Blue Plate Special

on hands.

2012-01-16T16:43:00.000-05:00

One of the most noticeable differences between this current chapter of my life and the ones preceding is the way in which creativity fits. Throughout my student life and months of unemployment, I enjoyed the flexibility to push aside whatever I was doing when the urge to create struck. Moreover, I had the luxury of using my hands in different ways every day. I sewed, I cooked, I crafted, I sported. And it felt fantastic.

Now, I have an adult job that involves spending 8+ hours per weekday typing away on a computer keyboard. I'm still creating, but not as frequently as in the past. What was previously spontaneous now must be scheduled. So if I want it to happen, I have to make a conscious effort to fit it in around the income-generating activities that fill my days. And that has taken some getting used to.

When I was home over the New Year's long weekend, I spent a lot of time using my hands outdoors as well as indoors. I swung an ax and hauled firewood alongside my family, helped my mother gather seaweed from the beach for her garden, and cooked some meals for 4. It felt good- really good. A sense of mental acuity and vitality pervaded those few days. The whole weekend served as an excellent reminder to not let that kind of activity slip out of my day-t0-day life. I might not have as much time and space to do such things in New York, but the fact of the matter is- I feel better when my hands get as good of a workout as my brain. And so I will make room, one way or another.

Christmas 2011

2011-12-27T19:27:00.001-05:00

Now that I'm a citizen of the working world, long gone are the days of luxurious month-long Christmas breaks. Even though my holiday was compressed into 4-day long weekend this year, there was no shortage of merry and bright Christmas fun with the family at home.

Life may be in a state of constant flux for us young folk, but Christmas stays the same year after year.

December.

2011-12-05T22:11:00.002-05:00

Balsam fir and butter in the oven are two of my favorite scents.

Coincidentally, December is my favorite month.

Roots and webs

2011-11-20T15:49:00.000-05:00

In addition to finding a good, affordable yoga studio and obtaining a NY Public Library card, one of my priorities upon moving to New York was finding a new church.

I'm a Unitarian Universalist (UU)- something I don't often discuss here on this blog. Discussing religion, both in person and online, makes me uncomfortable because of the myriad opportunities for misunderstanding and judgment, so I generally shy away. But I will say this: I was raised as a UU and its principles helped to lay the foundation for the values I hold as an adult. While I did not regularly attend church during my late teens and the first couple years of my twenties, I resumed semi-regular church attendance during my last year of college. UU sermons are (at least, in my experience) thought-provoking and challenging to the mind. More often than not, a UU service presents tough questions rather than hands down easy answers, and I like that about my faith. It's free of dogma.

Today's sermon centered on thankfulness, as I imagine most sermons do during this time of year. The title was "Absence of Limit," and it focused on infinity: the infinite things we have to be thankful for, the infinite ways we can show our gratitude, and infinite ways in which we are connected and bound to one another. It was a great sermon- the kind that has my brain swimming in thoughts long after leaving church- and far too eloquent for me to sum up in just one sentence.

The minister's words were particularly timely for me today, as I've been thinking a lot about both thankfulness and the support of others during this time of life transition. Although I talk about the challenges of carving out my own life in New York, I cannot forget the fact that everywhere I go in this city, I am supported by a web of roots.

My roots in New York are varied- some are deep and old, while some are newer and fresher. When I attend this particular church, I sit in the same pews as my grandparents did. When I ride the subway to Queens, I travel through a tunnel built by my ancestors. When I make weekend plans, I meet up with the familiar faces of friends (many of whom I became acquainted with through this very blog). When I feel the need to escape my roommate-filled apartment, a family member is just a subway ride away. These roots intertwine into an invisible web that surrounds me. If I should lean, the web is there. And for that, I am very thankful.

Baskets, patience, and pastries.

2011-11-09T20:33:00.000-05:00

the new 'hood, via iphone

I've long believed that the best measure of patience is how long you're willing to hold out for the right thing- be it a job, a living space, a relationship, etc.

By that measure, I am a very, very patient person. I waited a long time to land a great first job. I waited a long time find the right house for my senior year of college. And I'm still waiting for the right significant other.

And yet, I find myself feeling particularly impatient with my adjustment to this new life of mine. The transition from old to new was swift and dramatic: one day I was unemployed and living at home in the woods with my parents and by the next week, I was working a 9-5 job in Manhattan and living in a walk-up apartment with 3 random roommates. I got the package deal: 3 major life changes, 1 low price (actually, one very high price- moving is expensive). A new job, new city, and a new living situation.

Almost every day that I've been here in New York, I've felt as if I am living out someone else's life. I've been wearing someone else's shoes while my own life just sits off to the side, waiting for me to return and resume it. But this life that feels so foreign is my life now. I just need to let myself adjust and grow into it, and that will take time. Perhaps a lot of time.

On the day before I left home for college in 2007, an older relative of mine gave my apprehensive self a wise piece of advice. She told me not to think of life in terms of losses and gains, but as an ever-expanding basket of experiences that you're constantly adding to. Everything that you've ever done is right there in your arms, she said. You lose nothing. This wasn't exactly a revolutionary thought, but it was just the shift in perspective that I needed in that moment. I've carried her words with me ever since.

Today, I took a walk in the park with a friend (and new neighbor) before work. We bought ridiculous chocolate brioche from a nearby bakery and meandered beneath the autumn-hued trees while eating our breakfast. Sun filtered through the leaves and cut through the fog that shrouded the riverbank below us. I was far too involved with my pastry and the conversation to pause and take a photo, but the image is in my head. Another item to add to my basket.

It's about time.

2011-10-31T20:02:00.008-04:00

When I graduated from college back in May, I expected that it might take me a little while to find a job. The national unemployment rate was (and remains) 9%. Entry-level jobs for liberal arts grads were in high demand, and I knew that I'd be competing against a slew of highly qualified recent graduates.

What I didn't expect, however, was for it to take me 5 1/2 months to find a job.

On October 20th, I was driving home on the highway after some errands when I finally got the phone call I had been waiting for. I somehow managed to avoid running off the road while the HR guy ran through the details of my job offer from one of the country's major environmental non-profits. I was offered a development assistant position in their New York City office, focusing on foundation relations. Not only was this was the exact job function I had been aiming for, but it was in the field I had spent 4 years studying in undergrad. The required move to NYC stirred up mixed feelings (a topic for another post) but I reminded myself that I always said I would only live in the city for the most ideal of jobs. And this was pretty much perfect. I accepted without hesitation.

In processing this complete 180 of life's course, two emotions dominated: relief, and gratitude. Relief that the anxiety-provoking job search had finally come to an end and gratitude for everyone that helped me get there. At the risk of sounding like I'm giving an Oscar acceptance speech, I am immensely grateful to the family, friends, and friends-of-family and friends who supported me, encouraged me, maintained their faith in me, invited me to distracting social events, sent job leads my way, worked the crap out of their networks to connect me with job leads, listened when I wanted to unload a rant on them, and mercifully avoided the topic when I didn't want to talk about it. In particular, I am endlessly grateful to the person whose connection opened the door to this job for me.

So now I live in Manhattan. My first day of work was today, Halloween. It was a whirlwind of introductions, HR orientations, and filing to familiarize myself with the 100+ foundation grants this non-profit receives every year. I have a lot to learn in these next few months, but I couldn't be happier about it. Real life, commence. I'm ready for you.

Hello again

2011-10-19T20:25:00.001-04:00

Uh, hi.

So. It's been a while.

No particular reason for the radio silence, other than my own periodic blogging apathy.

In the interest of getting back into the game, recent happenings:

1. I had a bit of a freak accident a couple weeks ago. I stood up too quickly at home and fainted, knocking my glass of water off the table in the process. The glass smashed on the floor and I landed on my back directly on top of the glass. I pulled a 1.5 inch piece of glass out of my lower back when I came to, surveyed the blood, and decided I should probably call 911. After a few hours in the ER, I left with 9 new stitches and no need for any future lower back tattoos.

2. Not too long after fainting incident, I ran 1/4 of the Maine Marathon as part of a relay team. My team wore Honey Badger t-shirts that were 4 sizes too small and it poured rain throughout the entire race. Regardless, we managed to have a kickass time and I got to cross Portland, a very lovely little city, off my travel list. I've decided that I like marathon relays: all the excitement and swag of a marathon, 1/4 of the effort. If you see a marathon in your future (be it half, full, or relay), I highly recommend Maine- it's only $60 for the full.

3. I ventured back into the world of sewing my own clothing. I used to take sewing classes as a kid and made all sorts of skirts, shorts, dresses, and tops at my weekly lessons. The sewing machine had been dormant in the closet for a long time and I figured unemployment was as good a time as any to get back on the horse. I managed to produce a pretty decent work-appropriate dress from several yards of a lightweight tweed suiting fabric and wore it to a job interview.

4. I developed another roll of 120mm film and discovered something new about my camera: The longer I leave a roll of film in the camera, the hazier my images will turn out. This particular roll, stretching from mid-August to mid-October, is dominated by two themes: vestiges of summer and harbingers of autumn.

Last 2 frames: cranberry harvest in the Manomet area of Plymouth

A good thing

2011-09-09T17:57:00.000-04:00

This I know for certain: I am a season-oriented and place-oriented person. Roughly half the posts on this blog somehow connect to my satisfaction/dissatisfaction with the weather and my geographical location, after all.

Earlier this week, it rained for three days straight- a cold, drenching rain. The kind with the fat raindrops that sound like coins being dropped into a metal bucket. I dug a wool sweater and my Bean Boots out of my closet for the first time since last winter, feeling less than thrilled about the rapid change in weather.

This morning, we woke up to sun and t-shirt temperatures. I went for a sweaty run and stood knee-deep in the pond for awhile afterwards, enjoying the sun and sipping some retro bottled seltzer that I discovered at the store the other day. It felt like summer again.

The summer-fall juncture used to send me into a fit of tears as a child. Summer was always the epitome of everything good for me, and I was sad to see it go every year. But as I've gotten older, I've come to realize that there is something special about this time of year, this brief stretch of time caught between the 2 seasons. When it's chilly enough to warrant lighting a fire in the fireplace and pulling a blanket over your legs, but still mild enough to leave the windows cracked open at night. When the summer boaters have cleared off the pond and weekends are quiet again, save for the occasional fisherman or last-hurrah water-skiers. When the light through my camera lens still has that warm-weather haze, but is beginning to sharpen up again around the edges. When pesto and tomato season overlaps with lentil stew season.

As Martha Stewart used to say in a highly mockable tone of voice, it's a good thing.

Briefly

2011-08-19T14:45:00.000-04:00

I am home.

It is summer.

I am picking blueberries.

I am happy.

DC, by the numbers

2011-08-07T23:30:00.001-04:00

Question time-

What do you do after college when your lease ends and you're still unemployed?

Answer: Move home.

I'm moving back to Massachusetts in a week. I'll continue the job hunt from my parent's house, where the lodging is free and they don't mind if I eat all the food, provided I cook dinner every now and then. To be honest, this isn't the worst thing in the world. Summer at home on the pond is close to heaven, and I'm looking forward to 3 more family-filled weeks of summer before Labor Day.

Before I ditch DC, I thought it would be amusing to do a little reflection-by-the-numbers on the time I spent here...

Years spent in DC [off-and-on]: 4

Different DC residences: 4

Bloated dead squirrels removed from water-filled trash barrels at said residences: 1

DC parking permits that are still on my car: 3

DC parking permits that were ridiculously overpriced: 2

Times I felt homicidal when driving in Northern Virginia: a good many

Illegal left turns taken this City That Forbids 90% of All Left Turns: a few, I will admit

Times I got stuck on Clara Barton Parkway because I forgot about the whole "one way during rush hour" thing: 1

Smartrip cards used: 2 [RIP Smartrip loaded with $20 that I lost during junior year]

Times I threw up on the metro: 0, which is more than most AU students can say

Longest metro wait time- 30 minutes

Yoga studios I tried before I found one I liked: 5

Hiking trips taken: lots

Races run in DC: 3

Times I ran from Dupont Circle to AU before realizing that running straight uphill for 3 miles is idiotic: 1

Times I feared for my life while biking in traffic: every single damn time

Rail trails utilized for biking: 3

Pizzas, salads and beers consumed at my favorite neighborhood restaurant: an embarrassingly high number

Loaves of bread and sandwiches purchased from the Bethesda's most delicious bakery: countless

Friends I will miss: many

Length of time until I return to DC: yet undetermined

Film surprises

2011-08-01T13:27:00.002-04:00

One of my favorite things about film photography, aside from delayed gratification, is the tendency to forget what you shot at the beginning of the roll. My most recent roll of 120mm film revealed a number of pleasant surprises, including some frames from the 4th of July at home, a walk on the High Line in NYC, and a day at the beach in New Jersey.

Time

2011-07-18T18:17:00.002-04:00

Our perception of time is funny thing. We expend as much effort willing it to move faster and skim over the bad as we do willing it to slow down and linger in the good, in spite of our understanding that the earth's rotation isn't subject to human desires.

"Hurry up, Friday."
"Never end, vacation!"
"Where are you, lunch time?"

In my jobless state, I find myself wrestling mentally with time a lot. I make a big effort to fill each of my days with activity, knowing full well that nothing plunges me into a funk quite like waking up to a day with zero plans. I hope that night will fall quickly on the occasional days that feel long and empty, all while thinking that the calendar pages seem to be flipping a little too quickly. Either way, I'm painfully aware of the passage of time.

But for the last 3 days, I let myself be blissfully unaware of time. I bussed up to NYC and jumped from restaurant to ice creamery to restaurant to bar to restaurant, zig-zagged all over Manhattan on foot, ferried to NJ to hang out with my grandma at her beach club, stood ankle-deep in the ocean for a bit, and made a big scene in Battery Park City along with a few thousand similarly-dressed strangers (Can you spot my sister and I?). I laughed with blog friends and family and slept very well each night.

I realized after I boarded my bus back to DC this morning that I had no idea what day of the month it was. I knew it was Monday, but I had to dig my ticket out of my bag to remind myself that it was the 18th. I couldn't remember the last time that happened. And it felt good.

I will keep trying to knock the "un-" off my unemployed status. I will continue to search for my next step. But I will also let myself get lost in the present every now and then.

July the 4th

2011-07-04T18:04:00.000-04:00

When I was a child, I spent a lot of time staring at this bend in our driveway during the summertime, waiting for a car full of cousins, uncles, and aunts to come into view.

Summertime has and likely will always be fun cousin time for me. And when I say "cousins," I don't just mean first cousins- the children of my aunts and uncles. I mean second cousins and third cousins, both once and twice removed. I lucked out with an enormous, interconnected extended family whose company I mostly enjoy. Of course, no family is without its handful of more challenging members, but some of my third cousins really do feel more like siblings to me than distant relations.

And for that reason, the 4th of July is one of my favorite holidays. It's when family members from far and wide descend on the pond and carry out some amusingly wholesome long-time traditions, including a stickball game, a potluck lunch, the first sailboat race of the season, and a flag-raising paired with a singing of all 4 verses of "America The Beautiful." Plus a reading of the Declaration of Independence. Plus the first and last verses of the Star Spangled Banner. (But not the middle verses.)

I love observing the changes caused by the passage of time through the lens of our eccentric 4th of July. Members of the older generation pass, while new babies and significant others come into the picture. Some family members drift out of contact, while others you haven't seen since age 7 make a reappearance. My attitude towards it all changes as well- what once mildly embarrassed me as a teenager I now embrace fully as a unique family eccentricity.

Some things will never change, however. We will always sing hilariously off-key, salmon will always be served at the lunch, and I will always refuse to play stickball in favor of spectating.

How to survive unemployment

2011-06-30T09:36:00.000-04:00

What's this, another list-format post relating to unemployment? Yes, yes it is.

I will say, it feels a little weird to dole out advice on how to survive unemployment when I am still very much jobless. But the last 2 months have been nothing if not a learning experience. Here is what I've learned thus far about how to keep it together- physically, mentally, and financially.

1. Exercise a lot and clean your house on the daily. A lot of my unemployment-related frustration stems from feeling like I'm not fully in control over the direction my life is heading. However, I am able to control what I can do for my body and my surroundings. I can stay fit and keep the house from veering into condemned territory.

2. Hang out with employed people. As nice as it is to take mid-day bike rides and museum excursions with similarly unemployed friends, too much time together may not be great for morale. If you're both down in the dumps about your uncertain futures, it can be hard to stay positive. Make an effort to spend time with gainfully employed friends. Meet them for happy hour. Feel amused by the fact that you showered a mere one hour before.

3. Eat real meals. Invite a friend over to share them with you. Put your food on a plate. Sit at the table. You might not feel like a "real person" during the day, but goddammit you'll eat like one in the evening.

4. Create things. Even if you're not working, you can still produce things of worth. For me, that includes cooking new recipes, taking photos, and making notecards using drawings from vintage books (which I like to give as gifts). It's important to me that I feel like I'm being productive in some way or another.

my recent submission to Dear Photograph

5. Keep moving. Never let your feet get stuck in the mud. Go places- preferably in a car, because you don't have a lot of money. Throughout the past month, I've shuttled back and forth from DC to Massachusetts. Yes, those 9-hour drives through the congested Northeast Corridor are tedious and backache-inducing, but it feels good to stay in motion. Not to mention, spending time pond-side with my family in the woods that I love feels good too.

6. Lie on the floor for awhile in a sad, pathetic heap. But when you're done, don't forget to get back up and move on with your life.

It's all about the light

2011-06-22T15:06:00.000-04:00

Someone once pointed out that my photos rarely contain people- and when they do, people are not the focal point.

Case in point: yesterday...

Me: I took some photos around the garage today.

The Pops: Oh? What was there to photograph around the garage?

Me: Good light.

Funemployment

2011-06-17T09:58:00.000-04:00

I'll be honest with you: I haven't been blogging because I wanted to wait until I had something exciting or interesting to share regarding my future plans. Unfortunately, developments on that front have been minimal. I'm still jobless. Still looking. Seeing as I am an unfortunate combination of "looks for a long time before leaping" and "does not deal with with uncertainty about the future," the process has been rather stressful.

So rather than dwelling on that, here are some things that I have been enjoying as of late:

1. Bluegrass music. Yes, this avowed country music hater has found a genre of country that holds some appeal. I went to the Kingman Island Bluegrass Festival on a whim with some friends last weekend and was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. Bluegrass is rhythmic, upbeat, toe-tappy, and makes for good background music. Other bluegrass fans include scruffy boys who favor fedoras and cutoffs, as evidenced by my fellow festival attendees.

2. The DC public library. Why? Because it's free! And chock full of books and DVDs, all for the taking. It's also aggressively air conditioned, which has been a godsend during recent 100+ degree days. After tearing through some lighter novels, I'm currently tackling The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald. No guarantee that I'll make it through all 800 pages.

3. Walking around the 'hood. I'll be the first to admit that I crap on DC a lot. It's not my favorite place. But I cannot deny that I live in one of its more beautiful neighborhoods. Not having a job leaves me with a lot of time on my hands, and one of my favorite ways to burn it is to take a walk around the block. Not for exercise, not to get anywhere- just for fun. And to gawk at houses much nicer than my own [rented one].

