a twenty-three-year track record......

1987: “You are My Sunshine,” Bob Dylan & Johnny Cash 

1996: “Galileo,” Indigo Girls

1997: “Welcome to the Cruel World,” Ben Harper

1999: “Hometown Glory,” Adele

2005: “The Wind,” Cat Stevens

2006: “Down Home Girl,” Old Crow Medicine Show

2007: “Light Enough to Travel,” The Be Good Tanyas

2009: “A Mi Manera,” Siempre Así

 

2010: “Making Pies,” Patty Griffin

2010: “We Lived in Bars,” Cat Power

it's a battle.

registering for classes always reveals the odd parody that exists between my two battling selves:

she who loves a challenge, strives for success, over achieves, and wants the absolute best and greatest from every college credit taken and dollar spent;

and she who is lazy, burnt out, tired, and ready. for. a. break.

and as the clock strikes six am it is a silent battle between the two sides, each with justifiable arguments and selfish aims, each with reason to thrive, each with reasonable claims for existence.

stay tuned to find out who wins.

dark chocolate espresso powder soufflé cupcakes with white chocolate mint cream droplets.

all i have to say is... hooooooly shit.....

these little guys were the hardest (and most rewarding) cupcakes i've ever made.

happy weekend.

fevers.

you give me fever when you kiss me fever when you hold me tight. fever in the morning fever all through the night. 


i got a loss of appetite, im so tired, i can't sleep can't dream wake up every night. chills runnin' down my spine, my fever is so high. 


sometimes i'll hear her when she's sleeping, her fever dream a language on her face. 


i don't know why they make fevers sound so sexy.


you certainly don't feel that way when you wake up on a thursday morning and have a fever of 102. yuck.

pause for the paws.

dog-sitting proves that i'm not ready for a lot of things.

that list of things includes: a dog, a child, or anything that resembles a dog or a child.

at last.

at last, the middle of the quarter has passed. :) and how do you celebrate?

well. you get a fresh start. your little restless spirit starts acting up. you know you can't move anywhere right now (michelle, let's be realistic here), but you need a change. you need something. and so...you cut off all. of. your. hair. and for now you feel refreshed and renewed and so damn good.

well. you sink sweetly into the house that you are house-sitting. television! ovens! a living room and a bedroom and a kitchen? WHAT?

well. you get a case of bakes. you get a case of the "dear school, im not doing any of that damn homework you mandate" rebellion. and you get the laze craze...oh yes i'm crazy about that laze craze.

and after that you raise your glass to the end of the weekend. happy over-the-middle. happy nineteen twenties hair. happy valentine's day. happy president's day. cheers to it all.

terminate this middleness!

mid-terms numb my buns. 

i sit. i read. i read. i get distracted. i read. i write. i study. i get distracted. i read. i read. i study. i get distracted. i cancel and postpone and reschedule and get distracted. there just aren't enough hours in the day...

so amidst the alarm and class and work and reading and writing and arithmetic (NO i would never sign up for the last one, so why are there arithmetic problems on my midterm review sheet? have i ever been to this class?) midterms are synonymous with a tornado of clocks ticking and distractions looming (yes, the rambling words embody the week).

and yet somehow, even without enough hours in the day, it always gets done. ....one of the unexplanables of life.

don't stop, get it get it.

remember when every single sentence began with "remember when" and "what if"?
well what if this continues for the rest of my life? 

beans!

my saturday night?

it's rainy out there. and so i say: don't fall for the melodic droplets... they are luring sirens who only beg regret the next morning. so stay home. :)

.....and hang out with otis. and robert. and the jacksons. and sir cab.

....and dive into this love affair that you have with a certain cooking blog. all-aboard. no hesitations. go!

....and put on something yellow or blue or turquoise. [it makes it all worth while. cue shameless picture in order to say "thanks, sophie!"]

....and peel and chop and sizzle. [although, be forewarned that those onions were strong. i mean powerfully strong. i mean  i think we might actually be bawling, these tears are dripping inside and out strong. phew!]

...and turn the borrowed pot on [thanks, karina!] and drift off off and away.

....and soak yourself in the smell that resounds when you cook this.

it's an easy fix for the saturday blues.

the hare.

i will admit it: i. am. slooow.

not in all aspects. oh no no no my brain (sometimes) moves quickly i drive quickly i dance quickly i finish glasses of wine quickly. but this? this is serious. i move at a remarkably slow pace. and (un)fortunately i don't mean this in the most casual sense. i don't mean that a couple of times i get passed on my two-mile walk to work or that a handful of times people cough that sweet "i'm behind you get out of my fucking way" cough. this? this isn't casual. instead, this is "it must take skill how slow that girl is walking." certainly. of course. and it all makes sense....

i suppose with the passing of time moving the way that it does i am succumbed to chose one aspect of my life of which i can control the pace. too much of our lives pass in that flashing "just-wait-let-me-grab-you-just-for-one-second-more" way: childhood, love, a good song, a great book, relationships, safety, happiness. they fly by in the beat that booms no tune of understanding. they soar by without a glimpse. and it all happens so quickly!

so what do i do? i suppose i transform it into some sort of nonsensical superb power. i slow down this stroll. i wander. i meander. i amble. i eavesdrop. i soak in. i let my legs stretch with each intentional glide. they find their balance and dance that rhythmically slow beat as so many pass by.

so to the students that cough the cough, to the couples that break their hand-holds as they circle around me, to the unending groups that tailgate and express their uninterested annoyance....

i'm sorry. i'm slow. 

