storm sleep.

I was awoken last night around 4 a.m. to bolts of lighting crossing the sky and the crack and growl of thunder so loud I could feel it. Looking out my window, over the valley below was the darkest of nights that I've seen here so far. Yet, when the lightning flashed, the entire valley was illuminated in neon white. It almost had a heavenly glow.

I closed my windows. I put on a pair of socks. Tucking myself into bed I thought of how lovely it is to be able to sleep while such chaos unravels beyond my window. In the earth's most violent moments, I enjoyed the most peaceful of mine. And yet, when the sun came up today, long after the storm had passed, my violence returns and our turbulent lives march on.

how to make cupcakes.

In anticipation for one of my co-workers birthday's, I decided to bake some cupcakes as a gesture of friendship, and to show off my awesome baking skills. After a few minutes in the cake mix aisle at Mr. Z's, I settled on "Golden Vanilla" cake with "Original Chocolate" Icing. You can't really go wrong right?

Well, all was going well until I got home and found that the kitchen in which I'm living has few of the necessary cupcake baking supplies. And so, a how to guide for you.

HOW TO BAKE CUPCAKES IN AN UNDER-EQUIPPED KITCHEN.

STEP 1. Get creative and find a container large enough to hold your batter. A Coffee pot. A sauce pan. A metal flour container. Or even a pitcher ... these are all legitimate options.





Step 2. I know you might be used to an electric mixer, but you're roughing it, so you're going to have to suck it up without it. Grab a spoon and stir like you've never stirred before. And get rid of those clumps now, nobody wants a lumpy cake.


Step 3. Quality control. Take a little taste and make sure everything has come out right. Remember that wine tasting course you took. Consider the texture, the sweetness, where the cake hits your tongue. You might want to rake air over the cake to allow its natural flavors to be released. And whatever you do, do not swallow. That's just tacky.


Step 4. Now is the part where your container selection plays a vital role. Pitcher & Coffee Pot > Sauce pan & Flour container. If your container has a handle, get to pouring. If it doesn't, you made some bad choices along the way -- wash that spoon to get rid of your germs and start ladling.

Oh, and in case you were wondering. Your kitchen definitely does not have cupcake pans. Make sure you buy some aluminum ones at the store. You get 15 cents off if you choose ones decorated with an American Flag.


Step 5. Bake. But watch your cupcakes constantly. You set the temperature to 350, but you never really know how hot this oven is. It's burned your popadums before.






Now stop reading, and start baking!

personality paradox.

Last year I posted this…

February 24, 2007

I believe that everybody has a couple adjectives by which they can be defined. These words weave together to paint a loose picture of the person – something like a poorly contrived watercolor painting. Though details are indefinite, shapes and figures can still be perceived. Picture a Matisse painting that has been sitting in the rain for a few hours ... or stare at a bright light for 10 seconds then close your eyes – paying close attention to the floating neon shapes. Yes, somehow in my imagination these blurry images can represent the foundation of a personality. Don't ask me how. Just go with it.

I don’t know if it is my time here in London, or the natural growth of self – but I am beginning to wonder if the adjectives that I had chosen as mine are still valid. Is my definition of self supposed to be the true person I am, or an idealistic person I aspire to be? One one hand I want to pursue an idealistic sense of self. But on the other hand, I wonder if I am neglecting parts of my personality that I should be embracing. Is “me” good enough? Or should I keep working at being “better than me”?

I realize that this is not the most interesting post. In fact, no matter how I phrase my sentences, it really is quite confusing. But here is the carry-home message: I am thinking... a lot... about who I am and what I want to be. I am at an extraordinary point in my life where I have an incredible amount of control over my future. If I wanted to, I could change my major and alter where I will be in 5 years completely. It is an uncomfortable amount of power that I’m not quite sure what to do with.

In short, every decision that I make today will play into my life 50 years from now.

No pressure.

I have now decided that I was completely wrong.

