Hoarding

So I'm in the midst of slowly but surely packing up all my belongings and storing most of them in preparation for my "big change." I am trying to take this as an opportunity to streamline my life a bit, and to get rid of things I have no use for. Honestly? Thus far all I really have done is pack up my books - about 10 boxes' worth - and I got rid of not a single one. Well that's not true, I have decided to part with a 2007 movie guide...because: the internet. But my oh my oh my are there some thorny things I need to deal with as the piles of easily-packed things dwindle. My main issue is that I have a tendency to just carry things from place to place even if I haven't really used them while in any location. For example, in college I still painted on occasion and sent letters and the like, so I have a whole plastic box chock full of acrylic paints, stamps, stationery and crayons, all of which served a purpose back in the day when I actually did such things. But that box has languished, pretty much entirely untouched since I moved to Philadelphia. There is a whole box of stationery with my previous Chicago address in there, a bra that must have fallen into it in some point five or six years ago (because I certainly know I haven't worn or even thought about it in forever times), and if I dug deep enough I'm sure the paints would actually be dried out to the point of ridiculousness. So do I sort through that box and save any of it? Or do I just throw the entirety of it into a garbage bag and pretend it never existed? If the rule is 'have you used it in a year? If not, toss it,' then I should clearly just put it into the garbage. And yet...I do wish I made more things...so throwing away the supplies to do so seems like saying 'you will never do this.' Another way of looking at it is 'if you really want to do it, you'll be motivated enough to get supplies that don't pre-date your going to college.' And what if, one day, I'll want some specific thing because I remember it, and I can't put my hands on it? Maybe I need to make an art out of getting rid of things. That is exactly what I should do.

Then there are the copious boxes and bags and folders from my years actively taking and printing photos. A good amount of my parents' money went into my college senior project. I was quite proud of the results at the time, but the reality is I've been schlepping the foamcore-mounted images around for 10+ years and at this point I'm sure they're all bent and broken...I'm sure because I haven't actually pulled them out of the box in as many years. So why lug them any farther? Except, do you really just throw out art you cared about into the trash? An investment by your parents? I don't feel like there are really many other options. And then I think of my mother's collection of photography, much of which is underneath a bed in Tennessee.

And on top of all the photographs and negatives, I also have stacks and stacks of paper. Thick packets of reading material from college and grad school, which I kept thinking it would be good to have on hand...but that I haven't looked at pretty much since my respective graduation dates. I have a whole file cabinet of paper that I haven't looked at in nearly my entire time in Philadelphia. Just as daunting are the folders I found in a box last weekend, which are chock full of  excerpts of my novel with the notes of fellow MFA students. I do have small intentions of not giving entirely up on that novel, but do I really need notes from seven years ago? Maybe.Maybe not.

It sometimes seems easier to keep carrying around these papers and other stuff instead of sorting through it...just carrying the whole file cabinet to a storage unit could be considered more efficient than actually going through it and having to make decisions. But, of course, that just means that things accumulate. The time it takes to wade through things I clearly don't care about all that much (or even remember that I possess) weighs me down and can lead to precious space in my 5x8 storage unit being dedicated to things I am not even sentimental about...just lazy.

In addition to my college art photos, I also have countless photo books and shoe boxes stuffed with rejected prints and negatives that didn't make it to the books. Opening those boxes is the equivalent of accepting that I will be doing nothing productive for at least thirty minutes, because once you start thumbing through such photos it's quite hard to stop. I really have no intention of getting rid of them, and I don't worry about it...mainly because these days I never get actual prints of photos, so the boxes and books will not exponentially grow at this point in my technological life. I wrote about photographs and frames as monuments a long time ago, and I guess I'm still thinking about them.What is to be done with photos of people you no longer know? As a kid I loved looking at old photo albums of my parents and seeing their younger, thinner selves in apartments I'd never seen and with a cast of friends I'd never met...but now that seems a bit backward. I was excited about  lives they had before I was around, but I didn't stop and think about who any of these mysterious people were or why I never met any of them. If I have kids, how many photographs do they need to see of people with whom I haven't been in touch in so many, many years? And yet, these photographs are at least touchstones. Memory keepers. Something to look back at and say 'oh I was skinny then' or 'ah yes, the good times and interesting things I did when I was much younger.' Proof. Cold, hard, stored-away proof that doesn't need a wireless password or electrical outlet to be accessed. But being childless and not at risk of suffering from dementia for quite some time, one could ask oneself: ' to whom are you in need of proving yourself? And why???' The short answer is probably no one, and for no good reason. But I'll have to think on that one a bit more. 