4. This cake, made with strawberries I picked here a couple weeks ago and froze. The recipe still worked using frozen instead of fresh strawberries, and I baked it in a cast iron skillet for a nice golden crust. Divine.

5. Basil [and pesto]. I planted two basil seedlings in containers a few weeks ago, and the steamy weather made them absolutely explode. I've been making pesto at a furious pace and should probably start freezing some of it before I completely burn out on it. It's one of my favorite foods, but you know what they say about too much of a good thing.

Memorial day... week.

2011-06-01T21:58:00.000-04:00

I love you, rocky Atlantic coast.

I love you, home.

I love you, dock.

I don't love you, pollen on the water

I love you, 2-for-1 blueberries on the porch.

I love you, ancient Ford Model A that's still kicking around in a cousin's garage

I love you, boozehound ancestors

18th = Prohibition.

I love you, Mom, and love that you kicked ass in your first 5k.

I don't love swapping 70 degree temps in MA for 100+ temps in DC, but I do love the promise of summertime fun with friends.

Transition

2011-05-25T20:50:00.001-04:00

I've always felt that the word "networking" was right up there with "root canal" in terms of heinousness, but then I started job searching and had to change my tune. I still remain allergic to the type of networking that involves wearing uncomfortable shoes to organized events and suffering through awkward forced conversation, but I've been making use of a type that's much less painful- emailing and calling every relative I have, asking them what advice or connection they have to offer.

After one particularly motivating and helpful phone call the other day, I was hit with a particularly weighty realization: I'm not afraid of not being able to get a job. I'm afraid of actually getting a job, and of all that comes with it.

I've been a student for my entire life, and have never known anything but a relatively flexible schedule. College in particular has provided a lot of latitude. Getting a job means letting go of a lifestyle that allows me to hike in Shenandoah National Park on any given Tuesday afternoon. And what if I don't like the job I get? What if it's boring, unchallenging, or way more than I can handle? Turning the page and starting this new chapter of life means a lifestyle overhaul, and that's scary. It's what every other adult on earth had to do at some point, but that doesn't necessarily make the transition any easier. Some people say they hate change, but I actually like it. It's the transitions that I struggle with.

There is one transition, however, that is always smooth and welcomed, and that is going home to Massachusetts for a little respite. The drive may be 9 hours long, but what lies at the end is always worth it.

Delayed gratification

2011-05-19T11:50:00.000-04:00

I think what I like the most about film photography is the associated delay in gratification, which is pretty hard to come by in this digital age. Going to the photo store, dropping off the film, picking it up, and hardly making it out the door before I tear the envelope open makes it all the more enjoyable.

Here are a few 120mm shots from the last few months, taken with my Holga (aka my hipster camera) and photographed with my DSLR because I don't have access to a scanner. So meta.

The people

2011-05-08T17:14:00.000-04:00

[sidenote- thank you so much for your sweet comments on my last post! they all brought smiles to my face. now indulge me, if you will, for one last "end of college"-related musing.]

Yesterday afternoon, I graduated magna cum laude from American University with a Bachelor of Arts in environmental studies. My degree program included classes in economics, earth science, government, chemistry, communications, calculus, remote sensing, biology, and sociology. I had to wear a lot of hats to earn that degree, and I'm proud of it.

What struck me most on my graduation day, however, was not the magnitude of what my classmates and I had accomplished in the last four years- rather, it was the strength of the bonds I had formed with others in that time.

College friends are an interesting situation. You have been a part of each other's lives for only a few years upon graduation, but what unique and transformative years they are. My college friends and I have traveled the globe for semesters abroad, stayed up until all hours of the night in the library, explored a new city, and generally fumbled our way towards adulthood together.

I remember the feeling of freshman year quite acutely- the sense of being a bit adrift and detached from my new classmates. Sure, I had friends and community in the form of a sports team, but I still felt like I had formed few honest, authentic connections with people. I knew full well that building relationships takes time, but I was impatient nonetheless.

Fast forward four years, to last night's graduation party. I'm standing side-by-side with my best college friends, our arms wrapped around each other's waists. We're cutting a cake on the porch while our proud families watch. Just as we worked hard for our undergraduate degrees, we worked hard for the valuable friendships we made in college. I am only 22 years old, but this I know for certain: it's the people that matter. If you don't have people, you don't have anything.

[photo credit- my sister]

C'est fini

2011-05-01T10:24:00.000-04:00

Shortly after I had my appendectomy last fall, my mother came down from Massachusetts to do a little mothering of her largely incapacitated child. She came bearing pastries, maternal comfort, and a copy of the children's book Madeline, whose title character also had her appendix removed. We sat on the couch and flipped through the pages together, admiring the Impressionistic illustrations.

This past Thursday, I completed my undergraduate career with one last final exam. Walking out of the building, the closing line of Madeline popped into my head:

"And that's all there is
-there isn't any more."

It's a simple, spare thought, but it has stuck with me for these last couple days. I really am done. Completely done. No more papers or exams on the horizon. The full weight of the fact hasn't fully sunk in, and so I keep repeating the little phrase like the line of a song I can't seem to get out of my head.

The next step, my [supposed] entrance into The Real World, ushers in a number of new anxiety-provoking responsibilities, but there is a distinct bright spot: my Sundays can finally be actual days of rest. Throughout my student life, Sundays were always saturated with homework in preparation for the coming week. The idea of going to church, the farmer's market, or brunch (with booze!) on a Sunday without my yet-to-be completed homework hanging over my head is truly fantastic.

As for the other days of the week... time to start looking for something to fill them.

I still remember.

2011-04-26T17:51:00.002-04:00

"So many people worry that they're not making a difference in this world. But the thing is, it's impossible not to make a difference. Everything you do, every choice you make affects somebody or something."

How's that for a freeing thought?

I wish I could take credit for it, but it was actually voiced by my friend Paige Elenson, a Baptiste yoga teacher whom I became close with during my time in Nairobi. Paige is also the founder of Africa Yoga Project, an incredible organization near and dear to my heart that I've previously discussed on the blog. AYP has several projects under its umbrella, but its primary focus is to change lives in Kenya through the transformative power of yoga.

Though she lives full-time in Kenya, Paige is currently in the U.S. for 1.5 months to teach workshops at Baptiste studios across the country. On Easter, she stopped at a studio near me in Falls Church, Virginia, and so I jumped at the opportunity to reunite with a friend whom I last saw 1.5 years and 7,000 miles ago. It was, in a word, lovely.

Not only was it lovely to reconnect with someone who means a lot to me and inspires me every day from halfway across the world, but it was just the kick in the butt I needed- both physically and emotionally. My regular yoga practice has been lacking as of late as I try and piece together the next chapter of my life. Not to mention, frequent studio classes are currently beyond my budget. I had been missing that motivation that comes with practicing yoga as part of a group- however focused I may be on my own practice, I really do feed off the energy of others during class.

Paige opened the workshop with a talk about the work AYP has done throughout the last several years, and asked me to share some of my experiences practicing with them in Kenya. Caught slightly off-guard, I went with the first and truest thing that came to mind: that I still think about those classes every time I get on my mat.

I do. I still think about how the first time I wobbled in a standing pose, the person practicing next to me leaned over and touched my foot to steady me. I still remember feeling unconditionally accepted, despite of the color of my skin, in a city where I was an obvious minority. And I still feel the energy that reverberated around the room- the feeling that every single person was in that class because they truly and wholeheartedly wanted to be there, not out of any sense of obligation.

Yoga is a gift. Any exercise, any body movement is a gift and a privilege. Sometimes I forget that, and this weekend was just the reminder I needed. Yoga may not have saved my life in the way it has literally saved the lives of many AYP community members, but yoga has touched it in a way that deserves honor and respect.

Summer on the mind

2011-04-19T21:36:00.002-04:00

Days until I'm finished with college forever: 9

Days until I graduate: 18

Days until I figure out what I'm doing with my life: undetermined

Days until I'm back in the piney woods of Massachusetts: also undetermined, but it better be damn soon. I might technically be staying put in DC for the summer, but that doesn't mean I won't take every available chance to flee the city for the dirt roads of home.

A New York weekend

2011-04-10T20:42:00.000-04:00

Another lovely weekend in NYC! And another weekend of camera-neglecting, save for a few snaps during dinner at The Smith on Friday evening.

goat cheese ravioli with spinach-basil pesto

The pasta was incredible but the company was even better. Leslie, Katie, and Sofia joined me for the meal and our lively evening reaffirmed my feelings about the specialness of friendships derived from social media.

After we finishing up at The Smith, we continued to eat and drink our way around the East Village, stopping for some vegan ice cream and another glass of wine. With these ladies, the question is not "wine OR dessert?" Instead, it's "which first- wine or dessert?" This is why I like them.

Every time I travel, whether I'm hopping over one state or an entire ocean, I look around and ask myself "could I live here?" Could that be my apartment, could this be my corner store, could I fall into step with these masses on the sidewalk and establish a life in this town? New York isn't new to me: my father grew up in Manhattan and his side of the family still resides there. But I couldn't help but look at the city through a different lens this past weekend: the lens of a soon-to-be college graduate, weighing her options for the post-grad odyssey.

After fun weekends like this, New York's siren call is especially loud. However, I cannot neglect two important facts:

1. In the long-term, I tend to suffocate in places with a low tree-to-pavement ratios.
2. New York has always been a playground for me.

And to swap the playground atmosphere for one of employment might be kind of challenging. Since I was a wee one, I've been traveling to New York regularly for family events, and more recently, for blog friend socialization. Whether it's for a wedding, a funeral, a Christmas party, or to see the odd show, I've never had to deal with the day-to-day realities of New York living. I get to play in the canyons of steel and enjoy all the benefits without any of the responsibilities, except maybe for a small dent in the wallet and some tired feet.

After a few hours on the Jersey turnpike, I arrived back home in DC this evening. Dropping my bags, I quickly threw together an early dinner and stepped out into the backyard where the neighbor's magnolia trees were dropping their blossoms on our porch. I perched on the railing with my salad and observed the sea of small purple flowers that was beginning to spread over our grass. New York may be Fun City, but the old soul in me needs some space to breathe.

Girls who like to eat live here.

2011-03-29T14:42:00.003-04:00

When I come home and see this on the dining room table, I immediately think "oh no! something terrible must have happened!"

Because what else besides an emergency would make someone get up and walk away from the last few bites of a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie?

We're eaters in this house. We leave no baked good behind.

How to make friends online

2011-03-21T23:06:00.001-04:00

Most of my real-life friends and family don't engage with social media (apart from Facebook). They might peruse the Huffington Post or other news blogs from time to time, but Twitter and personal blogging just aren't a part of their lives. So when I say that I'm going out to dinner with a blog friend or hitting up a yoga class with a Twitter connection, they are understandably confused. Uh, you're hanging out with strangers that you met online? Don't get assaulted, okay?

I, too, thought it was weird at first. But after several years of social media participation, I've come to realize that it's remarkable.

I mean, think about it- I come here, write stuff usually relating to myself and my life, and throw up some of my photos. You very kindly come and read it. Maybe you leave me a comment or two. I go to your blog and do the same. I log onto Twitter, and talk about stuff usually relating to myself and my life, and you respond. We chat, we banter. Somewhere along the way, we start feeling chummy. It's that wonderfully simple.

If we live in the same area or I've traveling to your neck of the woods, we'll eventually make plans to get together. I'll make my way to a restaurant or maybe a bar and wait for you, scanning the room for an animated version of the Twitter and blog photos I've come to associate with you. You appear and are just as lively and luminous as you seem online. As the night goes on, we get the satisfaction of seeing each other's online words spring to life with a voice, gestures, and facial expressions.

Far too soon, I'll be leaving the social cocoon of college. I'll have to make friends on my own, and it won't be as natural as the formation of those college friendships that stem from dorm room proximity or shared participation on a team. That's scary, and I'm very glad to know that there exists more than one way to connect with like-minded people today.

That being said, I do resent the way that the prevalence of some technologies has managed to isolate us from each other in this day and age. If Facebook and texting were to disappear from the planet tomorrow, I'd be perfectly content. I think we've come overly dependent on them. We would be forced to revert to those closer forms of contact of yore, such as telephone calls, personal visits, and letter-writing- and that would make me happy. I'm old-fashioned like that.

On the other hand, I can't deny that social media has connected me with a lot of amazing people I otherwise never would have met. I think the key, however, is establishing that real-life connection. Sure, you could spend all day typing back and forth with your social media friends. But when you take that digital relationship off the computer and set it into motion in the real world, that's when the good stuff begins to happen.

This photo has absoTOOTely nothing to do with social media, but I love it too much not to share- the BFF taking part in a beer bottle whistling contest on our back porch last weekend.

Food memories

2011-03-18T17:27:00.001-04:00

As I sort out my thoughts on the future, I find myself thinking a lot about the past these days. This is may be in part due to Facebook's newfound insistence on pulling up people's old photo albums from the 2005 and splashing them across the photos section.

Four years ago, I got on a plane by myself and flew to Tallinn, Estonia. I was fresh out of high school and craving another passport stamp. Through a website called Volunteers for Peace, I signed up to work on a coastal wetlands rehabilitation project on an island in the Baltic Sea. The Estonian family that was carrying out the project hosted my fellow volunteers and I on their horse farm for the duration. Our group was a small but eclectic one: an Italian aerobics instructor, a Czech...beer-lover, a Polish med student, a Swiss businessman, and me, an 18 year-old American.

For two weeks, I wore the same pair of pants and dragged around tree branches in marshy coastal grasslands all day. After dinner, I borrowed an old cruiser bicycle and pedaled for miles along the sparsely-populated island's deserted roads, watching the sun settle into its nightly resting place several inches above the horizon. This being midsummer near the Arctic Circle, it never fully set. The sleeping arrangements were rustic, the sulfuric water largely undrinkable, and only two people on the farm spoke English. Did I mention the food? Because we ate like [Baltic] kings.

I was under the impression when I signed up for this program that we'd be responsible for most of our own food. I could not have been more wrong. Three times per day, we slid onto long benches flanking a massive kitchen table as the mother of our host family served us portions sized for an army battalion. This was long before the idea of photographing food ever crossed my mind, so I have no visual evidence of these new-to-me Baltic dishes. Black bread with homemade wild strawberry jam, vinegary dill potato salads, brothy vegetable soups, questionably pink beet-based dishes... and the cake. Oh, the cake.

It was present at almost every meal, this buttery, fruit-filled delight. An irresistible combination of shortbread base, jam filling, and crumbly topping was sliced into thick squares and we scarfed them down like starving raccoons. And just when we started to nervously eye the diminishing supply on the table, our host mother would bring out yet another plate. It was like magic.

Despite my Estonian cake adoration, the details apart from its heavenly taste are hazy in my mind. I very much regret never asking for the recipe. Multiple online searches have yielded nothing, so I threw caution to the wind and attempted by own recipe.

The original was certainly thicker and able to be eaten out of hand, but the flavor of my creation left me feeling awash in memories of my adventure. The food-memory connection has always been a strong one for me- I really do think taste transcends time. No matter how far I've since come, one bite can always bring me back.

Estonian-Inspired Strawberry Crumble Cake Bars

Crust:
1 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
4 tbsp cold butter, cubed
pinch of salt

Filling:
1 to 1 1/2 cups frozen strawberries
squeeze of lemon juice
1 tbsp flour
2 tbsp sugar
2 tbsp water

Topping:
3/4 cup flour
2 tbsp sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
pinch of salt
6 tbsp cold butter, cubed

1. Liberally grease a 8 x 8 inch cake pan. Preheat oven to 350.
2. In a bowl, toss crust ingredients together. Using your fingers, 2 knives, or a pastry cutter, cut in the butter until it's in pea-sized bits.
3. Press crust firmly into pan and bake for 15 mins (until very lightly browned).
4. In a saucepan, combine the filling ingredients and heat over medium. Cook, stirring occasionally, until berries are melted and the mixture is semi-thick. Use a slotted spatula to mush up the berries.
5. While you're letting the filling cool, combine the ingredients for the topping in a bowl. Again, cut in the butter as you did for the crust. Use your hands to squeeze some of the mixture into clumps to ensure nice crunchy bits and make sure the whole topping doesn't melt right into the filling when it's baked.
6. Pour the filling over the crust and top with the topping. Bake for 25-30 mins until lightly browned. Let cool in pan, then slice into bars.

Lighten up.

2011-03-12T19:58:00.000-05:00

My mother always says that she can discern my mood just by the sound of my voice over the phone, and I think the same can be said of my blog posts. Tone speaks volumes, sometimes more than the words themselves. Looking over my last few posts, I realize that they've tended towards the serious lately. There's no doubt in my mind that this is a result of my previously-referenced anxiety about post-graduation life.... this anxiety, it follows. me. everywhere. It works out next to me at the gym, hides between the pages of my library books, and tags along on my commute to school. And apparently it creeps into my writing as well.

However, I have been making an effort to keep it from overtaking my photography. Maintaining a feeling of lightness in my photos isn't easy when my heart and mind often feel bogged down with worries about the future, but it's worth the effort- it's amazing what some bright, positive imagery can do for the soul. Silly roommates and the slow, steady emergence of spring fit the bill quite nicely...

And, of course, cookies. Moods and seasons may come and go, but no matter what, you can always find me creaming butter and sugar together in the kitchen.

Oatmeal Pretzel Cookies
Adapted from the Oatmeal Cookie Blog

1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp milk
1 cup finely crushed pretzels (smash in plastic bag or whir in food processor)
1 cup regular oats
1 cup almond meal or almond flour (I used Trader Joe's brand, only $3.99)
3/4 cup flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 1/2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips (spring for Trader Joe's brand- we've been over this before)

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Beat butter and sugar together with electric mixer until light and fluffy.
3. Beat in egg, vanilla, and milk.
4. Add pretzels, oats, almond flour, regular flour, and baking soda and mixed until combined. Mixture will be thick.
5. Stir in chocolate chips.
6. Form into golf-ball sized lumps, flatten slightly. Bake on greased cookie sheet, approximately 11 minutes or until very lightly browned. Take them out when they still appear underdone- you want 'em nice and moist.
7. Cool slightly on baking sheets, then transfer to cooling racks.
8. Enjoy and think bright, springy thoughts.

On eating meat.

2011-03-01T00:35:00.000-05:00

When I was about 9 years old, I read an alarming article in Muse Magazine, a Smithsonian publication for children. The article was about industrial meat production, and they weren't sparing any of the grisly details for the kiddos. These words and their accompanying illustrations were enough to make my younger self swear off beef and pork consumption, a dietary choice I've maintained ever since (at times to the chagrin of my parents). I wanted to go completely vegetarian, but my love of poultry held me back from the full commitment.

When I was 19, I finally mustered up the discipline to drop the poultry and settled into a pescatarian lifestyle. So far, it has served me well.

This past weekend, I went to a family friend's house for dinner on the Eastern Shore. As she pulled a glistening hunk of lamb out of the oven, she explained how a friend had just sent the meat from her ranch in Wyoming. And when this family friend placed a plate of said meat down on the table in front of me, I picked up my fork and ate it.

I could have just pushed the meat to the side of my plate, or discreetly swapped with my father for a couple of his roasted potatoes. But I didn't. I slowly sliced and chewed my way through my portion, my mouth slowly becoming re-accustomed to its tough texture.