Thus, my new post:

The optimist. The wit. The prep. The geek. The rebel. The tomboy. The oxford chic. The self-conscious. The proud. The ambitious. The wandering. The American. The youngster. The wild.

I have always defined myself by the opinions of others. In their fleeting experience with me, I earn an adjective. It is impossible to summarize a personality in a few words, but we all do it with each new acquaintance. It’s like somehow a few words are enough to map an entire person.

But truly, adjectives will never come close to capturing the complexities of the human personality. We are ever-changing. We are temperamental. We are phony. We are honest. If one word was ever given the task of encompassing a personality, it could only be “infinite.”

I decided, about two weeks ago, to stop thinking about my adjectives – and to stop thinking about the adjectives of others.

Maybe, we can just allow each other to be infinite and enjoy the ride instead.

analyzing april.

It is only the darkest of nights where our secrets are kept.
Hiding away in the dampest of places.
No stone to be turned, no porch to be swept.
Just secrets kept under tongue and shoe laces.

Coughing and bitter the air circles round her
Joyous at souls morbid defeat
She rumbles and quakes and cries a soft murmur
Knowing good and well she’s been beat

In fragment, unwoven, a tapestry
Made of life stories it hangs on the wall
Not yet complete but mere history
The future will bring a close to it all.

Until then she stands, wishing past to be shed
Mouth open, feet dirty she stands with them bare
In a room full of secrets and pieces of thread
She knows that the darkness will keep her there.

delicious disaster.

I was just sitting down the dinner this evening when I heard a clamoring on the stairs. Somebody was struggling to carry a heavy load I presumed. I live in an apartment that is intermixed with office space, so visitors aren’t exactly infrequent.

I tore opened the box of Ritz Whole Wheat crackers settled on the table before me. A trip to the grocery store had prompted me to buy only things that were on sale, and only things that were discounted with my brand new Mr. Z’s supermarket card. It was a card that I got pressured into signing up for during my last trip to the market, and I am now determined to make it worth my time.

Just as I was preparing to take my first bite, the stranger on the stairs rounded through the doorway and into the kitchen. It wasn’t a face I’ve seen around Kirkridge before.

“Oh hi!” the stranger said, who was clearly more startled than I. He carried a box full of food which he was having trouble negotiating through the tight doorway.

“Howdy,” I replied. In a moment I became incredibly aware of how ridiculous I looked. I was dressed to the nines in my work clothes, hovering over the treasures from my grocery store adventure: a tin can of smoked oysters, a tub of turkey pepperoni, a pack of vanilla pudding and V8 Vegetable juice poured into a coffee mug with ice. Behind me I could hear the humming of the microwave as my Green Giant “Healthy Weight” frozen vegetables were approaching edible temperatures.

“I’m just eating dinner,” I blurted. “It’s well rounded … see?”

The stranger inched toward me, setting the box on the counter behind me.

“Carbs,” I said pointing to the Ritz crackers. “Protein, fat, vegetables, more vegetables and…” I hesitated. “Pudding.”

The man smiled kindly and I knew what he was thinking. “Where’s the fruit?” And just as I was about to explain that I had eaten a sour peach earlier that day…

“I’m Bob, from the bookstore,” he said.

I have always envied people whose names form alliteration with what they do or where they live. Polly from Palmetto. Tim the taxidermist. Amy of Anchorage. Trish the Tightrope Walker. The only way I’ll ever form alliteration is if I go into the osculating fan business – or move to Omaha.

“Ahh… OK. I’m Olivia.”

“I already ate dinner,” Bob said. “I was trying to find the mall everybody’s been talking about.”

“The Stroud mall?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“I don’t know … I’ve only been here two weeks.”

“Oh, you’re the intern.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I need to get to work. Down in the bookstore.”

“Right, bye!”

“Bye.”

And with that, I turned back to my meal. One smoked oyster from the tin, one pepperoni slice, one Ritz cracker… CRUNCH.

The taste of my final year as a poor college intern: Salty.