On the whole I don't think I'm really a hoarder as much as I am slightly lazy and totally paralyzed by organizing. There have been times in my life when I have been unfettered from stuff. The summer of my tent life, for example, saw me basically living out of two suitcases and a car for three months. When I first moved to Chicago all I had was two air mattresses, a handful of dishes and a few Rubbermaid boxes of essentials. I think I lived that life for at least a month or so before I was reunited with belongings I had stored in the Hudson Valley, and I wasn't worse for wear. And yet there is a certain joy in finding things you've forgotten you had. For example, one of the boxes I simplified over this past weekend included a bevy of remnants from an envelope of childhood things my mother sent me during my senior year of college. None of these things are up for debate or the garbage. 

 Sometimes I think my life would be better if this was still a position I strongly held...but alas, not quite the case.

 Oh Alex Castro, whatever happened to you?

Also in that box was a tape container that boasted a variety of mixes I made while still in high school, or that were made for me in high school or early college. I asked Facebook what I should do with those tapes, and the reaction was decidedly mixed. Some said that if I didn't have a device to play them on, they should be discarded. But others, who either made the tapes in question or have a more nostalgic streak for such things, deemed the tapes worthy of keeping. In the end I did get rid of some things...but the tapes went into a smaller box and will live a storage unit life. I'll have to revisit them at some later point in time, but they're safe for now.

 Things have gotten a little more crowded since this photo - this is only books really.

Jobs I Never Had and the Cats I Killed, Part II

So I'm continuing to work on this series of I don't know what you'd call them. The first installment having been posted in May.


This time it wasn't a cat. It was a turtle. And this turtle's death was not a matter of passive acceptance or inaction, which was the case with Smackers. No, this was a case of not even having an inkling of having fucked up until it was far too late to fix it. And the thing that was lost - in addition to the turtle's life - was perhaps some other kind of life circumstance that I imagined would lead to a certain kind of professional future. Of course "professional future" may be too much of a phrase for the way I thought about my life's trajectory when I was 19. At the time I was working on improving my photographic skills with the help of the head of the photography department, Professor S., during intense one-on-one tutorials. We met - I think - once a week, and through our meetings I did actually learn a few things I should have known far earlier. I began doing a better job of getting good negatives, and Professor S. was a little less focused on ideas than my previous mentor, which allowed me not to overthink things as much. This is saying something because whether in an art context or not, if I am one thing I am an overthinker (except when I resolutely refuse to think at all). In any case, at some point during this tutorial Professor S. asked me if I would be available to housesit while he and his family went farther north - to what I"m sure was a really wonderful second home in the wilderness of Vermont. I was quite enthusiastic about the opportunity to spend a few days in a grown up's house, as I was currently living in a ranch house with three other people where we all had a pretty desultory relationship to keeping common areas clean.

Professor S. and his family lived in a spacious older home a bit out of the center of Tivoli, which in itself is not a particularly bumpin' place, so living even four blocks outside the center (which is one intersection) is already pretty rural. It was a nice brick house. Old, but modernized and well appointed. Professor S. was and is a renowned photographer in many circles, and between his art, family money of some kind, and his professorship, they clearly had the funds to make the house comfortable and updated. Steam shower. A front sitting room, not overly large, stacked from floor to ceiling with shelves of art and photography books. A wonderful kitchen and center island. I was especially smitten with the screened in back porch with comfortable furniture and a view of a field that stretched as far as the eye could see to the east. There was also a small barn in the back. I'd say really it was more like a large shed. Barn would connote a larger structure. That said, the structure was large enough to house two goats and a gaggle of chickens. Maybe 8 chickens? Maybe more.

I was given the assignment to feed and take care of the chickens, two or three cats, the goats and a turtle by Mrs S. There were many rumors about Professor S.'s wife. Most of them not terribly flattering to her. Who knows what is true and untrue about it, but she certainly had the reputation for not being an especially warm  person. From my interactions with her, which were few, I'd certainly say that she was brisk and no-nonsense, and that there wasn't much of a hint of an underlying sweetness waiting to come out. Of course, the second set of our interactions are such that that lack of sweetness is wholly understandable. In any case, I felt very much that this job was a sign that Professor S. found me trustworthy. I was also excited because the insinuation was that if I did well on this test weekend, there would be a good chance that I could potentially be a more permanent housesitter for them during the summer, when they would spend more time at whatever retreat they needed from a house I was already very much considering the perfect retreat for me. Even then I was really into chickens and their aesthetic beauty and the novelty and wonder of being able to enjoy an extremely fresh egg pretty much at will. I loved that I got to cut a cantaloupe up each morning and give it to the chickens as a breakfast treat. I also have never forgotten that one of the notes about feeding the cats was that every once and a while Professor S. liked to give them a can of tuna instead of typical cat food. I don't know if this was actually Professor S.'s little kindness or his wife's. I'm not sure how I knew it at all. But to this day whenever I"m too lazy to go buy my cat more dry food I make sure I have tuna in the pantry and think of it as a really special day for Zul (the cat).