As I chewed, I thought about the reasons behind this spontaneous change in behavior. My reasons for abstaining from meat are less rooted in matters of animal rights than they are in environmental sustainability, you see. I'm not a fan of our current system of industrial meat production, and understand that eating a meatless diet is one of the best ways to reduce your carbon footprint. That being said, raw, bloody meat makes my stomach turn and have a difficult time watching animals being killed.

And yet, I felt no upswell of negative emotion as I ate this lamb. No guilt. I finished the meal and went on with my pescatarian life. (Well, first I conferred with a slice of homemade apple pie but THEN I went on with my life.)

While I don't have any immediate plans to increase the amount of meat in my diet, the experience left me with one lingering thought: perhaps I ought to practice what I preach. I advocate for local meat raised in a humane and sustainable way, knowing full well that the environmental impact of meat produced such methods is much smaller. And yet, I don't eat it. I don't support this alternative system with my dollars.

Part of me feels like I should, though, not only because I believe in this method of production but because I can. I can afford this more expensive meat. I hang out with people who can afford it and who serve it to me. Its elevated price places it out of reach of so many people in America (and the world), but not out of mine. And so I almost feel that it's my responsibility to engage with it.

Perhaps this is a totally twisted way of looking at the situation, but the thought has stuck with me.

Tell me, what motivates you to eat the way that you do?

When to say when.

2011-02-21T22:30:00.001-05:00

I quit half-marathon training last week.

On the corner of Connecticut and Nebraska Avenues, to be specific.

It wasn't a completely spontaneous decision. When I signed up last year for what would be my 2nd half, I told myself that I would just take it week by week, and the last 2 weeks of training were unpleasant. Too many clunky and labored runs plagued by shin splints and lower back pain. But most importantly, I wasn't enjoying it anymore. The schedule, the obligation, the obsession with the weather, and the erratic appetite...it was all adding up into an experience with more negatives than positives. And so I quit, 2.5 miles into what should have been a 7-miler, and ended yet another chapter in the Anna-yoga-running love triangle saga.

It's a lengthy saga. I am constantly oscillating between running and yoga as my preferred exercise, and have been ever since I picked up both in early high school. Each has its own pros and cons, and they usually balance each other out. I'll devote more energy to running for a period of time, then switch the focus to yoga when the mood strikes me.

But when Lyme disease and an appendectomy forced me to drastically reduce my running (and cardio in general) last semester, I had a startling realization: the lack of running actually provoked a remarkable sense of internal balance. I saw my pants get looser and observed my appetite become calmer and more manageable. I ate more slowly and mindfully, and enjoyed my food more. As much as this expression makes me roll my eyes... I felt more in tune with my body than I had in a long time. Running spikes my appetite in a way that no other exercise does, and not in a fun way. I turn into a bottomless pit yet never seem to be fully satisfied. The foods I crave aren't usually the healthiest, either. When I stopped running, things evened themselves out.

It was a frustrating realization, and a bit sad. A good, sweaty run can be close to heaven... so why does it have to produce uncomfortable side effects? Running has always been a fantastic stress release, mood-booster, and my favorite way to get fresh air. I don't want to abandon it completely. And while I do adore yoga, classes don't always jive with my student budget, not to mention that it doesn't let me get that outdoor time I crave.

Part of me has always wanted to devote myself to either yoga or running, but another part of me says no. Neither activity is perfect: each has its benefits and downsides. Not to mention, both yoga and running are near and dear to my heart. They are each satisfying in their own special ways, and I could never swear off either one.

While purposeful training for a race can be rewarding, I think I derive the maximum benefit from running if I reserve it for times when I want to blow off steam, enjoy beautiful weather, or just commune with the woods for a bit. And the same could be said for yoga. A rigorous daily asana practice would suck all the fun right out of it, but the occasional power flow class or a simple self-directed session on my mat when the mood strikes feels balanced.

It's about knowing when to say when, I think, and cultivating the insight to realize when something is no longer serving me, be it running, yoga, a food, or a relationship. It's about drumming up the courage to put it aside... and remembering that it will be there if and when I want to return to it.

These dirt roads at home are where I first started running... and oh how I love them so.

The block.

2011-02-16T23:35:00.001-05:00

There are 5 half-written blog posts floating around inside my computer right now. And it's driving me crazy.

Writer's block: it sucks. While there is certainly a lot that I want to say, trying to get a complete thought down on paper is like pulling teeth these days. It's just not flowing, try as I might. I'll have an idea for a post, something I'd like to share and expound upon, and start writing in earnest. But halfway through, the whole thing derails and I give up. It's frustrating.

I like having answers, you see. Answers to questions in life. If I don't have an answer, at the very least I like to reach some sort of conclusion on the matter. Chapters left lingering unfinished for too long leave me feeling discontent and unsettled. I like to know where I'm going and where I've been.

I think this approach to life is reflected in my blogging style. I don't like blogging just the questions... I like blogging the answers as well. If I don't have an answer or a conclusion, I'm probably not going to blog about it. And lately, life consists of a whole lotta questions without many answers. Hence, the writer's block.

One of these days, I'll get around to telling you how I made French almond macarons, the fancy sandwich-style kind, with almond meal, a pastry bag, and a [not-so] steady hand. I'll tell you why I quit half marathon training, and all about the long-standing Anna-yoga-running love triangle. I'll give my mother a food-related ode much like the one I gave my father. Finally, I'll tell you how I'm still feeling weird about this whole part-time student thing, and how I still really don't know what I'm doing after graduation.

Until then, I'll be working on learning to love the unfinished chapter and embrace the still-open book.

I don't believe anything bad has ever happened in late July. I mean, how could it. It's too beautiful.

Strange times.

2011-02-09T17:38:00.002-05:00

These are strange times I'm living in.

A part-time student schedule, a lack of employment, and a looming spectre of graduation... they make for an interesting state of mind, shall we say. On one hand, the absence of activity lends me a lot of time and mental space to think, write, craft, photograph, and read. My nightstand is stacked with library books for pleasure reading for the first time in a long while. Over on my desk, colored pencils and x-acto knives have joined the pens and class readings. The creative juices are flowing these days, while the academic ones seem to be running dry. Brief fantasies of a future career in a creative field emerge from time to time.

On the other hand, this freedom gives me a lot of time to worry, overthink, and generally feel anxious. The brain does funny things when the boundaries of a normal schedule are removed. Every day seems to bring a minor epiphany of some sort, for better or for worse. As vague as this may be... let's just say I have a lot on my mind these days. To circumvent an overshare situation, I'll share with you only the kitchen-related realizations today.

I've come to realize that these really are the best chocolate chips:

Whether eaten out of hand, melted into oatmeal (what? who said that?), or baked into cookies, the chocolate flavor in these chips is bright, assertive, and clean-tasting. They have just the right amount of sweetness and none of that waxy mouthfeel that so often plagues chocolate in chip form. Rumor has it that Trader Joe's uses Belgian Callebaut chocolate to make these, and I believe it. They're quite simply the best I've ever tasted, and the cheapest too. $1.99 for 12 ounces...can't beat it.

I've also discovered that Earth Balance vegan baking sticks are tasteless, greasy, and really not worth buying.

I love experimenting with vegan baking, but only recently tried out this butter substitute. It's essentially gussied-up (and price-inflated) Crisco, minus the trans-fats. After two failed attempts to bake Earth Balance brownies and cookies with any semblance of flavor, I forever pledge my allegiance to butter as my solid fat of choice when baking.

And finally, this is the best chocolate chip cookie that I've ever baked:

From Jacque Torres to Joanne Chang, it seems like every baker out there swears by some particular version of the chocolate chip cookie. My go-to is an adaptation of the Cook's Illustrated version. Their uber-meticulous recipe testers determined that melting and browning part of the butter, then repeatedly whisking with the sugars produced a fantastically deep and complex flavor. I scaled the recipe down, browned ALL the butter for a really crazy deep taste, and let it sit overnight in the fridge for the best texture.

Chocolate Chip Cookies
Makes 9 good-sized cookies

3/4 cup + 2 tbsp flour
1/4 tsp baking soda
7 tbsp unsalted butter
1/4 cup sugar
1/3 cup brown sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
1 egg
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips

1. Whisk together flour and baking soda. Set aside.
2. Place butter in a skillet or saucepan, and make sure it isn't a non-stick one. You want a light-bottomed pan so you can monitor the color of the butter as it browns.
3. Turn heat to medium and let the butter melt. Once it has melted fully, start swirling the pan around and keep swirling for about 4 minutes until the butter has turned a light brown, caramel color. It should smell nutty and there will be little brown flecks visible. Don't let the flecks get black though, 'cause that means you burned it.
4. In a separate bowl, combine the sugars and salt.
5. For this step, you can use a whisk if you want an arm workout or an electric mixer. I used my Kitchenaid stand mixer. Add the melted butter to the sugar mixture along with the egg and vanilla. Whisk/beat for about a minute.
6. Let mixture rest for a couple minutes, then whisk for another minute. Repeat.
7. The mixture should be thick and shiny at this point. Repeat whisking/resting once more if it isn't.
8. Beat/whisk in the flour mixture until just combined, followed by the chocolate chips.
9. Place cookie dough in fridge overnight, or at least 8 hours.
10. When ready to bake, divide dough into 9 golfball-sized lumps and bake at 375 for 10 minutes, until golden brown.

Lens review: Canon 50mm 1.4

2011-02-01T08:56:00.006-05:00

My new camera lens prayers were answered this past Christmas when received the Canon 50mm 1.4 lens as a gift from my parents. I have spent the last couple months getting to know it and thought that the time was right for a little review. DSLR body and lens reviews are a dime a dozen on the internet, but they are often filled with jargon and way more information than the average camera user really needs. So read on, DSLR users, for a non-professional review in layman's terms.

First, a little background on why I had chose this lens. I had been shooting for about 1 year with the 18-55mm stock lens that came with my Canon Rebel. Despite the fact that a lot of photography snobs I MEAN professionals tend to look down upon this lens, it has (and continues to) serve me well. The ability to vary the focal length great for a beginner, because it lets you experiment and really understand the visual effects of different focal lengths. The relatively low price is also a plus.

That being said, I was ready to take things up a notch. I was looking for a lens well-suited to the type of food and lifestyle photography I gravitate towards, as well as low-light photography. I started by hopping around various photography blogs whose work and style I admired and read up on what they recommended. Two Canon 50mm lenses were frequently cited: The 1.4 and the 1.8 aperture lenses. Although the 1.8 was nearly 1/3 the price of the 1.4, online reviewers frequently cited its poor construction and short lifespan. I wanted a lens that would stand the test of time, so I went with the 1.4.

On the upside:

The bokeh (those oft-desirable out-of-focus blobs in the background of photos) is incredible. Case in point: the tree lights in the background of this photo:

It's a sharp lens. I know that most camera "noise" (aka graininess) originates from the camera body, not the lens, but I can't help but notice that photos taken with my 50mm tend to be less noisy than those taken with my stock lens.

It's good in low-light conditions because of the low aperture capability. (The lower the aperture = the wider the lens can open = the more light can be let in)

50mm is a useful, realistic focal length to work with. 50 mm is pretty similar to the focal length of the human eye, meaning the distance between you and an object when viewed through the lens is very close to the distance when viewed with your bare eyes.

It has full-time manual focus, meaning you can set it to autofocus but tweak the focus manually (if you so desire) without having to flip the manual focus switch first.

On the downside:

It's really difficult to obtain photos that are sharp from corner to corner at apertures below 2.8 on this lens. Your photos will end up with a hazy, dreamy, almost trippy feel to them. Case in point, this disaster. This was an aperature of 1.4, and as you can see only a dime-sized portion of the entire photo is in focus:

However, the dreamy effect can be cool if you work it to your advantage. Case in point:

It's not cheap, but a helluva lot cheaper than a lot of lenses out there.

It's a prime lens, unlike the 18-55mm stock lens, which means you're locked into one focal length. No zooming in or out- you have to physically move if you want to get closer or farther from an object.

Would I recommend it to others? Yes, I would. Like any piece of photographic equipment, it's a tool that can enable you to produce good photos- it's not a magic wand. It took me awhile to get comfortable with this lens but once I did, I loved it. Two thumbs up, Canon 50mm 1.4

Winter womp womps be gone.

2011-01-30T23:05:00.000-05:00

Like a lot of people, I have a hard time keeping my chin up during this time of year. The gray slush is beginning to take its toll on the psyche and I find myself longing helplessly for spring. DC's utter inability to handle the even slightest amounts of snow only increases the longing. Seriously, DC. Furlough some Feds for 2 days and invest in a couple good snowplows.

However, this article from today's Boston Globe was a nice little pick-me-up. It reminded me that I'm cut from hearty New England stock and not only need to get over my winter womp-womps, but find some joy in the long winter season:

"It’s going to be weeks – and weeks – before the first robin lands, so during the upcoming slog until snowdrops replace snowbanks, I suggest you dig deep and embrace your inner Pilgrim. Go forth and meet those deadlines early, teach yourself to play the ukulele, throw another log on the fire, and don’t skimp on the whipped cream in your hot chocolate."

While I don't think I'm going to be meeting any deadlines early, I'll certainly take a minute to turn off all the lights and enjoy the beauty of a late-night snow,

surround myself with a few choice bright and cheerful harbingers of spring,

and spend some time in bed reading my favorite children's book, pretending that I live in the Plaza Hotel and take spontaneous trips to Paris and Moscow. Eloise is quite possibly my favorite literary character of all time.

I'll also be running my butt off, because I'm registered and currently training for my second National Half Marathon. I first ran the National Half as a wee baby freshman in 2008. Now I'll be giving it another stab as a wizened old senior. I like when things come full circle like that.

Soup. It's what's for dinner.

2011-01-23T23:05:00.000-05:00

First of all, I want to thank you for all your wonderful and insightful comments on my last post. Several of you brought up a good point, which is that the magazine contains some great recipes despite its questionable name. I agree! I'll definitely be keeping my copy around for future cooking ideas... I might just have to rip off the cover. Ha.

Moving onto the actual point of this post, which is SOUP. You see, my desire for salad and raw vegetables begins to decline once temperatures dip below 45 degrees. Which is to say, I haven't eaten a salad since late October. The temptation to switch to a hot carbohydrate-only diet is mighty tempting in the winter, but I know I'll feel better if I get my veggies in. Enter: soup. The perfect compromise. It's hot and deeply satisfying while still providing me with a good dose of roughage. Recent soup endeavors have included red lentil stew, regular lentil soup, ndengu stew (minus the coconut milk- tears my stomach up for some reason), bean and vegetable soup, smashed pumpkin soup... and my newest fixation, sweet potato peanut soup.

My love of peanut butter was essentially instilled at birth, but save for the occasional smear on a Ritz cracker, my peanut butter experiences thus far have been largely sweet-oriented. This changed when I picked up a bag of peanut flour from Trader Joe's. Just baking peanut butter cookies with the flour seemed kind of boring, so I opted to use it in a soup inspired by one that I found on the National Peanut Board website.

And man, was it ever good. Do you ever eat little bites of peanut butter right out of the jar (or big bites, for that matter) and think to yourself "this stuff is so good, I'd eat it out of a bowl with a spoon"? Well, you can. It's called peanut soup.

For the record, food styling a bowl of brown soup in an attractive fashion= REALLY HARD.

Peanut Sweet Potato Soup
adapted from the National Peanut Board

Splash of oil (canola, olive, peanut, whatever)
1 white onion, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 inch knob of ginger, peeled and grated
1/2 tsp curry powder
1/2 cup peanut flour
2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and diced
4 cups water + 1 boullion cube (or 4 cups veggie stock)
1 head broccoli (could also use kale, chard, spinach, any green vegetable really)
Salt optional, depending on saltiness of boullion/stock.

1. Heat the oil in a stockpot over medium heat.
2. Add onion, garlic, and ginger and saute until onion is soft and fragrant.
3. Add curry powder and saute briefly.
4. Add peanut flour and stir to coat.
5. Add water and boullion cube (or stock) and bring mixture to boil.
6. Lower to a simmer and cook until potatoes are tender but not mushy.
7. Scoop approximately half of the mixture (making sure to get a mix of solids + liquid) into a blender and blend on low until smooth. If your blender has a remove able lid insert, take that out and cover the hole with a dish towel. It will prevent any pressure differential-induced soup explosions. If it doesn't have an insert, just crack the lid slightly while blending.
8. Return the blender contents to the pot and add the broccoli. Continue to simmer until the broccoli is tender. You could also steam the broccoli separately and add it last, but I prefer a one-pot preparation.
9. Sprinkle with chopped peanuts if you please and serve!

Food is not binary.

2011-01-19T14:08:00.001-05:00

Of the two (yes, two) classes I am taking this semester, one of them is SIS 319: Political Ecology of Food and Agriculture. Also known as ANNA-101: My Dream Class. Basically, an entire class devoted to the politics, ethics, and cultural aspects of food consumption and production.

My first assignment involves writing a paper on food magazines. I am to read a slew of foodie publications and analyze an assortment in terms of content, audience, and relevancy.

So yesterday, I purchased a handful of magazines at Whole Foods and joined a friend on the quiet floor of the library to begin my research. As I thumbed through my stack, one particular publication gave me pause. I had read Clean Eating magazine before, but considering its title through an analytical lens made me view it in a new light.

I scribbled "what do you think of the phrase clean eating?" on a piece of notebook paper and pushed it across the table to my friend. She glanced down at the paper, frowned slightly, and wrote back "I'm a bit offended by the idea that cookies are 'dirty'." I tend to agree with her.

I understand the principles behind the idea of eating cleanly: consuming whole, unprocessed foods, something which I can get behind. These foods are delicious and healthy. I certainly eat a lot of them for those very reasons. It's the word choice that bothers me.

CLEAN eating? That's the best word we can come up with to describe a diet that is healthy, satisfying, and nourishing for the body and the mind?

I don't want to eat what the word "clean" implies. I don't want to live a life of restrictive, limited, unexciting food consumption. I don't want to choose only one side of this "clean" versus "dirty" food binary. A life without any of the "dirty" food? What's the fun in that?

I want my diet to be filled with infinite variety. I want dirt on my potatoes and gnarly holes in my apples. I want a buttery flatbread from a street vendor in Africa and I want wild berries foraged from the forest in Estonia. I want the creamiest goat cheese I can find at the farmer's market. I want the crispiest leaf of lettuce on the farm. I want my food roasted, sauteed, steamed, braised, fried, baked, and seared. I want to eat it with silver forks in fine restaurants and I want to eat it with my fingers on mountaintops. I want to enjoy, wholly and completely, every single bite.

Screw "clean eating." I want the dirtiest diet I can get my hands on.

Standing on the side of love.

2011-01-15T08:00:00.000-05:00

Some people just really love their college. I am not one of those people.

You see, American University and I have a complicated relationship. We always have. Similar to how I've never fallen completely in love with DC, I've just never really felt a strong connection to my college.

Yesterday, however, was different. Yesterday, I loved AU. As I stood next to my friends holding this banner aloft in the below-freezing weather, I felt proud to be an AU student.

