Showing posts with label friends that are family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends that are family. Show all posts
November 3, 2012
August 19, 2012
July 17, 2012
March 20, 2011
January 6, 2011
speaking of stars
Long after dinner was done and the coals in the kettle barbeque gone nearly cold, we stoked them back up again and toasted American marshmallows over the low flames on fondue forks scavenged resourcefully from a kitchen drawer.
Hovering too close for comfort over glowing briquettes, fingers and tongues both burnt willingly on molten globs of sugar. The scrape of the spade across the grate, making golden splinters of light fly in every direction. The unique, peculiar sound of a marshmallow, burning. (Have you ever sat and listened to a marshmallow, burning? It's fantastic.)
Overhead a million million stars glittered in the night sky, like a massive firework whose sparks have never stopped falling toward us. And I thought to myself: I am happy. In this moment, I am as near to happy as I have ever been.
Hovering too close for comfort over glowing briquettes, fingers and tongues both burnt willingly on molten globs of sugar. The scrape of the spade across the grate, making golden splinters of light fly in every direction. The unique, peculiar sound of a marshmallow, burning. (Have you ever sat and listened to a marshmallow, burning? It's fantastic.)
Overhead a million million stars glittered in the night sky, like a massive firework whose sparks have never stopped falling toward us. And I thought to myself: I am happy. In this moment, I am as near to happy as I have ever been.
November 25, 2010
now and then
This day is so different from last year.
Last year I was invited to Seattle. Last year I sat at my best friend's house and waited for her other guests to arrive; people I'd never met before. People who didn't know that I should have had a firm, round belly that day, showing under my sweater; didn't know that my breasts used to be smaller, that my bras used to fit. Didn't know the me from before, the me who hardly ever cried, who didn't need to wear waterproof mascara every day.
"Did you warn them that I'm a little, um... unstable?" I asked, anxiously.
Last year, in true northwest style, we prepared salmon and arugula and root vegetables and apple-cherry pie for dinner. We drank wine in shades of red and white and rose until the candlelight and the conversation both sparkled with added brilliance, and everything was funnier than usual; and then suddenly, instead of funny, everything was just quiet and comfortable and warm.
Last year, to amuse myself, I threw together ingredients without any measuring involved to make a loaf of pumpkin bread for my hosts -- which turned out to be a thing of such glory that it truly stunned us all; and I can say with confidence that the taste and texture of it shall never be equaled nor accurately reproduced. But that's as it should be.
Last year, when I missed my baby, I pulled out his quilt and worked my pain into it, rather than cry in front of strangers. Though I suppose it was really just my own way of crying in front of strangers.
Last year, I sat and stared out the window at rain dripping slowly off of blood red leaves, and tried to think of something to be thankful for, which felt, at the time, like an exercise in futility. But then I slowly realized that I was sitting in the living room of a person who, for some reason beyond my understanding, really, really cared about me. Who actually wanted me around, despite my sporadic withdrawls and bouts of tears and my inability to see past this moment, then this one, then this.
And I was grateful then, for her and for the handful of other people who felt the same, who would do the same for me. It did not seem like quite enough; it seemed a pitifully small number, in fact, standing between me and a huge, violent, scary world... but I knew it was a start. And while I felt completely ambivalent about whether I lived or died on any given day, I knew that they did not. A year later, those same people continue to be the most important ones in my life.
However. I'm afraid I cannot say with any kind of conviction that I am really happy to still be alive. There are days when I think it hardly matters, one way or the other, and I wonder at times if perhaps my wounds will turn out to be fatal, after all. I must confess, if I died tomorrow, my final thought would be: At last, at last.
But do not worry, dear ones. And do not let your feelings be hurt by my despair; my pain runs deeper than you can ever know, and it is not your responsibility or your fault. I will speak of other things, now, for your sake. Because I love you, too.