Well. Things went slightly awry. Though I only realized they went awry after the fact. After enjoying peaceful days and evenings predominantly hanging on their back porch I came back from somewhere to find Mrs. S. back at the house a day earlier than planned. I had used all their milk and intended on replacing it before they got back and now felt as if I had somehow failed and would be judged for this oversight. But, of course, the use of their milk was not the failure I should have been concerned with. No. What I should have worried over was the fact that the turtle had not moved. During her tour of the house and instructions Mrs S. had said specifically that the turtle was in hibernation mode so all I needed to do was keep the heat lamp on it and spritz its back with water once a day, but that it wouldn't be walking around or being active. So, that's what I did and thought nothing of it. Alas. The first words Mrs S. said to me after a very terse hello were basically 'how did you not notice the turtle didn't move and the heat was off?' She was none too pleased. In my defense, it had been an unseasonably warm autumn weekend and I had been glorying in simply being able to sit outside without a coat and had not found the house to be too cold at any point in time. And she has specifically said that the turtle wasn't going to be traipsing all over the place, so I didn't realize that I should have been concerned. Unfortunately, the oversight of not knowing that the heat wasn't on led directly to the turtle's poor health. I left that house unsure whether the turtle was going to make it or not, and meeting with Professor S. for our next session was certainly awkward. I reached out to his wife separately, explaining that I simply hadn't been cold and truly hoped the turtle was okay. I never heard back from her but Professor S. let me know that the turtle didn't make it.



My lack of a photography career is not based on this failure of heat awareness- that can be chalked up to my lack of talent and self-confidence- but it is a definite opportunity that presented itself before exploding into a million pieces. Had I been deemed trustworthy enough to become a more substantial sitter of the S. animal menagerie, I would know more about chickens and goats than I do now. I would have had perhaps a slightly more familiar or strong connection to a mentor who had some definite ties to a community of artists and taste makers that would have been good to know when I was younger and still ambitious about my art. I can't say that Professor S. treated me differently after the incident, and for that I am grateful. But if I had won the favor of his wife and the access to that gorgeous house and flock of chicks, who knows what might have happened. Perhaps Professor S. would have introduced me to an artist in need of an assistant and instead of working at a sheep farm for two years post-college, I would have moved to NYC and lived a completely different existence, the ramifications of which I cannot even begin to cover. What is done is done, but I do sometimes wonder about that alternate ending. The one where either the heat turned on and the turtle never got sick. Or the one where the heat was off and I noticed, proactively called the heater people and saved the turtle from an early death. And, in the latter case, I was rewarded for my initiative and quick thinking with a standing housesitting gig and introductions to famous artists and musicians and a solid entry level gig in the creative class. A girl can dream.

Later on I continued to look to Professor S. as a mentor and asked him to be my senior project advisor. At one point I was flirting with a new photo project idea, one where I would take over the homes or living spaces of others to see how being surrounded by their things and approach to domestic life would influence my own behavior. The idea was that I would take photographs of myself in these different environments, and how the belongings and layout of different places would change my own actions. An exercise fanatic's house would find me suddenly on a treadmill, a non-television person's house would find me reading more books, a  fancy kitchen pantry would allow me to start putting obscure herbs in my scrambled eggs, etc.  Professor S. seemed to find the idea not entirely unpromising, and asked me how I would find houses to use in this series. I suggested that I would send out an email to my nearest and dearest requesting help in that regard. That I would say I would be a free house or pet sitter in exchange for permission to immerse myself in their homes. Professor S. paused, looked up to me, nodded as if to say that it was a sensible approach before - with a little smirk - noting that I should probably not list him as a reference.