On Friday, a 4-person contingent from the Westboro Baptist Church picketed at AU to protest our acceptance of gays and lesbians. In response, hundreds of AU students came out to demontrate to them (and the world) that we don't stand for hate. That we are a university that embraces students of all sexual orientations, religions, and races. That the despicable words of a few crazies do not make us feel threatened, but rather spurs us to unite and reaffirm our commitment to universal acceptance.

It's often joked that we AU students are more interested in the status of the current Congress than the ranking of our basketball team. As one sign at the counter-protest read, "This is the closest AU will get to a pep rally." For the most part, it's true. AU does tend to lack a sense of school spirit. But when push comes to shove, we rally around our own. AU has a sizable gay/lesbian population, and when you step on their toes, you step on all of ours.

The signs crafted by students displayed messages ranging from hilarious to serious. Some featured colorful Lady Gaga collages while others simply stated Bible passages in block letters. They were self-deprecating, light-hearted, thoughtful, and heartfelt.

Signs aside, I think that the best part about yesterday's event was that it really wasn't about the WBC at all. It was about AU's ability to unite. Most people at the event, myself included, couldn't even see the WBC protesters from where they were standing. Honestly, we didn't need to- we had seen enough stories on the news and in the papers to know what kind of hatred they were spewing with their placards.

An event like this could certainly have gotten ugly, but there were thankfully no angry words screamed and no violence to be had. Instead, the atmosphere was downright jovial. There was laughter throughout the crowd, a cappella performances, a "free hug squad," and love-affirming Biblical hot chocolate.

So thank you, WBC, for bringing AU together and giving me a reason to love my school.

On creativity and identity.

2011-01-12T15:42:00.000-05:00

Shortly after returning to DC for the semester, I set out with my best friend in search of dinner. We settled on a casual place in my neighborhood that serves wonderful thin-crust pizzas and great draft beers. As we nibbled our spinach and caramelized onion slices and sipped our hefeweizens, we did what we do best: we talked.

We talked about a lot of things. We talked about our spring (our last!) semesters, our futures, and our own expectations of ourselves. But mostly, we talked about who we used to be, who we are, and who we would like to be.

I used to be a creative kid. Drawing, painting, sewing, crafting, holiday decorating, basket-weaving... I pretty much did it all. I took years of sewing lessons and was constantly dragging my mother to craft stores and art supply shops. I kept a binder of magazine pages featuring clothing and accessories I admired. I pushed the furniture around in my bedroom and painted the walls bright yellow. I developed a reputation amongst my greater family as a creative type- someone who was always finding a reason to get her hands dirty in new ways.

But as I grew older, my interests diversified and I started devoting less time to creative pursuits. The sewing machine lay largely dormant and my oil paints weren't uncapped quite as frequently. Field hockey sticks and thick textbooks replaced the paintbrushes as I poured myself into team sports and pursued success in the high school classroom.

Despite this shift in priorities, my extended family never stopped thinking of me as a creative person. For awhile, this bothered me. I wanted them to see me for what I was at that moment in time, and I wanted them to see how I had developed as a person. I didn't want to be put in a box, much like many teenagers. I'm sure you remember that time in your life- when few things seemed more offensive than having someone tell you who and what you were. The horror!

But now, at 22 years old, my attitude is different as I find myself re-visiting those creative roots. I am dipping my toes into the wide world of photography and experiencing a renewed interest in graphics and fashion. Perhaps it's the accessibility of huge amounts of creative inspiration on the internet, or maybe I'm just tired of academics, but for whatever the reason, I am creatively motivated again. I am realizing that not only do I want to be that creative person that everyone has always held me up to be, but there is a chance I actually am that person. I am grateful that my family never gave up faith in my abilities.

In other words, I think I'm growing up.

Scattered thoughts.

2011-01-09T19:46:00.001-05:00

After 4 weeks of living in thermal tights, duck boots, and Christmas ribbons re-purposed as headbands, I put real clothes back on and drove back to DC yesterday. A month at home in the woods was wonderfully refreshing, but it's time to resume productive life.

...And by productive life, I mean taking 2 classes and searching for some sort of gainful employment to fill the 3 completely empty days in my M-F schedule.

At least the lax schedule will give me time to become more intimately acquainted with my new lens. This includes trying to overcome my tendency to break out in metaphorical hives every time I have to swap out lenses on my camera. How do professional photographers with $2,000 lenses sleep at night? I literally have nightmares about breaking my photographic equipment.

According to a billboard I passed on my drive down to DC, the Mohegan Sun casino has the "loosest slots" in Connecticut. Ahem.

Unpacking and reorganizing my closet brought to my attention the fact that I own at least dozen dresses, 4 pairs of outdoor work/hiking boots, and no hair dryer. Interpret as you wish.

Long solo road trips are less than ideal, but at least you can take as many pee breaks as you please and funnel Cracker Jacks straight into your mouth from the bag.

And on a much less lighthearted note,

When a virulently homophobic hate group announces its intention to picket your university on the grounds that it tells students "it's okay to be gay" (?!?), you have a choice. You can shake your head and walk away or you can stand your ground and counter hate with love. Next Friday, I'll be doing the latter along with the rest of the AU community.

Meta-reflection

2011-01-01T17:48:00.001-05:00

Or, reflections on a month of reflection.

In late November, I signed up for Reverb 10, a December blogging challenge that asked participants to reflect on the previous year through 31 daily writing prompts.

As you have probably noticed, my participation in Reverb waned as the month progressed. Although I had every intention to attempt all 31 prompts, I ended up responding to just less than half. As I struggled to find the words to explain my inability to complete the challenge, I came across a blog post written by a member of the Reverb 10 crew. She captured my feelings precisely: the prompts, she thought, were "the kinds of things that, maybe, you'd talk about over a pot of tea - with a dear friend."

In other words, they were kinds of things you might feel a little uncomfortable talking about on the internet. And uncomfortable I felt indeed. Many of the prompts struck me as simply too heavy and too personal to address on this blog.

It's not that I don't trust and feel connected to the people who read my blog. Many of them are family members, close friends, and blog friends turned real-life friends. Their support of my writing and photography means the world to me. And the support of readers who I have never met and probably will never meet- that is a rare thing that I value deeply. However, I would not invite any of these people to read my diary, which is essentially what the Reverb prompts asked participants to do.

I have always enjoyed talking about the big questions and more serious topics with friends and family. In fact, I feel most connected to them when we get down to brass tacks and thoroughly unpack whatever is going on in my life or theirs. I've never been a fan of superficial small talk- rather, I prefer "big talk." So why, then, did I shy away from answering those heavy Reverb prompts? Because those aforementioned conversations unfold organically, whereas the Reverb blog posts did not. Those discussions might develop over the course of a 5-hour hike or a long, leisurely dinner with wine. But with the Reverb posts, there was nothing organic about it. They involved jumping straight into some very heavy material without any of the natural lead-up. Answering many of the prompts felt awkward and forced, so I just opted not to.

That all being said, I still believe that Reverb 10 was a positive experience. Not only did I love following the daily Reverbs of one of my favorite bloggers, but Reverb 10 helped me discover many new writers to follow. Perhaps I'll be back for more Reverb-ing next year, because lord knows that 2011 (my year of graduation) has the potential to supply a lot of blogging material.

Which brings me to the conclusion of this post: my intentions for 2011. I've never been much of a New Years resolution-setter myself, mostly because I think that January 1 is a completely arbitrary date to set a bunch of grandiose and often over-ambitious goals for oneself. I believe in making big life changes when the time seems right, not when the rest of the world says you should. However, I do like to commemorate the calendar flip (er, calendar replacement) with a couple of mindful intentions for the new year.

These intentions are not hard-fast resolutions. They aren't serious. They have nothing to do with self-improvement. They're just about having fun.

In 2011, I intend to:

1. Play more games with friends: Board games. Card games. Pen and paper games.

2. Eat out more. I know that a lot of people resolve to do the opposite. However, I thoroughly enjoy dining out yet don't do it very often for various wallet and health-related reasons. So, I'm going to dine out more in 2011.

3. Dress with more flair and buy myself some more clothing. Looking good makes me feel good.

4. Do something that makes me happy post-graduation... because happiness comes before success, as they say.

First Holga shots

2010-12-31T17:27:00.002-05:00

I finally developed my first roll of 120mm Holga film, despite having shot the entire roll on the wrong frame setting... My Holga technique could clearly use some improvement, but that's the beauty of this little plastic camera: you never know what you're going to get.

A late-November walk through the cranberry bogs and scenic byways of Southeastern Massachusetts.

Lola.

2010-12-28T23:02:00.003-05:00

In case I get too sad about the end of the Christmas season (and the end of my all-butter/sugar/flour diet)...

All I have to do is look at this photo.

[And I don't even LIKE dogs!]

Reverb 10, Day 26: Soul food.

2010-12-26T14:14:00.006-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 26:

Soul food. What did you eat this year that you'll never forget? What went into your mouth and touched your soul?

A post-hike cup of chocolate-vanilla swirl soft serve at a roadside stand in Front Royal, VA.

A glass of red wine with a side of card games on the floor of my bedroom.

A Christmas seafood paella at home.

Homemade strawberry jam in Gran's old canning jars.

A cup of raspberry gelato shared three ways on a London park bench, one gray, frigid March day.

A crunchy green bean straight off the vine, eaten between the rows of vegetables on the farm.

A barely-stomached hummus sandwich on top of a Wyoming mountain [damn that appetite-killing altitude].

A warming bean soup eaten alongside a best friend at the first hint of autumn.

A fried seafood platter, served on the front porch [extra napkins, please].

A homemade pizza feast with friends, featuring lots of beer and even more laughter.

The first clementine of the season.

A sip of beer inbued with memories.

And a cream-cheese frosted carrot cake cupcake.

Merry and Bright

2010-12-25T13:29:00.002-05:00

Christmas at home in the woods...

Reverb 10, Day 23: Another name.

2010-12-23T15:15:00.000-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 23:

If you could introduce yourself to strangers by another name for just one day, what would it be and why?

I never tire of hearing stories about how people ended up with their given names. Names are so wonderfully emblematic of our roots and reflective of our parents visions for our lives. I find tales of namesakes and possible alternate names to be endlessly entertaining.

My name is Anna, but I'm assuming you knew that already.

My name was my mother's choice. She tossed out her original plan to name me Gwen at my father's behest and went with something a little more traditional. Anna, as it turns out, was the 2nd most popular name for girls from 1880 to 1900, but my mother didn't have that in mind when making her choice. She just claims to have always loved the name.

My own theory? She named me after her Pilgrim name. Yes, my mother was once a costumed role player at Plimoth Plantation back in the '70's, and her character's name was Anna. As if I didn't feel WASP-y enough... I'm named after an actual Pilgrim. And yet my mother vehemently denies any connection between her character and my name choice...

My father, on the other hand, wanted me to be named Leila, after my paternal great-grandmother. Although his choice was rejected by my mother, my middle name fulfilled his wishes for a family connection: he chose my grandfather's first name, Schuyler.

I like that my name is Anna. It's a palindrome, which is just plain neat. It's also simple yet somewhat unusual: I don't encounter many Annas on the day-to-day. I never fail to be amused by the fact that my name, coupled with my blonde hair and light complexion, lead many to misinterpret my heritage. Swedish, Norwegian, Finnish... pretty much any Nordic/Baltic/Scandinavian country. (I'm actually a mix of British and German, among other things.)

But if I had to choose another name for just one day... I would choose my middle name, if only for the uniqueness of it. You may have met a female Skylar or two, but when was the last time you met a female Schuyler? Or even a male Schuyler, for that matter.

But most of all, I'm inspired to (theoretically) adopt my grandfather's name for a day because indicators of the shared blood between us seem to be growing every day. Photographs of him in his younger years show a face eerily similar to my present day visage: a long nose and a pair of close-set eyes framed by fair hair.

I can detect remnants of his manner of speaking in my own spoken words. And since his death 1 and 1/2 years ago, traces of his personal style have worked their way into my wardrobe. Various pieces of art and clothing were transferred into my ownership after he passed, and now sport his tortoise shell Ray Ban Wayfarers and plaid shirts with pride.

To take his name for a day would be an unique opportunity to reflect on the many strings that tie my family together through generations: an opportunity I would gladly take.

Reverb 10, Day 21: Dear 12 year-old self.

2010-12-21T23:59:00.000-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 21:

Write a note to yourself 10 years ago. What would you tell your younger self?

Dear 12 year-old self,

Hi there. It's your 22 year-old self here, writing in from 2010. I know, I know, 2010 seems like light-years away to you right now. And I know that 22 seems incredibly old and mature. But it's actually way more complicated than that, so keep reading.

22 year-olds have it all figured out, you think. From the perspective of your 6th grade classroom desk, your vision of 20-something-hood is vivid and exciting. 20-somethings have serious boyfriends, hip apartments, and urbane friends. They've launched a successful career. Their hair always looks nice and their clothing is sophisticated and mature. They probably own a suit and look good in it too. Above all, 20-somethings are most definitely adults.

I have news for you, though. In some ways, your 22 year-old life isn't all that different from your 12 year-old life. You'll email (yes, email. it'll be big, trust me.) your parents for advice all the time. You won't be financially independent. You'll be thrown into challenging jobs and social situations that make you feel like Tom Hanks' in the movie Big. There will be days when you forget to brush your hair and you certainly don't own a suit, let alone look good in one. Instead, you often ride your bike to school sporting a puffy jacket and two braids sticking out from beneath your bike helmet. Basically, you still have a ways to go until you're a full-blown adult.

But do not despair! Because your journey to 22 will be nothing but boring. In the next 10 years, there will be a whole lot of laughter in your life. You will make some incredible friends, read tons of wonderful books, and travel all over the world. You'll go to New Zealand and Italy and you'll even live in Africa for awhile. You even run 13.1 miles at one point.

Best of all, you're independent! Maybe not financially, but independent in spirit. You see, you are lacking a significant other at age 22. And have been since high school. Sorry to break that to you. But it's actually a blessing in disguise, because it made you that much stronger and capable. You learned to do things on your own and in the process, learned a tremendous amount about yourself as a person. You'll tackle 9 hour solo road trips like it ain't no thing and navigate your way through foreign airports like a pro. You even drive yourself to the hospital when your appendix gets infected like Madeline's.

I'm tempted to forewarn you of mistakes you should avoid... of things best left unsaid and dormant dreams worth running after. But I won't. That is for you to figure out on your own.

Instead, I leave you this one entreaty: during the next decade of your life, say yes when you want to say no. You will thank yourself later.

Oh, and you also like taking photographs, particularly of food.

Reverb 10, Day 19: Heal

2010-12-20T17:16:00.000-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 19:

What healed you this year? Was it a sudden or drip-by-drip evolution? How would you like to be healed in 2011?

(Oh hi, Reverb 10. No, I didn't forget about you. I just skipped out on your most recent prompts in the interest of avoiding repetitiveness. I felt as though I'd already covered the some of the material in previous prompts and didn't want to bore anyone. No hard feelings, though.)

For today's dose of Reverb-ing, I'm going to turn yesterday's prompt on its head. Rather than reflect on what healed me this year, I'm going to write about a very worthy organization that has done a tremendous amount of healing for others. Because it's Christmas, and Christmas is a time to think about someone besides myself. I don't often plug charities or solicit donations here on this blog, but I'm making an exception for a cause near and dear to my heart.

First, a preface: I have very mixed feelings about foreign aid and international development on both the governmental and individual levels. I went to Kenya to study development and left 4 months later with more far more questions than I arrived with.

"Who should be helping developing countries and their citizens? How should they be helping? With money? With manpower? Is this "helping" actually helping anyone at all? Is even our place to be helping? Are we in fact doing more harm than good?"

And so forth. What seemed clear-cut before no longer seemed as such. (If the idea of foreign aid as detrimental rather than beneficial is completely new to you, check out the work of Dambisa Moyo. And don't worry, because it was previously unknown to me too.) Let's just say I'll never look at those "Save the Children" commercials the same way again. The situation is complicated. Very complicated.

But while sifting through all of this, I encountered an organization in Nairobi that appeared to be getting it "right" (whatever right is): Africa Yoga Project. Simply stated, AYP "uses the transformative power of yoga to empower communities and change lives."

YFU... from Roundtable Films on Vimeo.

AYP was started by Paige Elenson in 2007, during a time of post-election violence in Kenya. Google it for more info, but what is boils down to is the fact that Kenya has had a lot of trouble reconciling old tribal divisions with their current democratic political system. In 2007, tensions came to a head and violence broke out across the country. As with many episodes of political turmoil, Kenya's most disadvantaged, those who lived in slums on less than $2/day, were affected the most.

AYP exists to help heal those wounds using the vehicle of yoga. Kenya has a rich culture of movement arts (dance, acrobatics, and the like) and so yoga is a natural fit. By teaching yoga to disadvantaged Kenyans of all ages and employing many as teachers themselves, AYP helps foster nonviolence, unity, and personal well-being. AYP isn't a traditional charity in the respect that they don't give handouts. Rather, they provide people with the tools they need to prosper and become self-sufficient.

AYP is especially near and dear to my heart because of the personal connections I established with the organization and with Paige during my time in Kenya. I practiced alongside her students during weekly 2 1/2 hour power vinyasa classes and got to know her and some her proteges quite well. I listened to her students stand up and speak after class, testifying to the changes they've seen in their lives since beginning to practice yoga. Basically, I witnessed first-hand the amazing work that AYP was doing.

And so, as you wrap up your Christmas shopping, I encourage you to consider a donation to AYP. It would be an especially meaningful gift for the yoga lover in your life: someone who would probably most understand the transformative and healing powers of the practice.

Paige built AYP by herself, from scratch, and relies heavily on individual donors. She has truly and completely committed her life to making AYP the best it can be. I can promise you that your money will be spent in the most effective and tangible ways possible.

Rever 10 Day 16: Friends.

2010-12-16T23:46:00.000-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 16. Zee prompt:

How has a friend changed you or your perspective on the world this year?

My friends are weird.

Really, they are. And I like it. I've always felt that normal people make for boring, uninteresting companions. So I'm proud to say I have a group of truly bizarre, eclectic, and fascinating people to call my friends. They are artists, mathematicians, comedians, theologians, conservatives, lefty hippies, lives of the party and quiet introverts. They are nothing if not individuals. Each one of my friends changes me for the better every day just by being their authentic selves and inspiring me to do the same.

Best friend E has a fierce and monumental intellect that never fails to make me think deeper and harder. Her genius could easily make me feel dumb, but it's a never-ending source of motivation for me.

Friend A exhibits a thoughtfulness and quiet, unwavering devotion to music that inspires me to appreciate the arts in new and profound ways. His raw talent is nothing short of awe-inspiring and I would be lying if I said his performances have not brought me to tears. (Awkward for those around me? Not really, because they were crying too. Seriously. The guy is TALENTED.)

E.K. Now there is a friend (and roommate) who can make me laugh so hard that I can barely breathe. She sees the joy and humor in everything and is always up for an impromptu dance-off in the dining room or ridiculous gigglefest under her blankets when we should be studying. Don't know what I would do without the levity she brings to the table.

