring was indeed real and the campus wouldn’t always be filled with only one color.  The thought pushed me forward with the tiniest amount of motivation to take the first few steps out from under the covered landing of my dorm. I quickly came to the first puddle of many on my walk, but this time, I splashed right through in my boots, enjoying the satisfaction of walking through water without getting wet.

Sending my wishes of warmth,

                                                  J

Renew

And that was it.  A wrap of 2018, and now we're twenty days in.  It always feels like when one year is about to end that we're on the verge of something amazing, something new and different.  But we're not.  We fool ourselves time in and time out.

And why?  Well for starters, there's obviously not anything wrong with this.  And we are stuck in this cycle of one year ending and another following, so why not be optimistic about what's to come, right?  Being hopeful is always the best policy.  In this case, almost the only policy, because we make a habit of it.  We love the idea of things changing after end comes to pass, despite that not always being a case.  And we see that everywhere, in breakups, in finishing books, completing workout goals.  We love the idea of visible change, when in actuality the change is accumulative.  Things aren't just going to change or take shape because something happened that was out of our control.  Because that's really what we are in the tradition of attempting to do.  We all just want to renew ourselves in whatever way we think to be suitable and best.  It's truly a noble thing, because it's difficult, and hard to take initiative and acknowledge the things that you want to change.  It's special because of its rarity as well.

This blog post is a direct result of this.  One of my new year's resolutions being to write more, and I haven't written in over a month.  It's addicting to do nothing.  But it's also addicting to do things.  Sometimes you just need a little kick to begin.  So here is a short and sweet welcome to 2019, twenty days late.



J

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

Another Goodbye

My tongue surfed over the kettle corn chip’s crevasses as I sucked the salt and flavor off of each piece before I finished chewing. I that the process down to a science: take a chip out of the small red bag between pointer and middle finger, take a bite of one corner, suck and savor the flavor, finish bite and repeat for the rest of the chip before moving onto the next.  A very professional and thorough scientific method if I ever heard one.  I focused intently on my step by step process for a very melancholy and cheesy, typical-cliche- girl- out of movie- reason: I did not want to cry on this plane.  I had a developed a tendency -I say tendency because it only happens more often than not- to cry on planes.  It’s terribly cliche in a partially hate myself/ but love myself too for doing so type of way.  

       

But now was not the time to do so.  I was seated in the very back row of the plane, meaning we were very prone to be passed by stewardesses and passengers standing in line for the crawl space of a bathroom.  Additionally I was seated in between my two very loving, caring, and doting parents, whom I adored in a way that I did not have a single desire to cause them an ounce of worry or additional attention.  I was not going to cry this flight.  This proved more difficult than I thought it would be.  See, the feeling coming to me, making me cry, it wasn’t that twisty pit in your stomach, or even the very literal feeling of your heartache.  The feeling came in a very real, very tangible way, very quickly, and straight to the area behind my eyes springing tears forward to fill my eyes, followed by my head thickly clouding over with the dreadful thought of my reason for crying.  

        

He was gone again.  He came, we laughed, experienced more amazing places and things, endured our crazy parents together, and then with a snap of week trip, he was gone.  I am biting my cheek now just thinking of it- yes that’s right, I am not longer at the stage of swallowing or choking back my tears, I am biting myself to avoid them at all and every cost.

       

I don’t know exactly when my brother became so important to me.  I don’t know when I started despising and grieving his every goodbye.  But here I was, trying to accept facts that I couldn't change.  My dad always tells me not to worry about things that I can't control, just control what I can control.  But this isn't worrying, so much as mourning.  I wonder what my dad would say about that.  

J

(Written July, 2018)