Mac n' Cheese Night, Slightly Adult

In an era before this blog existed, I lived in Red Hook, New York. Not the Brooklyn Red Hook but the country Red Hook. I lived there for about two years after I graduated from college because my boyfriend at the time still had some schooling to finish up and I loved him and wanted to stick around. I also had no idea what to do with my life, so living in the country and working at a sheep farm seemed like a pretty good plan. Of course, many of my closest friends went on to greater things after graduation. Is that true? Not really. Sort of. A lot of people actually stuck around - K., C., P., and A.&R. among them. In any case, I soon found that while I lived close to campus, I didn't really want to spend time there...but I did still want to have friends and drink with them. So I created what became a pretty regular event for at least a year: Adult Macaroni and Cheese Night. No, this wasn't a night with penis-shaped pasta or porn. My thought was that it was 'adult' because I used at least four or five different kind of fancy cheeses in this mac n' cheese (sometimes bacon), and there would always be booze. This event also solidified some acquaintances into deeper friendships. K., for example, is someone I had always known, but didn't really totally befriend til he started being a regular. E. often arrived early and helped me grate the cheese while we watched rerun episodes of Buffy on my pirated cable. At its prime I think I had about 6-10 people showing up to my house on Mondays. We always made our way through two Dutch ovens of the pasta (I soon began making one of mac n cheese and one of baked ziti) and at least one bottle of Smirnoff vodka. Often enough someone would bring beer to boot. It was a lot of fun, those times. Maybe a little too saturated in fat and alcohol...but we were young. In any case, once I left that location and time in my life, I didn't really continue making what at least one person has called 'the best macaroni and cheese of my life.' It fell by the wayside in grad school, where instead wine nights usually featured copious amounts of cheese and other types of snacks. All to say that a few years back I did make the dish for C. and J. And when it was decided that my father and I would join them for Christmas this year, young J. (who recently got into her top college choice!) requested that for one of our meals I create the dish that I had made once before for them 'lo so many years ago. And that I did do on Friday night.
Paired with a helping of broccoli to make us all feel better (Dad had arrived in the later afternoon).
I'd say I hadn't completely lost my touch, and it certainly made me think about those early aughts in Red Hook and the many folks whom I hung out with then, and still hang out with now...and those I don't. The whole bunch of them were in my mind. This was, of course, a much more subdued mac n' cheese occasion, but we were certainly all adults. In addition to her college success, J. also turned 18 the day before. It's weird that I remember her being born and being a wee one and now she's, like, a fully formed person.

Recycling in Two Forms

On Sunday L., Fat T. and I got into their car and drove to a big parking lot where they could then donate some clothing. So wholesome.

I was trying to get a photograph of me with the trash in the background, but I think my hat messed that up. It's not actually trash. It's scrap metal. And a lot of it.
I guess I was kind of fascinated by how close this pile of scrap was to the city. Somehow I always think that the piles of refuse created by urban centers are all trucked far out of town...but that probably wouldn't make much economic sense. And this was a private pile. I saw a guy in a yarmulke loading off metal from a truck and because of that I think it's a Jewish scrap metal pile. Which really has no bearing on anything whatsoever. Just that I don't think I've ever seen a dude in a yarmulke laboring so intensely.

Distracting Myself With the Inconsequential

So I have to testify in court tomorrow. Or maybe I do. It's up in the air. But in order to not over think it, and to save all the drama for one gargantuan poorly written post. I thought it would be interesting to compare the list Shmitten Kitten recently posted about what she's looking for in a man, to the post I came up with 'lo nearly two years ago. I'm stealing her graphic and then you can go to my link if you care enough to bother.
My list hasn't really changed, and air conditioning wouldn't make the cut. I thought I had more to say on this topic.

Renovating My Brain

Last year, around the time I flew out to Seattle, I was feeling like I was at some sort of tipping point in my life, and I decided that I was going to start doing things differently. I was going to start saying 'yes' to things I would usually disregard. I was going to pursue latent interests. I was going to make my life more 'full.' By the time I got back to my apartment after that week in Seattle, I knew that my life was taking an unexpected turn. It's funny, sort of, that on my flight back from Seattle - with no reason to think anything was awry - I had a sudden desire, over some large snow-capped mountain range in the west, for the plane to crash; for all the questions of my life, all the possible futures - whether good or bad - to suddenly cease, but not of my own volition. It wasn't that I wanted to kill myself, it was that I wanted to be killed. That was March 31st. By April 1st I knew that my mother had leukemia. When I try to structure a narrative to my life, I give myself second sight when it comes to this set of feelings. It was that I felt that I was going to experience a significant loss and that I would rather disappear myself than go through it. On November 4th she died. That really is a spectacularly short amount of time when you think about it.

