Pumpkin spice everything

(via Starbucks)

Am I the only person in the world not currently shitting myself over this? I don't want my beverages to taste like pumpkins. Give me a piece of pumpkin pie next to a latte or a beer and I'll be a happy girl, but I prefer them to remain separate food groups. 

On the other hand, I am currently shitting myself over mutton sleeves:

(via Posh Girl Vintage)

My favorite headline of today (and possibly ever):

Donatella Versace Actually Called Her Designs ‘Subtle’

Friday ftw

(Originally from thelaughingdalek)

This evening I watched "Covert Affairs" while I made a bunch of pie crusts for this brick oven party I'm going to tomorrow. (Any time I get to reference some brick oven party I'm going to, it makes me happy about the state of my life.) Anyway, I had this show playing in the background while I mucked around in flour and butter. As I watched, I realized that Annie Parker is a complete, unbearable Mary Sue.

I also realized that I feel most myself when I have my hands dug into something, when I'm baking or cooking or getting muddy. When I'm reattached to the physical world somehow. I spend so much time in my head. It's the danger of being an introvert raised by people who value thoughtfulness. There's almost never a time when I'm not thinking. It's a beauty and a relief when something takes me out of my head and back into the sensation of dough between my fingers, or moss under my feet. This is why I need to move back to the woods.

Monday, you are not cooperating with me. How about we split up for a bit, I take a nap, and then we start over later? Thanks.

Clafoutis is a French dessert, sort of a baked custard traditionally made with fresh cherries. It is one of my favorite things in all of the world. And then I found this recipe for caramelized apple clafoutis, meant to be served with one of my all-time favorite cheeses. And I'm going apple picking this weekend. You'd best believe this will be happening in my kitchen and it will be amazing.

Interesting article in the Times today about involuntary muscle response in dancers who watch other dancers. Makes sense to me. 

The cold marches on. I've moved into the sneezing-and-coughing stage, which is at least a departure from the runny-nose platform of the weekend.

Every time I'm sick, my mother says, "Drink a couple of glasses of wine. I promise it'll help." Every time, I tell her that I've played that game and it always makes the cold last longer. In my increasing age, I have learned that when I'm sick I have to be a saint until it passes. It sucks for a few days, or a week, but it's better than the drawn-out decline I face if I give in and have the glass of wine. A little self-control now pays off in the end.

Over the past week, roughly half a dozen people have, upon hearing the congestion in my voice, advised me to drink whiskey to kill the bug. For a while I was good. For a while I stuck to my regimen of tea and water and trying to get more sleep. On Sunday, Katrina told me, "Oh, you're sick? Drink some whiskey. Works every time." So I thought, "Screw it." I went home, opened up an essay to revise, and poured myself a modest little glass of bourbon. It singed pleasantly in my throat, in my sinuses, on my chapped lips. It warmed me from the inside. The revision went well, and I crawled into bed anticipating perfect health when I woke.

Instead, I woke up equally congested and on the edge of losing my voice. So much for my dumb friends and their advice. Sticking to the austerity plan until this thing moves on for good.

Telling snapshot-in-words of my desk this afternoon: aloe plant, mug of Gypsy Cold Care tea, ibuprofen, empty peanut butter jar.

In more cheerful news, my current apartment has two separate, perfect writing nooks. I've made them in the dormers at each end of the apartment, one in the living room and one in the bedroom. Right now I'm in the living room. My detritus-ridden desk looks out the windows onto a maple tree just beginning to turn. There's a cold breeze coming in, wet with rain.

At the other end, in the bedroom, I've set up my sewing table (now a table, converted from an early-20th-century sewing machine, found at a yardsale), upon which rests a borrowed Smith-Corona typewriter. Pulled up to the table is the diminutive, upholstered chair that sat in my grandmother's bedroom when she was alive. Later, that is where I'll sit to revise poems.

I'm dependent on, and influenced by, my physical space. Annie Dillard wrote of her bleak concrete study in the library of Hollins, and how its starkness helped her to live in her imagination. I suppose here may be something to that. I would much prefer, though, in the moments when I stare into space in search of a word, to stare blankly at the shifting leaves of a maple, or the parade of dogs out for walks on the street below me.

Today in graceful moments, I went to put a new bag in the big recycling bin and scraped my nose on the lip of said bin. Things are going well.

I have really great friends

No matter the day, if I can remember to take a minute to be grateful for all of the amazing people in my life, I realize I don't have it that bad. I am a seriously lucky girl. My family and friends are role models, support, inspiration, and always good for a laugh. Sometimes I am alone, but never because I have to be.

This past weekend I got to see a lot of the very important people in my life, from a lot of different phases of it. Guys, I know a lot of awesome people. They are all interesting, engaged, intelligent, and compassionate. They are the sorts of people who will pick you up when you're down and are always ready to dive into a great conversation about something you didn't know was so significant to you. That weekend felt like living inside a giant hug.

The best part about it is that keeping that kind of company can really snap me out of whatever self-involved, self-pitying funk I may have fallen into. I look around at the people I love so much, and remember that while many of them love me unconditionally, I still have to be worthy of having them in my life. It motivates me to pick myself up, remember how fortunate I am, and forge forward with the strength and determination that they deserve to see in me. They inspire me to be stronger, to accomplish more, to work toward the best version of myself. Simply by the examples they set, they make me want to live up to them.

So this is an open thank you to everyone who's had a positive impact on me. There are a lot of you. I am grateful for every one of you, and hope that I can provide half of the comfort you do.

Dinner tonight

I've been food-obsessed. I joined a CSA about a month ago, and have been cooking all the time because I have so much produce around that I have to use before it goes bad.

Tonight I decided to make leek and bacon quiche. It makes a pair of them, so I'll freeze one to break out some lazy night this winter when I don't have the energy to spend three hours on dinner. I had a busy, crazy weekend of travel and socializing and little sleep, and today I'm paying for it with a sore throat. When I'm coming down with something, I either crave vegetables or something really heavy and fatty. The vegetable cravings happen less frequently. The quiches are in the oven right now, and in a few minutes should be ready to come out. They may not be the greatest quiche that anyone's ever made, but it's so satisfying to have food that I made myself, from scratch. Food in which I know every ingredient. It feels better to eat it—my body is happier, my mind is happier. This is a simple idea that I need to remember.