Friend (and roommate) M has a penchant for belting out everything from the Temptations to the Spice Girls in the shower, and I mean belting. Her completely un-self conscious singing makes me want to sing out beyond the confines of my car (where I do most of my soloing).

Friend A is the "people person" I would kill to be. The girl can walk into any room, anywhere, and form an instant bond with the first person she lays eyes on. Interview for a job at the White House via Skype from Kenya? I'd be shaking in my boots, but she had them laughing within 5 minutes. And got the job, of course. Teach me your ways, A.

Friend K netted a 1:30 time on his first half marathon, then got into Harvard Law. No further explanation needed on this one.

Friend C wows me with his commitment to his religion. The grace he exhibits when challenged by those who don't share his faith nothing short of remarkable. He's secure enough in his beliefs to not feel threatened by those who don't share them, and I think that is amazing.

I could go on, but I'll leave it at that. Thanks friends, for always pushing me to be better in your own unique ways.

Reverb 10 Day 15: 5 Minutes.

2010-12-15T20:28:00.000-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 15. The prompt:

Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in 5 minutes. Set an alarm for 5 minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010.

Instead of choosing words for 5 minutes, I decided to choose photos.

Opening up the photos folder on my laptop, I sifted through all of 2010's snapshots and picked out what I wanted to remember from the accumulated memories. I tried not to overthink exactly why I was choosing any given photo over another, but just let my instinct guide the process. The result: an eclectic mix of joyful, quiet, emotional, meditative, and silly moments that feels appropriately reflective of 2010 as a whole.

February. I shot a very talented friend as he prepared for a piano competition. To this day, it remains one of my best and favorite series of photographs.

March. A visit to London to visit my best friend- a joyful (and jet-lagged) reunion after 9 months apart

March. A silly moment at a Dutch pancake restaurant in London- owl eyes as seen in a teapot reflection

May. Living dangerously in Shenandoah National Park. This was 24 hours before my first final exam. Dangerous, indeed.

May. Home for the summer! And it never looked better.

June. Visiting a friend in Connecticut on an insanely hot, humid weekend for a marathon of outdoor activity. Drank my weight in water 3x over.

June. Strawberry picking with my mom on the Cape. We made jam- remember?

June. Drinking Magic Hat on the dock. Summertime and the livin's easy.

July. Hiking with the BFF in Wyoming. That SKY. Kills me.

July. Making dinner with after work on the farm with coworkers. Unabashed lovers of food like myself.

September. A perfect family wedding on a perfect fall weekend.

October. Halloween preparations at my house in DC. There is so much weird going on in this photo. And I love it.

December- my lovely roommates on our lovely Christmas-decorated porch.

Reverb 10 Day 14: Don't hate, appreciate.

2010-12-14T22:45:00.000-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 14, and I'm back in the game after yesterday's confession.

The prompt:

What's the one thing you have come to appreciate most in the past year?

A couple days ago, I found myself standing in the middle of a Walmart Supercenter clutching a shopping basket. I probably step foot in a Walmart once every 2 years and the experience never fails to traumatize me. Walmart, along with Las Vegas, is pretty much the antithesis of everything I value in life. I don't think I need to elaborate.

But this Walmart contained a very specific item I had been seeking. After wandering around the cavernous, hanger-like building for a solid 15 minutes, I finally managed to locate said item and got in line to pay. In front of me was a middle-aged woman paying for a handful of items, so I grabbed a magazine to peruse while waiting for her to finish up. She was fiddling with cards and bills and I knew it would be a few minutes before my turn. I wasn't bothered- I was in no hurry and the Real Simple I was leafing through had some particularly tasty-looking recipes.

After five or so minutes, I looked back up from my magazine and noticed that the woman still wasn't done with her transaction. Glancing over at the cashier, I noted a foul look on her face. Uh oh. Something was not right. Something was wrong with the payment and neither party seemed pleased.

I returned to my magazine and tried to ignore the situation's escalating tension. I succeeded, for the most part. Until the voices began to rise.

This customer was irate, for a reason I couldn't quite discern. "What? Why? WHY CAN'T YOU DO THIS FOR ME?" she all but shrieked. Understandably, the cashier's patience had waned at this point. She was responding in equally harsh tones. Did I mention this was all going down to a soundtrack of "Last Christmas" by Wham, punctuated by a piercing beeping noise of unknown origin?

By some miracle, the situation was resolved without any bloodshed. The customer gathered her items up in a huff and walked away, forgetting one of her bags on the conveyor belt.

"You forgot your bag," the cashier yelled after her under no guise of friendliness. The woman returned, threw out one last glare, grabbed her bag, and left.

"That's what you get for being a bitch," the cashier practically spat at her retreating back.

By some miracle, the customer didn't hear. But I sure as hell did. And I was horrified.

Once I was back in the safety of my car, I tuned the radio to NPR in search of an antidote to the insanity I just witnessed. The anchor and her guest happened to be discussing a disturbing trend in America: parents that over-medicate their children for the purposes of qualifying for SSI, a federal income supplement program. The particular case in question involved a woman administering narcotics to her four-year-old as if they were cough drops.

The older I get, the more people I encounter, the more places I travel, the more I realize: there are a lot of truly crazy, messed up, turned-around people out there. But in most cases, I don't think their conditions aren't entirely their fault. People aren't born with the instinct to cram their kids full of too many powerful drugs or scream and swear at store cashiers. Someone had to teach them these behaviors.

And while I am FAR from perfect, I am so appreciative that I my parents didn't teach me to treat others with such disrespect. I'm thankful for their sane, balanced, and rational parenting when I was young and I'm grateful for their humor, kindness and generosity now.

Not only did they teach me to always carry cash when traveling, wash your hands before eating, and how to read maps like a pro, they also taught me to be a decent human being. And for that, I am forever grateful.

I am also grateful that they live here. I LOVE YOU HOME.

Homemade Vanilla Extract

2010-12-13T13:22:00.000-05:00

Confession: I'm starting to lose some of my Reverb 10 mojo.

The fact that I haven't posted since Friday probably indicates as such. Here's the thing- many of the recent topics haven't really resonated with me. It's not that they're bad, per say, it's just that I often find myself at a loss for a creative response. I've always been a quality over quantity kind of girl, so I would rather put out fewer posts of higher quality instead of many posts of lower quality. I don't want to force myself to post something I'm not proud of.

Also, I'm kind of tired of talking about myself and would rather put my blogging energy towards holiday cooking and crafting right now rather than rehashing last year, to be frank.

I'm not completely giving up on Reverb 10. I'm just going to respond only to the prompts that really speak to me. I'm also going to experiment with responding to some prompts visually instead of using words. I love photography, but taking photographs with the intent of telling a cohesive story is a unexplored domain for me. I'm used to capturing single moments in time, so attempting to string them together will be a fun experiment.

Moving on... to vanilla extract.

Now that my fall semester is through and I'm back at home, it's time to get serious about the holidays. I have copious gifts to make, but copious time and materials at my disposal. So basically, I'm in heaven. Homemade gifting has always been my forte- be it crafted or cooked.

This year, I'm trying something new for gift-giving. Homemade vanilla extract!

I was given (er, the family was given) about 15 Madagascar vanilla beans by some relatives over Thanksgiving. Their children recently started a vanilla importing company and they were nice enough to bring us a couple packets to sample. My mom and I have been brainstorming ideas for what to do with them ever since and we decided on homemade vanilla extract for gift-giving.

The process really couldn't be any easier.

First, obtain some glass jars with tight-fitting lids. I spotted these adorable 4 oz Ball jelly jars at the grocery store yesterday and knew they would be the perfect size.

I'm kind of obsessed with Ball jars and hoard them like some people hoard food or pets.

At least my hoarding supports the American economy, which is more than those creepy animal hoarders can say.

Now obtain some hard liquor. Something around 80-proof (40% alcohol). This rum will do nicely.

Next, obtain your beans. You'll need 1 bean per 1/3 cup of liquor. Which works out nicely, because 1/3 cup fits perfectly in the 4 oz Ball jars and makes good-sized amount of extract for gift-giving.

Now, split your beans. Take a sharp knife and slice each bean in half, lengthwise, from tip to tip. Then cut each one into thirds, width-wise, so they'll fit into the jars and be completely submerged in the liquor.

Try not to lose any of the innards- the bean paste. That's the most important part- where all the flavor is!

Place the bean pieces in the jars (1 whole bean to 1 jar, remember) and cover with 1/3 cup of the liquor. Seal the jars tightly and give them a shake.

Store the jars a dark place and shake once per week. After about 8 weeks, you should have delicious extract ready for use. The beans need time to soak/ferment/infuse the liquor with their flavor. If you plan on giving them as gifts like I do, attach a little note to the lid with these directions. Happy gifting!

Reverb 10 Day 10: Wisdom.

2010-12-10T19:35:00.001-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 10. For those of you just tuning in, here's what it's all about. Basically, I'm participating in one month of extreme navel gazing I MEAN self-reflection.

I skipped yesterday's prompt because of a simple lack of inspiration. The prompt asked about the best party I attended this year and frankly, I couldn't choose just one. Any party with best friends and tasty drinks (or food, for that matter) is a good one to me.

On to today's prompt:

What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how did it play out?

It should be no surprise to you that texting is beginning to eclipse actual telephone calls in our society. For many, myself included, the number of texts sent per month is greater than the number of airtime minutes used. Texing is certainly convenient and inexpensive, but I worry about the social implications. It seems to me that texting constitutes yet another layer of social isolation. We no longer actually have to hear the sounds of people's voices, the cadence, nor the tone when we wish to contact them by phone. Instead, we gaze at plain black letters on a glowing screen.

I believe I made a wise decision every time I picked up the phone and called someone this year.

I called to ask for help. Sitting in a hospital bed hooked up to a slew of wires and machines, I called one of my best friends and told him I needed him there. Now. And he came.

I called to offer help to someone else. Dialing up a close friend who was consumed by emotional distress, I knew it wasn't going to be an easy conversation. But it was important that I do it. She needed me.

I called to ask for a job. Tracking down the number of the owner of a farm at which I used to volunteer, I flat-out asked him for a paying summer job. It worked. A week later I was harvesting kale.

I called to say I was leaving. I called to say I arrived safely. I called to share good news. I called to share bad news. I called to wish happy birthday and I called to offer condolences.

Looking back on all of 2010's phone calls, would any of these conversations achieved their intended effect had they been communicated via text?

I'm certain the answer is no. Text may be cheap, but the sound of a human voice is priceless.

Phones have ear and mouthpieces for a reason.

Reverb 10 Day 8: Different.

2010-12-08T22:36:00.001-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 8. After taking a quick break for final exams, I'm back in the game. Today's prompt, in brief:

What makes you different?

Different... well, as compared to what? Different is such a relative word. It's basically meaningless unless you also address the context. Characteristics that make me stick out like a sore thumb in one place may be wholly unremarkable in another.

For instance, being white didn't make me different where I grew up in Massachusetts, but it sure as hell made me different in Kenya. Not being Catholic isn't unusual at my college in DC, but it made me an anomaly amongst my primarily Irish Catholic high school classmates. Wearing stained and ripped t-shirts with ancient running shoes helped me fit in with my farm coworkers, but I'm positive that I'd get some sidelong glances if I were to wear the same get-up to class.

But matters of context aside, I think that how we chose to answer the question "what makes you different" is very telling. We respond with what we want people to know about us. Our responses are reflections of how we desire to be perceived by others, and attempts to shape those perceptions.

I've been wrestling all day with my own answer to this question. What do I feel is important that people know about me? I've addressed some of my eccentricities in previous blog posts: how I don't really fit the standard student mold at my college, and how I sometimes have 1950's housewife tendencies. But for new post demands a fresh idea, so here's what makes me different: I don't believe that everything happens for a reason.

I'm aware that I probably stand in opposition to the majority of human population on this one. I'm no religious studies major, but I'd wager that each of the major world religions incorporates an element of predestination in some shape or form. That is to say, the idea of a higher power with some control over the events that transpire in our day-to-day lives. At the very least, the ubiquity of "everything happens for a reason"-ish quotes in yearbooks and on motivational posters speaks to its wide acceptance.

I don't have any deep philosophical or religious explanation for my belief, really, but I'll chalk it up to my religiously liberal Unitarian Universalist upbringing. I've just always felt in my heart that there is no preordained order or reason behind the world's events. I believe that it's up to us as humans to make sense of it all and apply the reasons ourselves. It's our responsibility to make good out of what we've been dealt and that it's fully within our power to improve our lives and the lives of others.

That being said, I'm fully understand and respect the fact that many others don't feel the same way that I do. One of my closest high school friends has had 2 separate cases of cancer and holds tight to the belief that her suffering happened for a reason. Who am I to tell her she is wrong? She just sees it from a different angle than I. And that's okay.

For the most part, my "difference" doesn't play a large role in my interactions with others or in my everyday life. However, it's an important part of who I am and I'm glad that this prompt incited me to share it with others.

This photo has nothing to do with being different. I just like this shot of my roommates on our festive porch taken after a wine-filled Christmas party last night.

So what makes YOU different, be it physically or philosophically?

The ultimate white whine.

2010-12-06T14:39:00.006-05:00

I'm going to be taking a few days break from Reverb 10 so I can focus on my final exams and preparations for driving home later this week.

But before I get back to calculus and climatology studying, I wanted to share something that's been on my mind recently...

You see, I have little sympathy for those who complain about the stress of the holiday season. I think it might be the ultimate white whine (or an "anyone of privilege whine" for that matter).

Because honestly, may the worst of my problems be:

that I have too many loved ones to buy gifts for,
that I have been invited to too many social events,
and that I have too much delicious food surrounding me.

I agree that December can be a busy month, but how about trying to enjoy the craziness while it's here? You'll miss it come March when the weather's still nasty and there aren't any colorful lights or decorated sugar cookies to distract you.

Reverb 10 Day 4: NO BABIES

2010-12-04T21:05:00.000-05:00

Reverb 10, Day 4. The prompt:

Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year?

I did not seek out one of the things that had me wondering the most this year. It kind of just slapped me across the face. And that thing was babies.

October 28, the basement of Sibley Memorial Hospital. I'm sitting on a rolling gurney wearing a hospital johnny, covered in a pile of sterile, scratchy blankets. The CT scan that awaits me will hopefully determine the source of my piercing stomach pain. I've been parked in this empty, echoing hallway outside the scan room for 15 minutes and wait patiently for my nurse to return from whatever it is that causes nurses to run off at any given moment. Suddenly, she reappears at my shoulder with my charts in her hand, peering through her glasses set low on her nose.

"Ok, so any allergies? Medications?" she inquires, running through that standard list of questions that anyone who so much as glances at you in a hospital is required to ask at least 5 times. When she arrives at "any prior surgeries?" I reply with "hmmm, just some stitches," unsure if that actually counts for anything.

"Stitches?" she says, glancing up at me. "For your C-section?"

"Whaaa... umm, uh, no. No C-section," I stammer awkwardly. She cocks her head, puzzled by my response. "No baby?" she asks.

"No, NO BABIES," I say, leaning forward slightly and emphatically waving my hands above my torso to make my point. "Ahhhh, okay," she replies, making a quick note on my chart before turning on her heel and disappearing again.

The hallway is silent. I sit there on my gurney, still holding my hands up in their wild gesture of denial for few moments before dropping them back into my lap.

Throughout all of 2010, babies seemed to surround me. My boss on the farm gave birth to a baby in July. Various relatives starting having children. I attended a family wedding in September and nearly every guest had at least 2 children in tow. I wasn't sure if it was a particularly fertile year or I just hadn't made note of the baby quotient in years past. Either way, 2010 appeared to be the year of the baby.

But it wasn't until this hospital incident that I realized... Not only am I old enough to have a baby, but I'm old enough to have legitimate babies. I'm 22 years old. I could have a baby and society wouldn't look at me twice. This nurse was more than able to believe it, at least.

What an insane thought. I'm a college student, for crying out loud. I've only just begun to scratch the surface of adulthood. I go to class and do chemistry homework with yellow pencils and call my mom when I'm stressed. And yet, I could have a child.

And that, my friends, is something to wonder about. How did I get so damn old?

Theoretically, this could be my child reaching into a bucket of beers.

Reverb 10 Day 3: Alive

2010-12-03T13:55:00.001-05:00

Reverb 10 Day 3:

Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail.

Had I been asked this question about years past, the answer would be easy: 2006, jumping off a bridge in New Zealand (safely tethered to bungee cord). 2007, deplaning in Tallinn, Estonia, 18 years old and completely alone. 2008, crossing the finish line of my first half marathon. 2009, every single time I boarded public transportation in Nairobi and put my life in the driver's hands.

But when I consider 2010, it seems to lack any of those "showstopping" moments at first brush. It did contain some travel, however, which is what appears to be the common theme of those "alive" moments in years past. And I did fit some traveling in this year. Perhaps nothing as dramatic was solo trips to the Baltics or 4 months in Africa, but I paid visits to London, Wyoming, Vermont, and New York in 2010. All of them made me feel equally alive.

I believe there is a certain sense of joy and vitality to being home, in your element, in a place that you know you belong. As one of my roommates recently commented during a discussion of our impending departures for winter break... "yea, I like home... but you seem to enjoy it more than most." She's right. I love my home. I'm so lucky to live in a beautiful place with a family I'm very close with.

But that doesn't mean I don't relish the feeling of leaving every now and again. That remarkable feeling of freedom and possibility that accompanies stepping outside of your everyday space is magic. Travel makes me feel alive because it lets me the experience the thrill of pretending to be someone else for awhile. That's why I travel, in a nutshell. Not to relax, not to cross a country or state off a list, not to collect photos for a scrapbook, but to try on another life for size. Pretend I'm richer than I am, that I'm poorer than I am, that I'm older or younger, wiser or naiver. Whether I'm on a group trip or a solo expedition, travel offers me limitless possibilities to experience a new way of living....

July 19, 2010. Wyoming. I paid visit to the Cowboy State to visit my best friend from school in her natural habitat, a habitat very different from my own. After 4 hours on a plane to Denver, several hours in a van to Cheyenne, and 1 hour in a car to Laramie, I finally arrived. We packed a lot into just 4 days, hiking, walking, and exploring her hometown and environs. It was fun to jump into this slower, Western pace of life and to imagine that these sweeping prairies and snow-capped peaks were my reality.

On my final day in Wyoming, we drove up to the Snowy Range to hike Medicine Bow Peak. Several hours of ambling, climbing, and rock-scrambling brought us to its 12,000 foot summit. Lowering ourselves onto the rocks for a well-deserved rest, I noticed my heart slamming against my chest wall and listened to my breath drawing sharp and quick. The air was dry and thin, and the wind was chilling on my salt-flecked skin. Although my body's struggle with the altitude belied my sea-level roots, I pretended for one moment before we re-shouldered our backpacks and began our descent that the tremendous vista laid out before me was mine.

From the whistling wind atop mountain peaks to the cacophonous city traffic, from grinding sound of wheels up upon takeoff to the ka-thunk of a passport being stamped, from the slow lurch of a train pulling out of a station to the fluid swipe of a subway ticket... travel never fails to make me feel alive.

Reverb 10 Day 2: My writing?