The point is that I was telling L. about that sense of commitment to change I felt. My life has changed in a few key ways this year, but none of them were a result of any commitment on my part. I have certainly made choices over the last seven months, and they certainly changed my life; but none of those choices were made in pursuit of any of my initial goals. These initial goals weren't even big! They were about dating more. They were about knitting and cheese and Scrabble and summer trips to Canada. Small ways I could make my life bigger and more dynamic. Small ways that I could make myself happier. Since I learned of my mother's illness I haven't stopped pursuing these goals; to say that the urges for change ceased would be a lie. While I was in Nashville during my mother's month-long hospital stay I went on dates and got laid. Well, not often. Only a few dates in total. Laid only in one instance, but satisfyingly so. I also was determined to enjoy my summer, after my mother was given a temporary reprieve from imminent death. At one point we were told that she only had 1-3 months to live and then things got more hopeful, so that seemed like it was no longer the case. Thing of it is we should have still been thinking that way. I spent my summer determined to have a good time; to enjoy the experiences available to me and have no regrets. But I didn't spend my summer with my mother and that is definitely what I should have done.

The last time my mother was in the hospital, she really shouldn't have gotten so weak that she ended up dying. Science is science and things can be explained, but basically my mother died because she went into the hospital with pneumonia and just as it was actually getting better, she suddenly had too little sodium in her body. I arrived on a Sunday and my mother was my mother; she was herself. Tired, yes. But totally 'with it' and capable of calling me on my bullshit or telling me about a nurse's engagement. By Wednesday she was trying admirably to pretend that she had any idea about what year it was or who most anyone, including myself, was. This was a sodium thing that, from the faces of a few doctors or nurses, should have been avoided relatively easily in the first place, and was also extremely bad for the patient. Though it was reversed, and my mother released from the hospital after nearly two weeks (maybe more?), the effects of that additional wrong turn in her health were insurmountable. While hospice care was held off during her discharge, it was clearly on the horizon. My mother's expressed feelings in this respect were good: she wouldn't die without a fight, but if the fight was all in the hospital, fuck it and let her go home.

Among the last written statements my mother ever made to me were "have no regrets," and "stop smoking." It's strange that I don't struggle too terribly with the regrets question, but I continue to smoke. I could have been in Tennessee the last week of my mother's life. I could have seen her get weaker and more confused. And perhaps my presence would have staved off this natural progression because my mother loved me and wouldn't want me to see her in such a compromised state. But that's the thing about dying - those who love you will see some part of it. I left and the worst fell to my father.

Since my mother's death I have continued to live a life. A life still adjusting to the lack of her life. I am a practical girl in a number of ways. When it comes to my mother's death, I write what I feel, hope relevant people read it, and continue on. I cry when I drive. Or when I make a bed. I cry. But I don't cry on anyone's shoulder on the whole. I grin. I bear it. I accept life as it comes at me.

So I was telling L. about this loss of connection with my more go-to-it-and-change-your-life self and she sent me this graphic made by someone connected with her own work place....
I have made this my desktop, changing it from a combined image I made of my mother and her brother, on separate occasions, giving the camera a middle finger. In each instance the impetus was giving cancer the finger. Unfortunately, as much as cancer could be fucked in someone else's case, cancer won our own family's finger competition.

I actually have more to say about the graphic, because I don't actually agree to all of its directives. But perhaps part of my recommitted effort to saying yes and changing my perspective is actually finding a dream or passion to live or wear. Those who know me in real life know that the chances of my being able to rein in my self-analysis will probably be futile, but perhaps the attempt will be worth it.

Dinner c/o H. and C.

That day was also my last in Tennessee. We went down to H. and C.'s for dinner, which also included E.H. Rotisserie chicken and brussels sprouts, and nice wine.

It was good. On my way down the mountain I turned my cell phone on and got a text from L. concerning her sudden lack of housing. Something about this happening to her so soon after something bad happened to me made me convinced that this is the storm before the calm. If that makes any sense. Only so many things can go terribly wrong before you get some sort of prize for living through it...right? RIGHT? Ha. Just joking. I know that's not how life usually works, but you can't help but hope a little.
The weather has turned cold for real up this way. Winter was inevitable, but that doesn't mean I like it. Yesterday I thought about going out to buy one thing or another thing. Or to just go on a walk. Instead I did the opposite and barely left my bed while watching Disney's the Princess and the Frog and many, many episodes of Lie to Me. So now here I am this very morning. Trying to pump myself up and out of the house. I am trying to motivate myself with promises of an eclair or fruit tart along with a cappucino or something at the end of the first leg of my walk. But since I'm drinking a great cup of tea at the moment and have yet to put on real pants, I fear that my ability to motivate myself into action may be compromised by the comfort of my bed and the warmth of my computer's glow.