(but, to fill you in on a little secret? i love it. i love the rhythm of a promenade. when you move like that, words and worlds catch you. and oh it feels good.)

[on happiness.]

the truth is, contentment terrifies me. 

[an insight into classes.]

here is my latest project for a class on personal ethnography. it is long. so are these school days. but they're lovely....

The day has rolled along in the laziest of manners, hours of school melting away even before the morning yawns have subsided. As the final bell rings, and my notes are tucked away and my bag is packed and my iPod queued for the walk, I step out into the sunny day of southern Spain. The lackadaisical mantra of this place guides my walk along the coast. What is supposed to take thirty minutes usually turns into forty-five under the beating sun. But finally, as I feel the sweat beads slowly slide their way down my back, I have made it home.

            I stand in front of the black rod-iron gate that weakly guards the tiny patio of this home. As I fiddle to find my keys (always hidden in the depths of my school bag), my eyes meet the laundry that hangs from the second-story. My madre has washed my clothes today, and the wisps of white and yellow and pink clothes bob up and down with the ever-so-slight breeze of the day. Still fiddling with the lock, my eyes move farther up the wall of the building and into the second-story window. Inside I can see my madre dancing from the living room into the kitchen, smile across her face and serving spoon in her hand. There are heads sticking up above the lowest part of the window; the whole family is over for lunch, the house is alive and buzzing.

As I turn the key in the lock a satisfying click resounds in the air. The streets are empty (everybody in the neighborhood is home having lunch right now); the click of the lock opening is loud. I walk inside the building, up the two flights of cement stairs, and up to door number two. The wooden door is open, the must have been waiting for me.

I walk inside my home. I am greeted immediately: my one-year-old host brother, Samuel, yells my name in the loudest cackle of joy; my six-year-old host sister, Marta, cries hello in defiance of the ever-burdening task of eating; my other host siblings rise out of their chairs and come kiss me; my madre shouts her excitement of my arrival home (I am late, and I blame the beautiful walk and the heat). I throw my things on one of the blue couches, and take my shoes off. The lights are off in the room (much too hot to have lights on), and the cool linoleum of the living room is refreshing on my sweaty feet. I mosey over to the small children and kiss each of them twice on the cheeks. I look around: the television on, the fan on, the olive oil singing bursts of activity from the kitchen, my madre in her apron, my stomach rumbling in the thought of her food, my tongue spewing Spanish phrases I didn’t know I had in me. There is laughter. There are tears. There is raw truth in this place. (En la calle García de Sola, Número 28, Segundo a la derecha.) This is my family, this is my home.

We eat. We feast. And afterwards, when things have calmed and people have left and it is just my madre and me, I clear the table. She stands in the kitchen in her terry-cloth apron and purple gloves that she wears to wash the dishes. I put all of the un-eaten scraps of food on one plate (knowing full-well that she will comment on the waste that was, in some way or another, bless her heart, my fault), stack the delicate white plates on top of one another, and bring them into the kitchen.  She laughs and tenderly slaps my butt as I wiggle my way past her (always fun and games, me and this new mother of mine). All of the glasses (each filled with its own remnant of what once was: water, coca-cola, zumo, cerveza, sangria) are stacked, all of the utensils are shoved inside of one, and it is all brought into the kitchen. The television is still on, and we both run in front of it when something exciting appears (especially something regarding the news of the girl that was kidnapped and murdered last week; the country mourns for her as if she was, and she is, kin). Leftovers, beverages, plates of the fruit that we have eaten for dessert, are brought in and set on the kitchen table. I grab each corner of the table cloth, fold it like an envelope, and open the window. Outside sway the pieces of clothing that I once looked at from below, those sweet morsels of cloth that my madre has so tenderly washed. I shake the tablecloth out the window, emptying it of all evidence of lunch. It gets folded and tucked into the drawer under the television. I return to the table and put the white cloth on top of it, the lace cloth on top of that, and the green plant on that. My madre is still in the kitchen suds-ing and washing away. I kiss her cheek, give her a tight squeeze, and walk down the hallway towards my bedroom. “¡A dormir!” she shouts in her strong and loving voice, “To bed!” School and lunch are done for the day, and in the wallowing heat I tuck myself in for a long afternoon nap. This home is good. Oh, how I miss this home.