On Being Forgotten

I was forgotten today. Inexplicably (well, from my point of view), unarguably forgotten. Is this real life?

Nostradamus/Sylvia Browne Moment of the Week

Well, I've done it again. Many of you know my uncanny ability to predict what movie and tv actors will say next, to predict what Joanne and Ed are making Ian and I for dinner, to see the future in a cup of tea leaves (alright, that last one might be a bit of a stretch...). But this time, I've really done it.

Last August, when Ian and I first moved to New Hampshire, and we were bored and had no friends and needed something to do other than watch one episode of Lost after another, we found a pick-you-own fruit farm, where we grabbed a flat of peaches, several bushels (or was it pecks?) of apples, and some fresh blueberries. Remember? And I wrote something hilarious and witty about the website stuffwhitepeoplelike, and how the author hadn't yet tapped into the whiteness of pick-your-own fruit farms, hadn't yet made the pithy suggestion that white people pay to do what migrant workers are paid pittance to do for hours and hours on end, but that he sure would soon.

Eight months later, and it's happened. I'm psychic. Literally psychic. Either that, or the author of the stuffwhitepeoplelike blog stumbled across my archive and realized how perfect of an entry you-pick-farms would make. Either way, I am hopelessly white. Sigh.

Breaking Up*

A few weeks ago, I had a dream. I was in a cemetery, and there was graffiti everywhere--all over the gravestones, all over the crypts, the walls. It was beautiful out; the sun was shining and I was in a cemetery and I love cemeteries and I was there with Ian and some of our other friends. The cemetery was a weird cross between those I visited in France and the New England style I have seen in New Hampshire and Massachusetts.

We rounded a bend in the pathway, and came across a bit of graffiti (a graffito? what is the singular noun???) that was written in French. It read, "on n'a qu'une vie."

Which means, quite beautifully, quite simply, "we have but one life."


*Song by Rilo Kiley. The lyric "Here's to all the pretty girls you're gonna meet" really needs a postscript of "as long as they aren't as pretty as me." :)

Blog Envy

I've had a post in mind for a while, actually. Maybe even a month. In addition to the inanity that tends to clog up the blogosphere (and I cannot, in good conscience and all humility, separate myself completely from such drivel) there happens, every once in a while, to be a diamond in the rough (diamond in the...diamond in the...diamond in the rough...).

There is the niche of the 15 and 16 year old British girl. They many populate tumblr.com, rather than blogspot, because tumblr is more suited to picture postings. These girls love Zooey Deschanel, Harry Potter, cupcakes, and Chanel, and post pictures that generally take my breath away. Not only do I not have enough time in the day to surf the internet for beautiful images, I wouldn't even know where to begin searching...

Then we have the foodies. The best known, of course, are smitten and orangette. There are others, however, that seem to fill every nook and cranny imaginable in the food pyramid and kitchen cupboard as well.

Finally, we have the fashion blogs (okay, so I know this isn't actually finally, and that there are, in fact, many many other blogs and blog themes and trends. But for my intents, it's 'finally'). From the Sartorialist to Tavi (a 13 year old girl who gets flown to Paris for fashion week because she kicks that much ass) to some girl in Kansas who just likes finding fun things in thrift stores, there is a fashion blog, quite literally, for everyone.

Caught amongst these facets of the blogging world, I found myself unsure who I envied most. Do I wish I had innumerable hours to stare at pretty things all day? Or would I prefer to have clothing websites send me hundreds of dollars worth of merch, just because I have a virtual following? Perhaps it would be best if I had the time and money to make stilton cheese and chanterelle galettes, paired with an arugula and pear salad?

As we know, I am incapable, for some odd reason, of writing a food blog. And a blog merely full of pictures would deprive my readers of scathing humor and titillating wit. And a fashion blog? I am rather fashionable. It's been said. But, I mean, every second I did not spend in a swimsuit yesterday was spent in workout clothes that I gleaned from Ross and hand-me-downs from a sister. Somehow, I don't think modcloth.com would come running to sponsor me.

But at some point recently, probably while waiting for dirtyprettything to load after checking out Betty's latest outfit, I realized I don't want a themed blog. I don't want to be stuck in a niche where I feel guilty and am unable to blog if I haven't eaten anything more interesting than spaghetti with salt, pepper, and romano cheese for the past week. And believe me, based on smitten's regular apologia, I would be.

Despite the apparent narcissism of creating a blog where the only theme is ME, I enjoy the variety. The ability to write a post about stolen bagels, or a botched trip to Lisbon. I might envy fashion bloggers their impeccable style and seemingly endless clothes budgets, and I still might kill for smitten's set of knives, but I don't envy their monotony. Because seriously, there aren't that many words for "heels", and there aren't nearly enough different ways to eloquently describe minced garlic.

Emmet Otter Moment of the Week

Last Friday, one of the MFA program poets, Maria, hosted a poetry and music night at her home in Boston. She, a fiction writer, and another poet read from their theses that they are to complete this month, Maria's sister Annie played us several of her own songs (accompanied by her amazing voice. I think I fell in love.), and Maria's friend played percussion, wowing us with a TEN minute triangle solo. So many sounds!

Afterward, we sat in Maria's living room, holding beer bottles and wine glasses, and the night evolved. One of the poets ran into the kitchen, proclaiming, "I need some wine bottles, because we're playing jug band, and it's sweet."

We were indeed, and it was, indeed, sweet. For hours, we improvised percussion on bottles and cans and boxes of pasta and spoons, using phrases culled from quiet conversations to create eight, nine, ten part harmonies. When it got too late for the baby downstairs, we took it to the train tracks down the street.

I sure wish I had a musical saw.

Food Blog Fail

Epic food blog fail. Remember that list of food I gave you? And those two posts about food that I offered? That's all I've got. I just can't do it. Maybe it's because I ate the food I am writing about over two weeks ago. Maybe it's because both Kili and I would continuously forget to take pictures of certain stages of the cooking process (most importantly, the final stage...) Maybe it's because ricotta cheese isn't a beautiful thing to look at in real life or in pictures, particularly the stage where you wrap it in the cheesecloth. Maybe it's because most of what we made was stolen directly from smittenkitchen and I can just direct my readers to her page....

I'm not sure. Here are the remaining foodie pictures, though. I couldn't withhold those from you, at least.

Flaky Blood Orange Tart

Another from smitten.
Apparently we do not have a picture of the finished, cooked tart. I'm not too sure how that happened. My hands were stained for at least five days with the juice from those oranges. And it was an excruciatingly tedious process. All in all, not entirely worth it. I'd rather put peach or apple slices in a pie crust, instead. And then just eat a blood orange. Much easier, and probably more delicious.