2010-12-02T12:10:00.003-05:00

I kicked off Reverb 10 with a pretty long, heavy post, so I thought I'd keep it short and light for the second prompt. The prompt asked:

What do you do each day that doesn't contribute to your writing- and can you eliminate it?

My writing.

Something about that phrase stopped me dead in my tracks. I like to write, yes. On this blog, in a journal, and in the margins of my school notebooks. But I've never once referred to the things I produce as "my writing." To me, it's a phrase that seems like the domain of actual writers: people who are paid to write and whose work is widely respected. I don't put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, as it were) with any great aspirations for money or notoriety, I do it for the simple enjoyment of the process as well as the interesting people with whom I connect along the way. Am I allowed to call the things I produce "my writing?" I'm undecided. Which makes it difficult for me to respond to this prompt.

So instead of a written response, I opted for my other preferred method of communication: photography. This is what I do each day that doesn't contribute to my writing:

Can I eliminate this? Well, not really. It's my education, and it's important. It will help me gain the skills I need to pursue a career in the (not too distant) future. Although my natural academic strengths lie with the humanities and not the hard sciences, I had to consider what I valued and what I could see myself doing for the rest of my life when I chose my course of study for college. I value the health of the environment as well as human health, which is why I'm an environmental studies major with hopes of pursing health and nutrition for graduate school.

Because writing doesn't play a huge role in my academics at this point in my college career, it means that it never feels like a chore. I write whenever and however I please. With no professors to please or grades to strive for, writing stays fun for me. But even if I do end up with a writing-heavy job (because honestly, who KNOWS what I'll end up doing), I will do my best to make sure it never loses its joy.

If you enjoy putting pen to paper, what do you call the fruits of your labor?

Reverb 10 Day 1

2010-12-01T16:15:00.003-05:00

The Reverb 10 writing challenge that I referenced in my last post begins today. And here is the first prompt:

Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?

(Warning: shiz is about to get heavy over here.)

My word for 2010 is waves.

When I first read the prompt, my mind went straight to “rollercoaster,” but after some consideration I decided that an ocean analogy was more fitting.

From January 2010 to May 2010, I lived life feeling like I was adrift in the middle of a vast ocean, struggling to keep my head above water. At times I was able to tread water and float in place for a while, but it was never long before a wave came and sucked me back under. Every now and then, a life ring in the form of a friend would be extended towards me. They’d pull me onto their boat and for a bit of time, I would feel better. But all too soon they had to go on their way and I was back in the stormy water.

I had never been so lonely in my entire life as I was during that spring semester. Just one month prior, I was wrapping up my semester abroad in Nairobi, Kenya. The life I lived in Kenya was extraordinary and entirely different from the one I had been living for 21 years in the US. When it came time to return to that old life, I was overwhelmed and paralyzed by emotion, struggling to reconnect with what once was so familiar. To make matters worse, the majority of my friends at college were away on their semesters abroad that spring, leaving me with too much time to spend alone. I always thought of myself as an introvert, but this experience taught me that although I may tend towards the introverted side of the spectrum, I need people. My 3 friends that opted not to go abroad that semester were my lifelines.

The strangest part of the whole experience was my perspective on it. I knew my return to US life would be difficult, and I knew it would end when I went home to family and friends at the end of the semester. One of my final assignments in Nairobi was a reflection paper, and I wrote about how I often struggled with Kenyans' lack of understanding of "alone time." My professor left me this comment on my paper:

Well, damn.

But having this sense of perspective didn’t make it any easier to endure, unfortunately.

I suspected that I might be suffering from some low-grade depression and saw a psychologist for evaluation. She informed me that although I was trending towards depression, I didn’t quite meet all the symptoms. I was fighting too hard, essentially, to be diagnosed with depression. I wasn’t letting myself drown. Which was good, of course. But not helpful in my attempts to solve the problem.

When the time came to pack up my things and drive home to Massachusetts in May, my feet finally found their way back to solid ground. (Ironically enough, I posted a photo of my feet in the water on that day…). I was back in the company of family and friends, and soon found a wonderfully fufilling job on the organic farm at which I used to volunteer. Life was light again. I spent plenty of time in the swimming in the pond that summer, but this time the waves were small and I was always able to find my way back to shore.

Since the end of summer, I've faced a couple larger waves. This time, health problems. I strugged with repeat bouts Lyme disease for many weeks, and most recently underwent an emergency appendectomy. But you know what? These were nothing compared to what I faced earlier in the year. The difference was the people. I was not alone. My best friends held my hands as I struggled to breathe after a post-op panic attack. My mom, a Lyme disease veteran herself, understood and supported me while I whined about fatigue and body aches. Being in an better state of mental health also softened the blow of these waves, yes, but it is the people that made the most difference. And that is something I will never let myself forget.

Now, for 2011... I have no idea what my life will be like after May 7, 2011 (my graduation date). Will I move home? Will I stay in DC? Will I go somewhere else entirely? Who knows. And I'm okay with the ambiguity for now. So, my word for 2011 is surprise.

A Holga and Reverb 10

2010-11-28T19:34:00.002-05:00

Two things:

1. I'm back in DC after 7.5 hours on Amtrak and begrudgingly preparing to tackle a pile of school work. The glare of reality is especially harsh right now, considering how lovely my Thanksgiving break was. Highlights included: long twilight walks in the woods, a frosty early morning kayak ride, bottomless cups of tea, many family hugs, yoga classes that don't cost $17, and getting this little toy in the mail:

A Holga!

Happy early Christmas to me. Holgas are cheap ($25) plastic film cameras that produce incredibly atmospheric, retro-looking photographs. I can't wait to develop my first roll of film and see what comes out (despite shooting the whole roll on the wrong frame setting...)

2. Starting on December 1, I'll be participating in Reverb 10, a month-long online writing challenge. The purpose of the challenge is to "reflect on your year and manifest what's next." There will be a daily prompt and partcipants are encouraged to convey their responses in any way they see fit, including photography and art as well as the written word.

I have no idea what the prompts will entail or if I'll be able to keep up with them as my finals rapidly approach, so I'm just going to see what happens. If you're a blogger, I highly encourage you to join me! I put a Reverb badge in my right sidebar and if you click it, I'll bring you to the website where you can sign up.

Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-26T21:54:00.000-05:00

"Bless our dear ones gathered together on this Thanksgiving, and those no longer with us gathered here in affectionate bonds of memory...

Bless the dear ones who are in distant places and who make us richer just because they care.

Keep us faithful and true and grateful always.

Let us learn not to accept unwonderingly the goodness of life, but to be constant in our expression of Thanksgiving. Amen."

[my great-grandmother Ruth Steinway's Thanksgiving blessing: in her handwriting, with my father's edits]

Here's hoping there will be more.

2010-11-19T18:20:00.003-05:00

After a somewhat stressful week...

holding my first published photograph in hand felt especially gratifying.

Thank you, AmLit.

In which I compare my father to a baked good.

2010-11-17T10:06:00.000-05:00

This is my Papa.

Also known as my dad. But to me, he's always been Papa. I'm aware this is a name usually reserved for grandfathers, but my sister and I started calling him Papa from day 1 and never looked back. I prefer to Papa to Dad anyways, just because of the incredible nickname potential: Popsicle, Paparoni, Popsidoodle... the list goes on. I can't believe I just disclosed that on the internet, but this is a space for sharing. And share I will.

Anyways, my father has a special affinity for the color brown, both in food and in childhood handicrafts. One time when I was little, I asked him what his favorite color was so I could make him a birthday card. His answer? Brown. I made a lot of brown heart-covered cards throughout my childhood.

His favorite cookie is- surprise, surprise- also brown. Have you ever heard of a hermit? Those puffy, spicy, molassesy cookie bars studded with raisins? They're delicious. I should note that my father also holds a special place in his heart for all things chocolate, peanut butter, and chocolatepeanutbutter (also brown foods). His daughter feels the same way as he does about chocolatepeanutbutter, incidentally. I like to joke that my father's genes must have totally obliterated my mother's, seeing as him and I share so many physical characteristics. Our shared tastes in sweets is yet another piece of evidence to support my theory.

But I digress. This post is about hermits and about the remarkable similarities between my father and his favorite cookie. Hermits are sweet but not tooth-achingly sweet. They're a traditional baked good that some might even call old-fashioned. They're not particularly glamorous, but sturdy and reliable. It's hard to mess up a hermit too much.

And you know what? My father is most of those things too.

Hermit Cookies (or Bars)

1/2 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/3 cup molasses
2 eggs
2 cups flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ginger
1/4 tsp cloves
1/4 tsp nutmeg
3/4 cup raisins

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees and grease 2 baking sheets.
2. Beat butter and sugar with an electric mixer until light and fluffy.
3. Beat in molasses, followed by the eggs. Mixture will appear curdled.
4. Whisk flour, baking soda, salt, and spices together in a separate bowl.
5. Beat flour mixture into the wet ingredients. When thoroughly mixed, beat in raisins.
6. Spoon golf-ball sized lumps of dough onto baking sheets, about 2 inches apart.
7. Bake for approximately 13 minutes, or until the centers feel set. Be careful not to overbake or they will be dry.
8. To make bars, refrigerate dough for a couple hours. Shape dough into 2 rectangular logs, each approximately 3-4 inches wide. Bake until set in the centers, let cool, then slice width-wise into 1 inch thick slices.

And so the holiday season begins.

2010-11-11T11:32:00.000-05:00

Turning on the holiday music, putting up the Christmas tree, starting the present-shopping... everyone kicks off their holiday season in a different way.

My holiday season begins with one very quiet sound- pppfftt. The sound of my fingernails digging into the rind on my first orange of the year.

I've equated citrus fruit with Christmas ever since I was a small child. My grandfather used to send us bushel boxes of oranges and grapefruits from Pittman and Davis, and the first arrival of the year was always an eagerly anticipated event.

Sometime in November, usually not long after the first frost, I would arrive home from school to find the telltale pale yellow box sitting on the doorstep. I'd discard my backpack and laboriously wrestle the 45-pound monster inside the house, sliding it down the stairs to the cellar. Sitting on the cold concrete floor, I would pry off the dozens of thick metal staples with a screwdriver and pull off the lid to reveal rows of tissue-wrapped fruits, each one profoundly heavy. I'll never forget that smell... a indescribable mixture of the fruit's sweet flesh and bitter rind that smelled like magic to me. Christmas was on its way.

The days of Grandpa-gifted fruit may be over, but I still carry on the citrus tradition myself. The year's first bag of oranges (clementines, actually) was purchased on Monday with much excitement. I know that no matter how old I grow, that first bite of orange will never fail to get me excited for the merriment to come.

How do you kick off your holiday season (whichever holiday you celebrate)?

On living softly.

2010-11-06T12:40:00.000-04:00

The past week was a lot of things. It was scary, it was frustrating, and and it was painful. But more importantly, it was a practice in living softly.

Most of the time, I think we live in a pretty hard fashion. It's always rush rush rush, go go go, push push push, eat eat eat, pound pound pound. Finish that assignment. Pound out that run. Get to work, to school, to appointments on time. Eat up to fuel all that activity. We go through the motions and accept that it's just the way life is. It's the reality of the modern world, after all. The daily grind. Whatever you want to call it.

And so, easing up on this hardness and living a little more softly isn't something we do willingly: something has to force us into it. Surgery will do the trick, as I have learned. For 7 days, I engaged in zero physical activity. None. Half of those 7 days were spent in outright pain, and half were spent in careful avoidance of reawakening said pain. No running, no walking, no stretching. No rushing, no straining, no pushing. Any and all semblance of hardness went out the window. Walking from the campus parking lot to class upon my return to school was the most movement I had all week.

Throughout this week of soft living, I was amazed at how much more mindful I was. When it takes a (hyperbolic) 5 minutes to get out of bed, you don't really have a choice but to be mindful of every move you make. You place your feet on the floor with intention, shift your weight gently, and navigate a familiar movement so slowly that it feels altogether new. Even eating felt like a strange, unfamiliar action when done with such heightened awareness. I chewed more slowly and quickly became full on small amounts of food.

My interactions with others were slower and more mindful as well. Several of my friends were nice enough to come to visit me while I was laid up in bed. They sat cross-legged on the end of my duvet and we just chatted for awhile. Think- how often do you just sit and talk with friends while doing absolutely nothing else? Most of my interactions with friends are within the context of eating, drinking, walking, or studying. This was a rare opportunity to connect with friends on a very plain, basic level with zero distractions. It was immensely refreshing.

Now that I'm 90% healed, I'm doing my best to hold on to this sense of mindfulness as I slowly ease back into the flow of everyday life. This past week may have been scary, frustrating, and painful, but it sure taught me a lot. We miss out on so much when we live too hard.

Halloweeny

2010-11-01T20:13:00.004-04:00

A few photos from last night and the previous week...

My roommates and I had tons of fun decorating our house, carving pumpkins, and handing out candy on Sunday. Well, they handed out the candy- I spent most of the night parked on the couch. I'm happy to report that recovery is progressing well, however! I'm more and more mobile by the day. Coughing and sneezing still present a special challenge to my compromised abdominal muscles, but I'm getting there.

Hope you ate your weight in fun-size candy!

Then and Now, Part 2.

2010-10-29T10:30:00.001-04:00

I almost wish I hadn't used the title "Then and Now" for my last post because it would be awfully fitting for this one...

Then: Thursday AM: I'm sitting at my dining room table getting some homework done and bomping along to the Newsies soundtrack on Grooveshark (don't judge.)

Now: Friday AM: I have 3 bandages on my stomach, no appendix, and some narcotics in hand.

Things can change pretty fast, eh?

It all started Wednesday morning. I woke up with some intense stomach cramping that I wrote off as normal period cramps (sorry, males). I took some Advil and thought I was okay until the pain came back with a vengeance in the evening. After one very restless night of tossing and turning, I woke up on Thursday morning still feeling a lot of pain in my stomach. I talked to my mom on the phone for a bit and decided I would just wait for it to pass and not take any action. But a couple hours later, my gut reaction (har har) told me I should go to the hospital just in case it was something more serious.

I drove myself (probably not the best idea, but no one else was home) to the hospital and it was quickly determined that it was indeed something more serious than your run-of-the-mill stomach pain. I called one of my friends and he was kind enough to come sit with me for a long time while everything was being figured out.

Fast-forward several hours... after a CT scan and some bloodwork, I was informed that my appendix needed to be removed. In an hour.

Needless to say, I was scared. I was about to have impromptu surgery and my parents were many states away in Massachusetts. Thankfully, I have some wonderful friends who filled in for my family. Two more friends came down to the hospital and all three of them stayed there until I came out of surgery. They held my hands during pre-op and helped calm me down during post-op, because apparently I had a panic attack when the surgeon took me off the anesthesia. The details of it all are hazy in my mind, but I do remember a lot of yelling, crying, and hyperventilating. Not sure exactly why that happened, but I am so, so thankful that my friends were there for me throughout the whole thing. Going through it alone would have been a serious challenge that not even my self-professed independent self could have handled.

Now I'm home, getting a sneak peak of what my life might be like in 70 years. That is to say, moving very, very, very slowly, taking 5 minutes to get out of bed, and ingesting lots of drugs. But the most important thing is that I'm safe and healthy. I'm in good hands with friends and family and everything is going to be okay.

Lastly, thank you SO much to everyone who send me an encouraging or concerned tweet/message in the last 24 hours! It really meant the world to me.

**Edited to add this little PSA**

If you have weird stomach pains, DO NOT hesitate to go to the emergency room! Even if you think they don't fit the standard symptoms for appendicitis, get them checked out just in case. My stomach pains felt like period cramps and were not localized over my appendix- it was my entire lower abdomen. The only reason I was suspicious that they weren't your average cramps is because 1. it wasn't around that time of the month and 2. they weren't lessened by taking a lot of Advil.

Removing an infected appendix is one thing, but having an infected appendix rupture inside of you is a much more messy and dangerous ballgame. You do not want to have to deal with that. Listen to your body!

Then and Now.

2010-10-25T23:21:00.000-04:00

2007:

When I was a freshman in college, I would wake up early on Sunday mornings and ride my bike down to the Dupont Circle farmer's market. (not much has changed in that respect.) Rather than taking the most direct route down Massachusetts Avenue, I took a rather circuitous route, winding my way through Northwest DC's side streets and quiet neighborhoods. Pedaling past the multitudes of cozy, adorable rowhouses, I routinely found myself filled with a sense of longing.

From the moment I moved into my dorm room, I yearned for a real house with a real kitchen. A front porch with Adirondack chairs and a light to turn on at dusk. A back yard with some grass and a couple lawn chairs. A couch for lounging and a dining room table to gather friends around. Nothing too fancy... just comfortable.

Basically, I wanted everything that my dorm room wasn't. I didn't want to live in a single room with no kitchen, and I didn't want to live in concrete high-rise. I didn't want a window whose screen I couldn't remove. I craved space, light, and freedom of movement. I wanted to be able to step outside and wet my toes in the early morning grass and I wanted my own space to cook up meals for myself and for friends. My "old soul" chafed under the inherently limiting nature of living in a 12' x 20' box and just wanted out.

2010:

Three years later, I live in a real house with a real kitchen. I have a front porch with Adirondack chairs and a light to turn on at dusk. Out back, there is a small yard with some lawn chairs. Our front room is dominated by a cushy couch for lounging and a dining room table to gather friends around. It's not fancy... it's just comfortable.

I've been living in this house since late August, but didn't realize how completely my wishes had been fulfilled until a couple weeks ago. I was standing barefoot at the stove one chilly Wednesday night, scooping out spoonfuls of homemade soup into bowls. As I placed one bowl on the table in front of my best friend and one in front of me, it finally hit me. I have exactly what I wanted.

And boy, does it taste so good.

Collard Bean Soup
inspired by America's Test Kitchen

2 tbsp olive oil
3 garlic cloves, minced
3 carrots, diced
1 large onion, diced
5 cups shredded collard greens (or kale)
1/2 tsp oregano
1/2 tsp marjoram
1/2 tsp chili powder
1/2 tsp salt (or to taste, depending on the sodium level of your vegetable stock)
4 cups vegetable stock
3 cups water
1 can of kidney beans, drained and rinsed
2 slices whole wheat bread, toasted
balsamic vinegar, to taste

1. Heat oil in a large stockpot over medium heat. Saute carrots and onion until softened.
2. Add garlic, spices, and salt. Saute for 1 minute or until fragrant.
3. Add collards and saute until bright green.
4. Add broth and water and bring to a boil.
5. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer for about 15 minutes.
6. Transfer several cups of soup (both broth and solids) and the bread slices to a blender. Blend until smooth. Make sure to remove the plastic insert from the blender lid and hold a dishtowel over the hole while blending- this will prevent any heat/pressure-induced soup explosions.
7. Return the contents of blender to the pot and add the beans. Simmer until heated through.
8. Stir in a couple teaspoons of balsamic vinegar to taste.
9. Serve, enjoy, and appreciate your surroundings.

Priorities.

2010-10-20T19:46:00.000-04:00

I'd say that most days, my to-do lists look something like this:

Homework, homework, exercise and... scones.

Yes, scones. Notice how they are listed above everything else. In all caps.