----------
Today I am alive, and since I am alive, it is good to be alive in California. It is good that the sun is shining today, despite the cold. It is good that I do not have to see or speak to anyone that I don't want to see or speak to. It is good that I have a place where I can express what I think and feel without fear of retaliation. It is good that later on I will be welcomed to a table, heavy-laden in the best sense of the word.
It is good.
I am thankful for the people who got me here, to this place and to this day. I am thankful for the people who still think it makes sense for me to wake up every morning, the people who believe my life really is worthwhile, despite all. You are brave, to believe such things. I am thankful for the people who read these words of mine, who open up their hearts and who leave a few words of their own in return. You are generous. You are kind.
----------
It is quiet in my room. There is sunlight, stillness, peace. For now, in this moment, and this one, and this: I am thankful.
Last year I was invited to Seattle. Last year I sat at my best friend's house and waited for her other guests to arrive; people I'd never met before. People who didn't know that I should have had a firm, round belly that day, showing under my sweater; didn't know that my breasts used to be smaller, that my bras used to fit. Didn't know the me from before, the me who hardly ever cried, who didn't need to wear waterproof mascara every day.
"Did you warn them that I'm a little, um... unstable?" I asked, anxiously.
Last year, in true northwest style, we prepared salmon and arugula and root vegetables and apple-cherry pie for dinner. We drank wine in shades of red and white and rose until the candlelight and the conversation both sparkled with added brilliance, and everything was funnier than usual; and then suddenly, instead of funny, everything was just quiet and comfortable and warm.
Last year, to amuse myself, I threw together ingredients without any measuring involved to make a loaf of pumpkin bread for my hosts -- which turned out to be a thing of such glory that it truly stunned us all; and I can say with confidence that the taste and texture of it shall never be equaled nor accurately reproduced. But that's as it should be.
Last year, when I missed my baby, I pulled out his quilt and worked my pain into it, rather than cry in front of strangers. Though I suppose it was really just my own way of crying in front of strangers.
Last year, I sat and stared out the window at rain dripping slowly off of blood red leaves, and tried to think of something to be thankful for, which felt, at the time, like an exercise in futility. But then I slowly realized that I was sitting in the living room of a person who, for some reason beyond my understanding, really, really cared about me. Who actually wanted me around, despite my sporadic withdrawls and bouts of tears and my inability to see past this moment, then this one, then this.
And I was grateful then, for her and for the handful of other people who felt the same, who would do the same for me. It did not seem like quite enough; it seemed a pitifully small number, in fact, standing between me and a huge, violent, scary world... but I knew it was a start. And while I felt completely ambivalent about whether I lived or died on any given day, I knew that they did not. A year later, those same people continue to be the most important ones in my life.
However. I'm afraid I cannot say with any kind of conviction that I am really happy to still be alive. There are days when I think it hardly matters, one way or the other, and I wonder at times if perhaps my wounds will turn out to be fatal, after all. I must confess, if I died tomorrow, my final thought would be: At last, at last.
But do not worry, dear ones. And do not let your feelings be hurt by my despair; my pain runs deeper than you can ever know, and it is not your responsibility or your fault. I will speak of other things, now, for your sake. Because I love you, too.
----------
Today I am alive, and since I am alive, it is good to be alive in California. It is good that the sun is shining today, despite the cold. It is good that I do not have to see or speak to anyone that I don't want to see or speak to. It is good that I have a place where I can express what I think and feel without fear of retaliation. It is good that later on I will be welcomed to a table, heavy-laden in the best sense of the word.
It is good.
I am thankful for the people who got me here, to this place and to this day. I am thankful for the people who still think it makes sense for me to wake up every morning, the people who believe my life really is worthwhile, despite all. You are brave, to believe such things. I am thankful for the people who read these words of mine, who open up their hearts and who leave a few words of their own in return. You are generous. You are kind.
----------
It is quiet in my room. There is sunlight, stillness, peace. For now, in this moment, and this one, and this: I am thankful.