Dead Bird

So our house in Sewanee has these great big windows. They're really great for us, but can be a hazard to birds. Mom got out of the hospital last Monday and we took her home and during one of my ambles around the outside of the house I found this poor fellow, a victim of our view. Mom said she thought it was a wren, but I only showed it to her on the tiny camera screen so she may have been mistaken.
Nothing is really very funny about my mother's current state of health, not that someone would think there was but I tend to try to find the humor in any given situation. I'm not sure that I really want to write about it online mainly because she and my father do check into the blog from time to time and I'm not sure that I have expressed my thoughts to them all that well, so to do so here seems a bit odd. That said, I will continue. Right now I am in Abingdon, Virginia on my way up to D.C. for the John Stewart/Steve Colbert rally and then a quick week of work in Philly before returning back south. It's strange to be away from them both, and I feel guilty for leaving the burden of my mother's care to my father while I gallivant at a comedy rally. There's a but in there somewhere, but I don't really feel like expressing it. So what am I trying to say? It's scary to have a parent diminish physically and know there's nothing you can really do about it but bear witness. There is the hope that she can regain some of her strength, but even so, it's not something I would recommend. I spoke to a friend a few weeks back when my mother was still in the hospital, and I strongly suggested that the friend avoid the experience, which is, I know, preposterous. One cannot avoid their parents growing older or falling ill, but man it stinks. Those are my thoughts. Probably inappropriate to be paired with images of a dead bird. But that's what was up on the photo queue and that's what I'm thinking whilst in Abingdon.

Tuna Salad and Deviled Eggs c/o Bricktop's

Another night my father went over to have a drink and dinner with some Sewanee folk and I was left to my own devices. I chose to return to Bricktops and try their tuna salad while watching a Phillies playoff game; I think they ended up winning that game. The salad was decent, though I think a little less soy-y sauce on the tuna would have been more to my liking.
I sat at the bar and a couple sat down next to me and struck up a conversation. They asked if I was a photographer, I said no but that I did have a blog. Then the wife gave me a list of places in Nashville she felt were especially worth trying (Cafe Nonna among them) and then, as I often do, I asked them how they met, and they told me the short and long version. The longer version was more interesting and involved a break up over Christmas and her father telling her to, well, play hard to get. Now they're married happily and have twins, all because of a little subterfuge. Maybe this is my fatal flaw: I either say too much or nothing at all, but I never say the opposite of what I mean. Or maybe I do. Actually, yeah, sometimes I do. Sigh. It's so hard to be me.
I also tried a half order of their deviled eggs, which weren't quite as interesting as I might have hoped.
I mean, really. The father told his daughter not to return the guy's phone calls, to start dating other people, to be unavailable even when she wasn't...basically it seems like he was encouraging her to utilize 'the rules.' My mother has told me, throughout time, that I could benefit from being a little less straightforward or honest when it comes to dating, but it just seems crazy to go about dating in this fashion. Or not. I'm not sure what my point is here.

Sidetrack to Penn Alps

When I was a kid, my mother and I would drive from our home outside of D.C. to my grandparents' house outside of Columbus. Well, I wouldn't drive; I was a kid. Often we would stop for lunch at Penn Alps. I remember enjoying their mashed potatoes and gravy, and how pretty the area was. There was something magic about it. It's not like I have any crystal clear, completely re-livable memory of the place or experience. And I have no idea if we only went twice or if we stopped there with more frequency over the years. But I've long been wanting to make a trip out there, to see if I could recapture whatever sensation or pleasure I associate with the place. Things in the current land of cc are decidedly less than ideal. Last week my parents let me know that my mother was back in the hospital, so I got myself together to drive on down to Nashville to be with my parents. I figured I would break my trip in Ohio, and that a slight detour to Penn Alps wouldn't kill me. So. That's what I did. The place is pretty much the same, though the entrance/lobby area is decidedly more corporate/gift shoppy than I remember it. They had a buffet, and while I really just wanted their mashed potatoes, I figured I might as well opt for it. I made myself one plate of mashed potatoes, turkey and green beans (with liberal amounts of gravy).
It was all quite good. I felt like I was having my own mini Thanksgiving, minus giving any thanks or pumpkin pie for dessert. I also tried their sausage and sauerkraut (eh, not for me) and their fried chicken (eh, grease is good).
I took a look in their craft store but didn't see anything much that appealed to me...except these really beautiful quilts. And I bought a ridiculously oversized bottle of sarsparilla. Because that is how I roll.