You see, I've developed a bit of a bad habit in my senior year of college- a habit of shirking all responsibilities in favor of cooking and baking. Against my better judgment, I often find myself pulling out the flour and preheating the oven when I really should be cracking a text book. Some people procrastinate by watching TV or reading magazines. I procrastinate by sinking my hands into a bowl full of dough.

Today's distraction of choice was scones. Pumpkin fig scones, to be exact. It was a raw, wet Wednesday and visions of crumbly scones were dancing in my head as I biked home from school through the puddles. Sure, there was a stack of homework to be attacked and a run to be completed before the sun set, but they could wait an hour or two. I needed to attend to something important first.

Pumpkin Fig Scones

Adapted from King Arthur's Harvest Pumpkin Scones
makes 6 scones

3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup white whole wheat flour (could also sub whole wheat pastry flour)
1/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp pumpkin pie spice (could also sub a mixture of ground cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice)
1/4 cup cold butter, cut into small pieces
1/2 cup chopped dried figs
1/3 cup canned pumpkin
1 large egg

1. Whisk together flours, sugar, baking powder, salt, and spice.
2. Cut butter into flour mixture using a pastry cutter, 2 knives, or your fingers until it's unevenly crumbly.
3. Stir in the chopped figs.
4. In another bowl, whisk pumpkin and egg together.
5. Add pumpkin mixture to dry mixture and stir until dough just comes together. You don't want to over-mix or the scones will be tough. Shape into a ball.
6. Line a baking sheet with parchment or just sprinkle with flour if you have no parchment. Turn out the dough ball onto the sheet and pat it into a 6 inch disk. It will be approximately 3/4 to 1 inch thick.
7. Using a serrated knife, slice the disk into 6 wedges and pull each piece slightly apart, retaining circular arrangement. Try to leave about 1/2 inch space between the slices.
8. Stick the whole pan in the freezer for about 30 minutes and preheat the oven to 425 degrees.
9. After 30 minutes in the freezer, bake the scones for 20-22 minutes, or until golden brown and no longer moist inside. It's okay if the scones are now touching after expanding during the baking process- just pull or cut them apart.
10. Transfer to a wire rack, let cool, and resume attending to your regularly scheduled responsibilities.

A note: I found the dough to be rather dry and ended up mixing in approximately 1/4 cup soy milk to add moisture. Use your judgment- you want to end up with a dough that's moist but not super-sticky to the touch. It will really depend on how you measure your flour- I think I was a little heavy-handed.

What We Share

2010-10-13T21:30:00.002-04:00

Last weekend's apple picking excursion inspired me to share this whimsical take on seasonal food with you. (You know, just in case I haven't yet fully beaten you over the head with talk of autumn and seasonality.)

Bear with me, though. Bruce Marshall is a wonderful writer and captures the essence of the matter with simple grace in his piece, entitled "Seasons." I took this (abridged) writing from a book called What We Share, which features the poems and prose of several Unitarian Universalist ministers. The book was given to me at church when I was 15 and has remained one of my favorites ever since.

Seasons, By Bruce Marshall

"The early snow reminds me that the seasons are changing. Apple season is about over. Grapefruit season will soon begin.

Apple season starts with the first hint of autumn on a summer night. A night when you are awakened by winds that sound different from summer storms or summer breezes. These foretell a change and have a hint of coolness in them. That's when apple season begins. It doesn't end until Thanksgiving has passed, when the leaves are gone from the trees, when the calendar turns to December. Then grapefruit season begins (and orange season and cinnamon and clove season).

Ovaltine season overlaps apple and grapefruit season. It starts later than apple season- you can't have warm Ovaltine early in September but you can certainly eat an apple then. Proper Ovaltine season needs a night cold enough for the heat to go on in your house. Then, with the warm/dusty/comforting smell of the furnace's awakening, you reach for the Ovaltine.

Some speak of a summer season for cold Ovaltine. I don't think so. Not when you can cool off with a Brooklyn egg cream (recipe: chocolate syrup, seltzer, and a splash of milk). Cold Ovaltine is like the advice on the back of the oregano jar: "use when preparing peas, eggplant, carrots, beef or lamb stew, pot roast." Nonsense. Oregano is for pizza. Period.

Some seasons are very short. Strawberry Quik, for example. Once every five years. The season lasts about eight minutes and then is gone. The last time it came through, I must have been asleep. It's better that way.

But some seasons never end. Chocolate. Warm bread. Hot coffee. Peanut butter. They're different in each phase but always in season, always in style. Sort of like that wine that used to be advertised as perfect for white meat and red.

Offer chocolate, warm bread, hot coffee, and peanut butter, and you'll never be embarrassed by being out of season."

I'm off to NYC tomorrow for a long weekend of family, friends, and frolicking.

Enjoy the rest of your week

!

When no one is looking.

2010-10-10T22:04:00.000-04:00

While lying in bed on this sunny Sunday morning, I was struck by this thought: true passion is what you do when no one is looking.

Think about it. When a day's work is through at the office (or in the classroom), where does your instinct drive you? Where does your mind go and where do your feet lead?

When you aren't trying to prove a point to the world, when you are seeking no accolade or recognition, when there are no judging eyes upon you, what do you do with yourself?

I come home and unroll my yoga mat on my bedroom floor after a long day of class.

I stay up late writing blog posts in bed and wake early on weekend mornings to go to the farmer's market.

I scribble out recipe ideas on scrap paper while waiting for the metro and write grocery lists in the margins of my chemistry notes.

I spend time in my favorite outdoor places with my favorite people and wonder if I'll ever be able to find a way to return my gratitude for it all.

How about you? What do you do when no one is looking?

Candy Corn Sugar Cookies

2010-10-04T23:26:00.000-04:00

I'm just gonna give it to you straight: I love candy corn.

In all its waxy, corn syrupy, red dye #40 glory.

Is it weird that I take pleasure in chasing a raw kale and apple salad with a handful of candy corn during this time of year?

Really though, candy corn is just one of those nutritionally empty foods I refuse to feel guilty about eating. I think it has something to do with the fact that I just love seasonal things, period. Seasonal clothing, seasonal weather, seasonal decor, seasonal food. And along with apples, winter squash, pumpkin, and hearty greens, I firmly believe that candy corn and orange and black M&Ms fall under the "seasonal fall foods" umbrella. Just like how yellow Peeps are a spring food and green and red foil-wrapped mini Reeses cups are winter items.

Now that we've covered that, you'll better understand my obsession with these cookies.

I first came across this recipe for Candy Corn Sugar Cookies in an issue of Martha Stewart's Everyday Food magazine. Everyday Food was the first cooking magazine I ever subscribed to (way back in middle school) and I loved tearing out pages to tape into my wire-bound recipe book. This recipe grabbed my 14-year old heart and it still makes me smile. What's not to love? It's a simple yet so aesthetically pleasing cookie. Not to mention, the combo of the sweet cookie with the almost tangy candy is divine.

Prepare to eat these by the handful.

Candy Corn Sugar Cookies

from marthastewart.com

4 tablespoons butter, softened

1/2 cup sugar

1 egg yolk

1/4 teaspoon vanilla

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

About 36 candy corns + 10 for your mouth.

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Beat butter and sugar together until fluffy. Beat in egg yolk, vanilla, baking powder, and salt.
2. Stir in flour until incorporated, using hands if necessary.
3. Using a measuring teaspoon, scoop out level teaspoons of dough and roll into balls. Place 2 inches apart on cookie sheets.
4. Bake for 10-12 minutes, making sure to not let them brown. They should remain light in color.
5. Remove from oven and immediately press 1 candy corn into the center of each cookie. Remove from baking sheets after a few minutes and cool on a cooling rack.

On seasons and squash.

2010-09-26T23:11:00.000-04:00

Approximately one year ago, I stood in the kitchen of my Nairobi apartment and hacked apart a squash. It was a desperate, irrational attempt to induce the arrival of autumn, a season that doesn't exist in a country located one degree south of the equator. Regardless, I seemed to have convinced myself that if I cook it, it will come. I would draw autumn out of Kenya's cracked red soil by cooking the season's classic dishes. A sprinkle of cinnamon would magically transform the purple-flowered jacaranda trees into gold and red-leafed maples.

Of course, my plan failed and autumn never showed. It only got hotter and drier as the calendar pages flipped. Kenya has just two seasons, after all: wet and dry. I was fully aware of this fact when I settled on Nairobi as my study abroad destination, but I did not expect to feel so deeply shaken by the lack of seasonal changes. The semester I spent in Kenya was the first time I ever "skipped" one of the four seasons, and I felt as though I was missing a piece of myself.

Where I grew up in southeastern Massachusetts, autumn swoops down swiftly and brings a tidal wave of emotion along with it. Its abrupt truncation of summer always leaves me feeling simultaneously melancholy and hopeful about the changes to come. I'm reluctant to let go of my carefree summer lifestyle every August and embrace the cooler temperatures but look forward to the promising fresh start of a new school year. I am a summer baby, having been born on a sweltering day in mid-July, so letting go of "my" season can be difficult.

I eventually adapted to Nairobi's climactic rhythms, of course, and found something else on which to piggyback my seasonal emotions: the rain. I let out a collective sigh of relief along with the rest of the country when Kenya's driest dry season in recent memory finally ended with one wild, thunderous rain shower.

One year later, I'm still inflicting violent death upon squash in my kitchen and still feeling chagrined about the weather. But this year, my kitchen is in Washington, DC, where the change in season is imminent and guaranteed. Now if only I could learn to cultivate more patience...

Spiced Couscous-Stuffed Winter Squash

1 small winter squash (I used a Carnival squash)
1/2 cup whole wheat couscous
1 small onion, finely chopped
1-2 tbsp olive oil or butter
1/4 cup raisins
1 cup chickpeas
1/2 tsp cumin
1/4 tsp coriander
1/4 tsp cinnamon
Sprinkle of goat cheese

1. Halve the squash from from head to toe (rather than around the belly) and place halves cut-side down in a glass pie pan. Add a 1/2 inch of water.
2. Cook at 350 degrees for approximately 30 minutes OR microwave for 10-15 minutes. Either way, cook until the skin is easily pierced with a knife.
3. Meanwhile, place couscous in a bowl and boil 1/2 cup of water in a teakettle. Pour boiling water over couscous, stir, and leave covered for 5-10 minutes. Uncover couscous and fluff with a fork.
4. Heat oil or butter in a large pan over medium heat.
5. Add chopped onion and saute until translucent and tender.
6. Add spices and saute until they release their scent.
7. Add chickpeas, raisins, and couscous. Cook, stirring, until raisins are plumped and mixture is heated through.
8. Mound mixture into cooked squash halves and top with goat cheese.
9. Serve and try not to get too worked up about unseasonable weather.

A new tool for eating locally

2010-09-23T21:10:00.000-04:00

Are you into locally grown food? Do you shop at the farmer's market and buy directly from your local growers? Do you make an effort to eat only what's in season and try to avoid food shipped from halfway across the globe?

At this point, you're most likely well-versed in the ins and outs of eating locally. You've read all of Michael Pollan's books and maybe you've even tried your hand at a backyard garden. But there is one valuable piece of the "eating local" toolkit that you're probably missing:

A seed catalog. Preferably one offering a range of heirloom, non-genetically modified, and organic seeds like this catalog from the Johnny's Selected Seeds company.

"A seed catalog? but I don't have the space (or desire) to grow anything." That may be so, but I believe that everyone who considers themselves a supporter local food should get themselves a copy of a seed catalog even if they don't ever intend on cultivating their own crop. A seed catalog is exactly what it sounds like- it's where farmers purchase the seeds to grow their crops. Here's why you need your own copy:

1. A seed catalog is a great tool for learning which exactly which crops are in season when. Yes, you can find charts and tables with this info. But seed catalogs provide thorough growing instructions for hundreds of different fruit and vegetable varieties while such a table may only show a handful of the common ones. Thus, a seed catalog can give you a more complete picture of seasonality. Spend some time flipping through one like you would a clothing catalog and you'll soon know exactly what to look for in the grocery store or at the market during certain times of the year.

2. You'll gain a better understanding of why certain crops may be more expensive than others, or why some have very limited availability. Seed catalogs will note in their item descriptions which crops are more difficult to grow or which ones produce a lower yield per plant. It's likely that these varieties will be more expensive at the store or market or may not be available for very long. Why should we care? Because I think that it's one thing to accept that buying local is often more expensive, but it's a whole 'nother thing to understand exactly WHY it's more expensive. And knowledge is power, folks.

3. Seed catalogs open your eyes to tons of new vegetables and new varieties of your longtime favorites. If a particular variety interests you and you don't see it at your local farmer's market, talk to your favorite farmer and see if he/she might consider planting it for next season. Farmers want to plant what people will buy, after all.

4. It's fun! Leafing through pictures of vibrant, juicy fruits and vegetables always gives me tons of recipe inspiration, especially when I feel like I'm in a cooking rut.

I'm partial to the Johnny's catalog because it's where the farm on which I worked this summer buys all of their seeds AND it's employee-owned, which is always nice. I requested a free catalog on their website and it was in my mailbox after a couple weeks.

Here are some other companies:

Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds
P ark Seed Company
Burpee Seeds

Autumnal aspirations

2010-09-21T22:58:00.001-04:00

As exhibited by my last post, I went home to Massachusetts this weekend to celebrate a cousin's wedding. To say I was excited for the trip would be an understatement. I was excited for copious family time and the nuptials themselves, yes, but equally thrilling was the prospect of the weather that awaited me up north.

Here's the thing: mentally, I am currently in full-on autumn mode. Leaves, apples, scarves, sweaters- let's do this thing. I'm ready. However, DC is not. It's clearly having a hard time letting go of summer can't seem to drop the 90 degree, full-humidity days. A trip to southeastern Massachusetts held the delicious promise of cool, crisp air. Faded gold sunsets. Jeans, sweater, and a cup of tea-type weather.

And pumpkin muffins.

I came across a dusty can of pumpkin puree hidden in a cupboard at home and immediately knew that the house was in dire need of a pumpkin baked good. For recipe inspiration, I turned to a trusted and faithful source: mom's old recipe book.

Dog-eared, worn, and spotted with bits of food, this book has been her recipe repository for over 30 years. Interspered between the yellowed newspaper clippings and brittle scotch tape was a handwritten recipe for pumpkin muffins laid out in her neat print.

Rich, spicy, moist, and perfectly domed: they were just right. The orange juice pairs unexpectedly well the pumpkin to brighten up the flavor. Served to cousins and aunts with steaming mugs of tea around the kitchen table, my autumnal aspirations were completely satisfied.

Pumpkin Muffins
Created by Mom, edited by me.

1/2 cup butter
1 cup to 1 1/2 cups sugar, to taste
3 eggs
1 15oz can pumpkin
2/3 cup orange juice
3 1/3 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon cloves
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ginger

1. Cream butter and sugar until fluffy.
2. Beat in eggs, orange juice, and pumpkin.
3. Whisk together remaining ingredients and combine with pumpkin mixture (be careful not to overmix)
4. Pour into greased muffin tins (my batch produced 16 muffins).
4. Bake at 350 degrees for approximately 25-30 minutes.

And the word is love.

2010-09-20T00:43:00.001-04:00

I love love.

I love when people I love get married.

I love when people I love get married on the lakeside deck of a shared family summer home that happens to be next door to my home.

I love when people I love get married on the lakeside deck of a shared family summer home that happens to be next door to my home and invite me (plus all my favorite cousins).

I love when people I love get married on the lakeside deck of a shared family summer home that happens to be next door to my home and invite me (plus all my favorite cousins) and serve grilled cheese.

and clam chowder in teacups

and drinks in mismatched stemware.

and an incredible homemade wedding cake.

I love seeing a unique family tradition live on and can't wait until it's my turn to jump the broom.

Since the late 1800s, every member of our family had jumped over this broom with their new spouse at their wedding and tied on their own embroidered ribbon. A priceless piece of family history that I can't wait to be a part of.

I wish all weekends could be like last weekend: full of love, family, tradition, beauty, laughter, good food, and every other cliche in the book.

Life is good.

Stayed tuned for this pumpkin muffin recipe...!

On appetite and hunger.

2010-09-12T21:23:00.000-04:00

Our bodies are amazing machines. They have the ability to speak volumes to us, provided we bother to listen.

A month and a half ago, my body was talking to me loudly and clearly. I was constantly fatigued and hazy-minded, so I heeded its call and went to the doctor. It's a good thing I did, because one week later I was diagnosed with an acute case of Lyme disease. I was prescribed a two-week course of doxycycline to kill the bacterium and told that it would do the trick.

But it didn't. I finished the little blue pills and enjoyed one week of energy before I felt my body slipping back into weakness. The doctor prescribed two more weeks of doxy, which I am currently taking.

As anyone who has taken doxy knows, the side affects are unpleasant. Nausea. Digestive problems. Most notably, altered appetite. The only foods that appeal to me these days are simple carbohydrates: sugar, bread, fruit. That is, if I'm hungry at all.

"You're so lucky," friends say. "I'd kill to lose my appetite for awhile."

For many women, an appetite is something to be avoided. Something to be suppressed and tricked. A roadblock between them and their ideal body. An inconvenience and a nuisance. But if my experience with doxy has taught me anything, it's that my appetite and hunger cues are something to be valued. They are integral to your body's survival, after all: just as important, if not more important, than the body's ability to feel pain and anticipate danger. They are essential self-preservation mechanisms that you don't appreciate until they are gone. If our bodies didn't tell us, how would we know what they needed when? Nutrition science tells us lots about what our bodies need, yes, but they cannot tell us everything. Every body is different, every lifestyle is different, and thus all of our needs are different.

For the past several weeks, I've experienced how unsettling and uncomfortable it is when the lines of communication between you and and your body break down. I look forward to the day when I once again crave a cold salad and a steaming bowl of pasta marinara.

So this week, I challenge you this: value your hunger. Respect your cravings. Appreciate your appetite.

Dear DC

2010-09-04T21:22:00.000-04:00

It's no secret that I'm not terribly enamored of you. I have spent the majority of the past 3 years within your borders but have yet to really fall in love with you. To your credit, you are up against some pretty stiff competition (see: here and here).

But that's not to say you don't have some redeeming qualities. You manage to pack a lot of neat stuff into 68 square miles. You have mild winters (well, barring last year's Snowpocalypse... we're not going to talk about that) and early springs. You have an amazing range of ethnic food.

I guess what I'm trying to say is... thanks for always being there even when I doubt you. And thanks for providing me with great photography material...

Eastern Market on a Saturday, Southeast DC

hands down, favorite shot of the day.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

2010-08-31T20:21:00.000-04:00

And now, a post inspired by Rachel Wilkerson's "owning it" series...

The ever-witty Rachel Wilkerson thinks she has a 300 lb gay man hiding inside of her. Sometimes I think there is a 1950's housewife within me.

I mean, I love cooking. I love cleaning. I love home-making. I love entertaining. I love decorating. I love nesting. Grocery shopping thrills me and a vase of fresh-cut flowers on the dining room table gives me the warm fuzzies.

my new house for senior year

And the fact that my closet contains a number of dresses like these just underscores the point.

Society says... this isn't normal for a 22 year-old. Society says that I should be up in the club every weekend getting raging drunk in a dress that could be mistaken for a shirt and making questionable life choices. I should relish instability and shun routine. I should itch to ditch my roots and separate myself from my family.