October 21, 2010
twenty-one
Day 21 - a recipe
Dutch Babies are one of my very favorite things to make. One reason is because they are super yummy, but the other reason is because the first person to make them for me (and keep on making them for me many times after that) was my friend Laura, who is both awesome and adorable as well as a pretty great cook.
Now that I think of it, a bonus reason why they're my favorite is because I have only ever eaten them with nice people who I really like. So.
Dutch Babies are one of my very favorite things to make. One reason is because they are super yummy, but the other reason is because the first person to make them for me (and keep on making them for me many times after that) was my friend Laura, who is both awesome and adorable as well as a pretty great cook.
Now that I think of it, a bonus reason why they're my favorite is because I have only ever eaten them with nice people who I really like. So.
Makes 2 to 4 servings:
3 eggs, room temperature
1/2 cup milk, room temperature
1/2 cup flour
1/8 teaspoon vanilla
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
7 teaspoons butter
Freshly-squeezed lemon juice
Powdered sugar
1. Place a large, heavy ovenproof frying pan or a cast-iron skillet inside the oven on the middle rack, and preheat to 450F. While pan and oven are heating, prepare your batter.
2. In a large bowl, beat the eggs until light and frothy; add milk, flour, vanilla, and cinnamon; beat for 5 minutes more. The batter will be thin and very smooth.
3. Carefully remove the hot skillet from the oven; add the butter, tilting the pan to melt the butter and coat the entire inside of the skillet. Pour the prepared batter into the hot skillet, all at once, and immediately return the skillet to the oven.
4. Bake approximately 20 to 25 minutes, or until the edges are puffed and the pancake is golden brown all over.
5. Remove from oven and serve immediately. For a classic German Pancake/Dutch Baby, sprinkle with freshly squeezed lemon juice, and dust the top with powdered sugar. Enjoy!
October 3, 2010
two & three
Day 2 - a movie that helped you get through the hard times
Day 3 - a television program that moves you
Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day is one of my favorite movies of all time. It is funny and moving and all set within a period of 24 hours and it is absolutely delicious. You should watch it. Really. As soon as possible.
Another fave is Stardust. (Though this trailer doesn't do it justice, I'm afraid.) The story is as gorgeous and humorous and real as a story can be, and I love it. I also recommend the book, by Neil Gaiman.
Day 3 - a television program that moves you
Glee is the one show on television that completely transports me. I enjoy The Office, Project Runway, and 30 Rock as well... But only for that one hour on Tuesday nights am I totally unaware of any of my problems or pain. I sit on the couch with a big silly smile on my face the whole time.
One reason is because it is delightful. It is ridiculous and melodramatic and crammed with song and dance numbers, and is over-the-top in a way that reminds me of theater productions, which I have always enjoyed so much. Another reason it has such an effect on me is that it was first introduced to me by my darling Pamela, who is awesome. She had come from Australia to visit for a couple of weeks, shortly after I lost Noah. She was so gentle with me, and somehow knew just the right balance of when to listen and when to distract. One of the very few things she insisted upon was that we make sure to watch this new show that was going to be on TV, because it was going to be soooo funny. And she was right. (Of course.) Watching that premiere with her was the first time I had genuinely laughed at anything for several dark and dreary weeks.
Thanks, Pammy! I still think of you every time it's on.
September 30, 2010
I Like Thursday
Good things about today:
- You can get money for recycling cans and bottles here!
- Three of my four favorite shows are on TV tonight.
- Bought some cute flipflops on clearance at PacSun.
- Getting my hair straightened by someone else.
- Happily putting together packages full of nice things for
people that I love, to be mailed in the morning.
Hooray, hooray!
- You can get money for recycling cans and bottles here!
- Three of my four favorite shows are on TV tonight.
- Bought some cute flipflops on clearance at PacSun.
- Getting my hair straightened by someone else.
- Happily putting together packages full of nice things for
people that I love, to be mailed in the morning.
Hooray, hooray!
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