This little collection of old log cabins and houses, which are mainly used by local artisans, was another clear memory. I feel like Mom would go inside and actually look at the stuff, I probably wandered around.
I went into one potter's building in search of a potential tea cup replacement, but nothing caught my eye as much as the beautiful sun, trees, foliage and overall day. It was a really beautiful day to be in the country.



I'm also not entirely sure that I remembered this huge stone bridge. I mean, we must have walked across it or gone over to see it, and it wasn't like I was surprised by it but it wasn't like I wandered in its direction knowing that it was going to be there either.


I also noted that there's a nearby campground/cabin business right along the river. They declare that there's great fly fishing to be had. I'm not sure I have the patience or coordination for fly fishing, but I kind of wish I did.

This spider had a red dot on its back and came out of nowhere while I was trying to take a photograph of the wall and sky. Freaked me out.



So that's that. I think visiting places that you found magical as a kid can be a bit of a let down, because whatever else has happened in your life makes it difficult to have that same exact sensation again. Especially if you're not even sure what that sensation was in the first place. That said, it was still a beautiful little place to stop and stretch my legs after the first four or so hours of my drive.

Loves

I've found myself noticing things I love, or hate, a lot lately. And every time something comes to mind I promise myself that I'm going to start a list of these things to see what the shape of my small passions might be. So I'm going to put a few down right now because I've thought to do it.

Hearing frogs peeping in the ditches by the side of country roads on spring/summer nights.
Not knowing the names of birds.
Children sitting in my lap of their own volition.
Searching for turtles in the woods, and knowing that I won't find one (but that it is probably only three feet away from me). I love and hate this.
Fancy French meals with lots of wine.
Shirley Temples.

It's funny, when I was in Seattle T. or C. said something about my liking the outdoors. I never really think of myself as outdoorsy. You're not going to see me really roughing it when it comes to camping. I'm not a great fan of hiking ... actually, I think I could be a fan of hiking, I just get terrified that I won't last and that I'll be five miles into a hike and unable to make the return trip/disappoint those I am with by my pace. I no longer remember what poison ivy looks like. And yet so many of the things I love are experiences, objects or animals one should only find outside the comforts of their home. If I had it my way, I would sit outside and do my office work every day. And each day, I would be thankful for the birds flying overhead and red-tailed skinks rustling in the undergrowth (I swear I will get photographic proof of this at some point).

A porch. A stream. Some trees. Some plants. That's what I want. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Unconnected

On two, extremely different, notes.

Last night this was my Facebook status:
"Raise your hand if you just saw a pants-less man (in all his balls and penis glory) in the back of your hotel's well-lit, well-traveled parking lot! (I AM RAISING MY HAND)."

And, completely unrelated, today marks the 12th year since Carter Waghorne, a friend from high school, died. I haven't had the same kind of time to reflect on what this means as I have had in years past, and maybe it's not necessary to try to glean any new meaning out of the tragedy. But I still note this day and remember those with whom I grieved, and I hope that no one is offended that I'm remembering Carter's death right after mentioning a pants-less man.

Salmon, Skewers and Souffle

Wednesday evening at M&A's concluded with drinks and appetizers and barbeque and fun with their friend A. (though it could have been J.; I enjoyed his company but his name escapes me at this moment), and C. and T. (who will soon be referred to as C&T when appropriate). M&A are quite good at the whole tasty dinner making thing. They took out the remnants of the truffle cheeses and then added salmon into the mix for hors d'oeuvres. I then took it a step further and combined truffle cheese with salmon, maybe not a necessary pairing, but not bad.
There was talk of marinating chicken, so I took that on while A. marinated the beef and prepared the veggies. My marinade was mainly soy sauce, honey and garlic, but there were some other notes, like a good splash of white wine. Boo yeah. A. did a fantastic job with the grilling. Top notch.
Asparagus and eggplant.
And then M. cut up a few heirloom tomatoes and dished up a tasty sauce-type thing on top, a mix of feta, creme fraiche, mayonnaise and, I'm sure, a generous hand of general awesomeness.
After dinner, in the backyard on what was a very nice night, temperature-wise, and a great night when you added these folks we took a few obligatory (but I must have them) photographs. At first C. and I independently thought the last time we saw each other was at their wedding. We were both mistaken, as we saw each other the following summer and B. and L.'s wedding. It's weird that a year can sometimes feel like two, and at other times feel like a mere second behind you.
Pandora the dog, Panda for short, was doing quite well for herself and her stuffed Jay.
For dessert M. made a hazelnut souffle. Girl knows how to make a souffle. No lie. This was some good stuff. Moist and eggy, but sweet and hazelnutty and light; all at the same time I tell you. Also? And maybe she only does this when I'm around...but I don't think so...M. routinely whisks, by hand, her own whipped cream. I mean, I use a hand mixer, I'm not a Cool-Whip person, but hand whisking! My god.
I was a little nervous about mixing my two friend groups together. When I was younger I constantly wanted my different friends to hit it off, to melt together into an even larger group of friends, or something. But, as I have gotten older, I sometimes feel glad for the separation between my friends. I can't explain why, I just do. I own it. The point is that I do often feel a little trepidation when I consider introducing dear friends to one another. The other point is that this was crazy of me because I like good, interesting people who may not become bffs (which is probably for the best because I would get jealous) but can certainly appreciate one another. It was a great night, full of good friends, wonderful food and warm weather, and that's really all I want most all of the time.