Well, like establishing routine for myself and creating a comfortable space to live in. I love my family and treasure our time together. But I also love to travel and push myself out of comfort zone. Hell, I spent 2 weeks alone in Estonia and lived in Kenya for 4 months. As for the drinking... I like getting drunk. Just in my own house, surrounded by good friends rather than random creeps, while wearing a cute dress that actually covers my butt. So shoot me.

When it comes down to it, I own my eccentricities. My heart is equal parts wanderlust and domesticity and my closet is equal parts gym shorts and retro dresses. Sorry I'm not sorry that I don't fit the college kid mold. I'm going to keep on with my housewifing ways while still enjoying my youthful freedom, goddammit. Ain't no one gonna stop me from tying on my apron and cooking up a feast for all the good friends and family in my life. With fresh flowers on the table to boot.

What do YOU own?

I am not a wonk.

2010-08-24T16:15:00.003-04:00

When I entered my university's quad yesterday for the first time this semester, I quickly noticed people flocking to a giant tent with the word "Wonk" plastered all over it. Wonk?

source

Yes, wonk. Apparently AU has appropriated the term for their new marketing campaign, which boasts about the focused, pre-professional nature of their students and faculty. Staff at the booth were handing out free t-shirts emblazoned with sayings such as "policy wonk," "business wonk," "journalism wonk," and "service wonk" to eager, free stuff-loving students.

You couldn't pay me to wear one of those shirts.

Why? Because I am not a wonk. I dislike what the term implies and dislike even more what it neglects. To me, "wonk" suggests that there is only one way to be passionate about something. In order to fit the wonk profile, your field of choice must be all-consuming: you live it, breathe it, and shout it from the rooftops. You are self-promoting, pre-professional, and a leader in your field. Everyone around you must be aware of your enthusiasm for it.

However, what the AU wonk campaign fails to realize is that passion can manifest itself in more than one way. I am admittedly not self-promoting, not pre-professional, and not a natural leader. But that does not mean I don't have passion. My passion just happens to be quieter, more subtle, and less conducive to being printed on a T-shirt. It doesn't involve networking or microphones. It's often practiced when few people are around, on early weekend mornings and during meal times with friends and family.

I'm talking about food, of course. The shopping, the planning, the growing, the cooking, the photographing, the sharing, (and the eating!) of food: this is what I am passionate about. If you have been reading this blog for any length of time, this should be no surprise to you.

I practice my passion in a myriad of ways. Some are individual endeavors and some require the company of others. The shopping and preparing of food are solo tasks. I prefer to be alone when I commune with fresh, local peaches at the farmer's market and don't like anyone getting in between me and my browned butter at the stove. When searching for the perfect lighting to photograph a mason jar of homemade hibiscus lemonade, it's easier without other people breathing down my neck.

Other manifestations of my passion are inherently social. Falling into a rhythmic pattern of leek-planting alongside my farm co-workers makes my soul sing, as does conjuring smiles out of thin air with a plate of fresh oatmeal cookies. Nights sitting around the dining room table with my roommates and nearly choking on pasta while laughing will undoubtedly become treasured college memories. And when I blog, of course, connecting with like-minded food lovers in this unique and interactive format brings a special kind of satisfaction.

My passion cannot be reduced to a single word printed on a t-shirt. Sometimes it is quiet and sometimes it is loud, but it is always dynamic. Hell, it can't even be limited to one thing. Food is just one example of many.

How about you? How do you manifest your passion?

Guess What?

2010-08-13T11:42:00.000-04:00

What?

I have some updates for you. And now, in no particular order...

First: I have Lyme Disease!

Yep, that lovely little deer tick-borne infection. Working on a farm, it was kind of bound to happen. I mean, I spend all day outside in a deer tick filled area. I'm surprised I didn't get it until now.

ticks be all up in this joint

I had been feeling exhausted and mentally hazy for most of July so I went to get some blood tests done. Despite sleeping 8 hours a night, I was positively dragging through my days and what little exercise I could eke out made me feel even worse. Family and friends were placing their bets on anemia, mono, and Lyme disease, but I had no idea what the diagnosis would be. I just prayed that something would come up positive so I could get some answers. 10 tubes of blood later, we had a winner: Lyme it was.

I never found the tick bite, which typically has a red bullseye rash around it, and I never got the characteristic fevers or body aches. This is probably because I caught mine early, about 2-3 weeks after infection. My mom has had Lyme 3 times, and her first case turned very serious because she didn't catch it for a long time. I'm currently on antibiotics and should be all clear in about a week or so.

Soooo here is my PSA of the day: If you live in New England or the Great Lakes region, spend a lot of time outdoors, and start to feel run down and kinda out of it, get thee to the doctor STAT.

Second: I got rid of Foodbuzz!

If you click over from Google Reader you may notice that some elements seem to be missing from my header and sidebar. That's because I deleted my Foodbuzz ads. I've been thinking about doing this for awhile, to be honest. Basically, I cut my ties with Foodbuzz because I didn't like feeling hemmed in by it. I don't think I really fit that blogging niche anymore and I'd rather this blog be 100% me. Mostly photos. Some writing. Some food. If you haven't noticed, I've been moving towards more photos and fewer words these days. (Those rare days that I actually blog, that is.)

Third: I'm moving into this house in a week!

After 3 months of daily Craigslist stalking, I finally found a place for me and my 3 roommates to live in DC for our last year of school. I know what you're thinking, and I don't know why on earth the owner decided to rent this house to students either. But a lease has been signed and money has exchanged hands so we're just counting our lucky stars. I move in on August 20th.

Lastly, you must make this hummus!

One of my job perks is being able to take home whatever doesn't sell at the farmstand. This means I usually end up with a LOT of fresh basil.

To utilize the basil abundance, I combine two of my favorite foods and make pesto hummus.

First, the fresh pesto. Pesto is hard to mess up. Just throw the following into the food processor and let it whir for awhile:

several handfuls of fresh basil leaves
a handful of pine nuts (or walnuts, way cheaper)
a handful of freshly grated parmesan or pecorino romano
juice of a half a lemon (to brighten the flavor and keep it from turning brown)
sprinkle of salt
a 5-second pour of olive oil
two diced garlic cloves

About that garlic... something that will really take your pesto above and beyond is fresh garlic. When garlic is fresh out of the ground, it's juicy, sweet, and never bitter. It literally oozes juice when you cut into it... a far cry from the dried-out supermarket stuff. I get mine from work but you should be able to find some at your local farmer's market. It's worth a trip.

Now, the hummus part. Scoop about half the pesto out of the food processor and save it for use later. Make some pasta salad or something yummy like that. To the remaining pesto in the processor, add:

1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1/3 cup water
a couple shakes of hot sauce for extra zing

Whir around for awhile and you're golden. Eat with carrots, pita bread, a spoon, or your fingers.

I'm out.

In summer, the song sings itself.

2010-08-01T20:57:00.000-04:00

Today is August 1st...

Which means that my summer will come to a close in exactly 19 days.

Although I'm excited to get back to DC and reunite with friends that I haven't seen in over a year, I'll miss summer dearly. Just as I do every year. Honestly, my summer existence is almost TOO good, and having to tear myself away from it before the proper end of the season is painful. (White Whine, anyone? Yeesh.)

I'm going to miss nights on the farm cooking dinner with my coworkers.

True locavore-ism at its finest.

(And not having to pay for my veggies.)

farm summer squash stuffed with beet-dyed quinoa

I'm going to miss twilight frisbee in the field.

And midnight swims in the pond.

I'm going to miss doing yoga on the front deck.

Summer 2010 has been a full one thus far, and I can't wait to see how much more I can squeeze out of it.

I considered making a list of goals for my remaining time at home, but decided against it. Too rigid. Too binding. Too... un-summery. Instead, I have just one:

1. Get busy living.

How do you get the most out of your summer?

I'm (sometimes) a woman of few words.

2010-07-21T23:09:00.000-04:00

My recent trip to Laramie, Wyoming, in short.

4 days spent visiting 1 good friend.

2 new states crossed off the list.

Numerous breathtaking vistas,

viewed from several mountain summits

under 1 endless sky.

Countless labored breaths and a good pair of hiking boots,

resulting in 12,000 feet reached.

A sprinkle of tongue-in-cheek humor,

And a few cartwheels for good measure,

All together made for 1 wonderful trip.

What I Know Now

2010-07-12T11:22:00.000-04:00

Today is my 22nd birthday. Also known as "the first birthday you're not excited for," according to my sister. Womp womp.

Google images doesn't offer much "22nd birthday" optimism either...

But in all seriousness... I have faith that my 22nd year will be a good one, considering all that I learned during the roller coaster ride that was my 21st year.

I now know that...

I need people. They fuel me, buoy me, enliven me. I may be an introvert at heart, but this does not mean I don't need people.

I don't need a lot of stuff to be happy. Living out of 2 suitcases for 4 months in Kenya taught me that.

Vegetables taste good in smoothies. Spinach, swiss chard, kale, lettuce, whatever. Just throw it in there with a banana and you're golden.

I can find stability in unpredictability, and ease in discomfort. Also a Kenya lesson.

I am proud of who I am and cloth from which I am cut.

We are all works in progress.

I am incredibly lucky. Lucky to love my job, to be in college, to be surrounded by people that love me, to have a roof over my head, and to be alive.

What did you learn in the most recent year of your life?

Like a pig in sh*t.

2010-07-09T15:17:00.002-04:00

I love my job.

I've been extolling the virtues of local and organic food for years, but it feels so good to be practicing what I preach.

I love hunting for squash among the sprawling vines. I love uprooting garlic and and inhaling the rich scent that fills the air. I love clipping rainbow-bright zinnias and arranging them in mason jars. I love watching little kids' eyes get huge when I show them a flying saucer squash. I love coming home so covered in dirt that even the insides of my socks are filthy. I love cooking lunch with coworkers using kale and lettuce that we just harvested. I even love the ridiculous sunburn stripe that I get on my lower back from long days spent harvesting in the fields.

The end.

My beer, my country.

2010-06-30T21:26:00.001-04:00

Disclaimer: This post is about a beer I grew to love while living in Kenya. In retrospect, I realize the post kinda makes me seem like an alcoholic. This could not be further from the truth. While I speak fondly of said beer, drinking was not the biggest highlight of my semester abroad. It was merely tasty punctuation to a truly incredible and eye-opening cross-cultural experience. To drive the point home, let me just say that I drank equal (if not greater) quantities of Kenyan passionfruit juice.

If you were reading BPS last fall when I was in Nairobi, you may remember me discussing East African libations. There a several beers to choose from should you desire a drink in Kenya, but the most popular beer by far is Tusker. Tusker's slogan is bia yangu, nchi yangu (my beer, my country) for a reason... it is THE beer of choice across Kenya. Sipping on 500 mL bottles of the stuff while enjoying a long meal with friends is an integral part of Kenyan culture.

Tusker accompanied me and my friends throughout many adventures in Kenya. We drank it while lounging on balconies at swanky nightclubs. We sipped it while gazing out dusty train windows during an 18-hour journey to Western Kenya. It accompanied goat and ugali feasts eaten under tin roofs in the slums and communal group meals on our apartment porch. We even used it to teach Kenyans how to play beer pong on our dining room table.

Remember when I dyed my hair brown?

I'll forever associate the taste of Tusker with my Nairobi life and I figured it would remain a memory. African beer is a bit hard to come by in the States, after all. Well, today was a special day in the BPS household because after a lot of sleuthing, Tusker has returned!

I hit up several local liquor stores in search of Tusker last week, but my inquiries were met with silence and blank stares. But after perusing the East African Breweries website and making multiple phone calls to Massachusetts beer distributors, I was able to track down a nearby store that sold it. I wasn't sure if it would taste the same after having traveled thousands of miles in a shipping container across the Atlantic, but I'm happy to say that it tasted just as good as I remembered.

Tusker is a reminder of a transformative time in my life. To me, it tastes of adventure and true independence. I'm excited to share it with my family and friends and by effect share with them a little taste of my Nairobi memories.

Tell me about a food or drink with which you associate fond memories. What does it taste of to you?

Down on the farm

2010-06-24T21:17:00.000-04:00

Like many a student, I came home from college last month with a serious need for cash and zero summer job prospects on the horizon.

As you can probably imagine, this was rather anxiety-inducing. I spent the majority of May aimlessly wandering around in the woods with this expression on my face:

Not my best angle.

I've since ditched the constipated look because I got a job!

And an awesome one at that... I work on an organic farm.

I was a regular volunteer at Bay End Farm 2 summers ago and have remained in contact with the Erin and Kofi, the farmers, ever since. BEF offers a CSA program, runs a twice (soon to be thrice) weekly farmstand, and sells produce wholesale to restaurants. They also host some really spectacular farm-to-table dinners, one of which I attended last summer.

I really loved the time I spent working on the farm so I decided to see if they were seeking extra hired help for this summer. Luckily for me, they were!

My primary responsibility is to run the farmstand, but I also do a good amount of harvesting, weeding, and washing veggies. I also do my fair share of keeping their adorable 3 1/2 year old son from falling into sinks full of water and stomping on beds of swiss chard.

Farmstand shots from today

It's basically the job of my dreams: the junction of food and environmentalism, two of my biggest passions. I get to play outside in the dirt AND have long, involved conversations with people about the best ways to cook bok choy and the differences between dinosaur and curly kale. Plus, I get free veggies! Need I say more?

Coming soon- recipes using farm veggies!

What's your favorite summer vegetable? I love me some tomatoes, but the taste of fresh sugar snap peas off the vine is close to heaven.

Brief Lessons

2010-06-20T23:23:00.000-04:00

Some brief foodie lessons recently learned:

Making doughnuts from scratch is a labor-intensive, all-day process.

And deep frying is simultaneously terrifying and revolting. Not to mention, makes the house smell like a greasy spoon diner for a looong time.

Grade B maple syrup is far superior to grade A. And cheaper, too.

Never underestimate the power of breaking into mom's old recipe binder for new cooking inspiration.

And never take for granted the fact that I work on an organic farm and have free access to incredibly fresh, delicious produce. I pinch myself every day.

Had any food-related epiphanies recently? Ruminations? Realizations?

I Could

2010-06-15T19:31:00.000-04:00

I could tell you all about my recent trip to Burlington, Vermont.

I could go on and on about the beautiful inn where my sister and I stayed,

and I could wax poetic about their incredibly delicious cooked-to-order breakfasts.

I could describe how cool it was to peek behind the scenes at two local factories- one producing beer, the other producing chocolate.

And I could tell you that both provide generous free samples of their goods!

I could even tell you about how Burlington could have been my college town, had I gone through with transferring to the University of Vermont in 2008.

I could tell you about how we dined in some really hip restaurants with a lot of character,

and about how great it was to see so many inspired and creative vegetarian options on the menus (and some tasty seafood ones too!)

And of course, I could tell you about the handful of locally brewed beers we enjoyed.

But I think I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

Adventures in jam-making

2010-06-06T21:23:00.000-04:00

This is my grandmother, circa 1940-something:

She passed on her body type (hello, bum) and facial features to me, but not her hair, alas.

Gran passed away when I was only 5 years old, so my memories of her are limited... and mostly food-related. Afternoon tea at her house was a regular event in the summertime and quite the fancy delight for a small child like myself. Even though I wasn't too keen on English Breakfast tea, I loved sitting in chairs too tall for my feet to reach the floor and nibbling butter cookies off of fancy china plates.

Gran was responsible for one of my earliest food memories... the great Ice Cream Feast of 1991. When we all lost power in the aftermath Hurricane Bob in 1991, she was stuck with a freezer full of melting Häagen-Dazs. So she pulled out every single dripping pint, grabbed a handful of spoons, and summoned all the grandchildren to her porch for an ice cream feast. I was three years old and it. was. glorious.

She was also an avid jam-maker. From grape to candy cane (yes, candy cane), Gran made them all. I've been jonesing for a new culinary adventure recently, and jam seemed like the perfect project. I had a hunch that her canning jars and supplies were still lying around somewhere, and I was right. Score!

Aren't they gorgeous? These jars are over 20 years old but their design is so classic. See, it hasn't changed.

I had procured the hardware, but now I needed to decide what kind of jam to make. Well, it being the first week of June in Massachusetts, the answer was easy:

My mom and I drove down to Tony Andrews Farm in East Falmouth today and hand-picked over 25 pounds of strawberries. Um, yea. 25. We went a little crazy.

For our first foray into jam-making, we started slowly: Using a simple recipe, making a small batch, and skipping the boiling water bath process that makes the jars shelf-stable. (This would be refrigerator-storage jam.)

The actual process was pretty easy- chop fruit, combine with sugar, and boil.

And boil.

And boil some more.

When the mixture had sufficiently thickened up, into the jars it went.

And of course, some went into my mouth. Gran would be proud- the jam was sweet, fresh, and perfectly gelatinous. Tomorrow, we'll tackle a different recipe and actually process the jars in boiling water. Until then!

What special memories do you have of your grandparents?

Also, what would YOU do with 25 lbs of strawberries? I don't think I'm going to be able to make jam with all of it...

A Time and a Place

2010-05-28T11:33:00.000-04:00

On Tuesday, I hopped a bus to NYC by myself and spent a couple days in the city. I went to see some family and friends that I hadn't seen in awhile and generally gallivant around the city like the young whippersnapper that I am.

I didn't take a single picture.

Wait, that's a lie. I took exactly one photo. Of the windows behind my uncle's desk because I liked the interesting patterns. (My aunt is an interior designer, so everything in their apartment is interesting.)

During the bus ride home, I was feeling distinctly guilty about my lack of photography. As all bloggers in this genre know, photos are basically essential for producing interesting posts. I certainly planned on taking photos during this trip. I mean, I dragged my DSLR along with me after all. And I did lots of photo-worthy things in lots of photo-worthy places.

I ate at several delicious restaurants and drank tasty drinks with wonderful bloggy friends and family members. I went for a run in Central Park and perused the art at the Frick Collection. (Still can't get over the name.)

Yet I didn't feel moved to whip out the camera.

Why?

Well, because of this post. The Hollaback Health girls pretty much hit the nail on the head this morning. Because I wanted to see the world through both my eyes during my time in New York, to quote a cheesy John Mayer song.

When I was in the 6th grade, my BFF of the moment lived in a house whose walls were practically covered with family photos from floor to ceiling. Everywhere you turned, there was a photo of some family member's smiling face. I had never seen so many photos of the same 5 people in my life. I remember thinking to myself "Whoa. Do these people actually live their lives or do they just document them? (yes, at age 12. What can I say, I thought about the big questions early.)

At age 21, I still feel this way. I do love photography, it's true, but I believe there is a time and a place for it. A time to meticulously arrange the cookies I baked in a well-lit area and snap 20 frames and a time to ditch the camera in favor of devouring the batch in the company of old friends. A time to carefully dispense my self-serve frozen yogurt into a photogenic pattern and a time to make a mess of it because I'm too busy laughing with my younger cousin to pay attention.

They are equally worthy and important, even if one is not as conducive to blogging as the other.

On that note, I hope you have a relaxing and enjoyable Memorial Day weekend, whether you take 1,000 photos or zero.