Hats

So, from time to time, I write a little something about my experience with boys. Or, often enough, my lack of experience with boys as of late. I've already outlined my confusion over mixed signals, made a few sample 'would I date you' questions, and gone into more detail about the kind of guy I'm hoping to find, but I feel there is more to touch upon. Or, rather, right now I'm wondering about the concept of deal breakers. Let's say I'm on an internet dating site, and a dude has contacted me and clearly demonstrated that he has read my profile closely and suggests a flurry of activities that reflect my, and his, interests. Let's say he calls me awesome. This is positive. Aren't you supposed to have at least a few things in common with a person you might kiss on the mouth? But then, let's say, you go to his profile and what? You see he has a rather large and unapologetic love of one particular hat. He is that guy who is always wearing a hat, but doesn't seem to be bald. And I'm not talking baseball cap, I'm talking old school step up from a fedora hat, which can be cool if you pick the right occasion to rock that style...but to insist on always rocking that style, well, what is that about? It reminds me of a group of kids from my high school, all very smart, all very nice on the whole, and yet they had this thing with hats that pushed them from the cool/quirky zone into the weird/quirky zone. And this is coming from someone who knows she isn't some strange bastion of normalcy.

Can this be, as Liz Lemon would say, a deal breaker? Or is this the sort of thing you ignore because it's petty. The sort of thing you put aside because it's superficial to care. I mean, I would hate for a guy not to give me a chance because I'm always wearing my...oh wait, I don't really have any prop clothing. That's what it is! Prop clothing! It's more than simply wearing a shirt that makes your boobs look good, or hides your love handles. It's a distraction. It's a 'hey look at me with my hat,' which makes me wonder what the distraction is from. Does he have terrible teeth?

How is it that someone can share so many interests and still make you unsure that you'd like to pursue meeting them? Is it me? I am consistently telling some of my single lady friends to give people chances, not to write them off too quickly, and yet here I am: having serious misgivings about interacting with someone who likes what I like...and seems open to the concept of liking me!

Orchids, Dog and Soup

On Sunday I spent a good part of my day wandering around the house taking pictures of things. I also was working on a soup for the return of Mr. Ass and his parents. On Saturday I turned the left over chickens into stock, which on Sunday I worked into a pretty good soup.
This is Pipo. I will admit that I have some longstanding issues with the Jack Russell breed. Or I thought I did. But these issues were entirely tempered by Pipo and Yma. This, in spite of the fact that the whole family had prepared me for some epic growling and dog fights based on everything from a mail man to positioning in the bed. I was certainly conscious of these possible triggers and did a was generally vigilant in my avoidance of them, but, still, I liked these two.


Here is the soup. It had the fresh stock as its base. I added a few cloves of garlic, chopped cilantro, salt, carrots and noodles. And maybe, like, four other things. Oh yes, the juice of one lemon. Simmered it for a long time then added the chicken. I really do love making chicken soup. Maybe because it seems like you can never go wrong. As long as you have a good base and moist, fresh meat, you can add anything to it and the chances of it turning out well, assuming you have good common taste sense, must be well in the 90th percentile. Mr. Ass and his father both, independently of one another, commented on how this would be a great soup if they had a cold. I would like to make chicken soup from scratch for someone with a cold. It would be cooking with a purpose. I think I like cooking best when it takes all day and it is the only thing I have to do.