For myself and anyone else who has ever contemplated time travel seriously there's a question that burns in the heart: not just where would you go, but when. If you had all of time at your grubby fingertips, if you could go anywhere and anywhen, what would the first stop be? This is as vital a question to armchair dreamers as figuring out what to do with that 50 million dollar lottery we're all bound to win someday.
My answer isn't a specific date. It's a bunch of dates and events that no one could possibly know the exact specifications of, since they happened thousands, tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of years before written language was even a twinkle in homo sapiens sapiens eyes...
I want to be there the first time a human ancestor picks up a shell, drills a hole in it, and threads a piece of animal tendon or stretched skin through that hole, tying it off and wearing it around their neck.
I want to be there the first time an animal skin is dyed, and the first time a hominid's living skin is similarly painted.
I want to be there the first time an ape realizes that meat + fire = BBQ.
I want to be there when someone adds the earliest incarnation of garlic to their cooking and gets their MIND BLOWN.
I want to be there when some ancient humanoid beats the first deliberate rhythm, with their hands on their flesh, or with a stick on a rock, mimicking the inexorable heartbeat they must hear sometimes when they lay their head against the chest of their mothers, and later, their lovers, or when they hear their own heart beating in their ears as they try to sleep. Is it the footsteps of giants? Or the pulsing of the earth that they're replicating with their drumming?
I want, more than anything, to stand in a cave, and watch the first brushstrokes of the first cave painting. Did that ancestor of mine feel what I feel when I stand in front of a blank canvas? The crush of excitement and fear and a desperate drive to add color and life and movement to a surface that has been without those things? How many times was that wall approached, instrument in hand while this magnificent being struggled with doubt or anticipation? What glowing, burning thing lit their way?
Was their first stroke done in a fit of pique? Quickly, madly, desperately moving because not moving is no longer an option? Or slowly, cautiously, tentatively, with some hint of inborn knowledge that these marks would mean so much to so many for so long?
Did the finished product bring tears to that hominids' eyes? Like it brings tears to mine?
These are the whens and wheres that I would travel to. Because every time I wear a necklace, I think of the graves of early homo sapiens, littered with shells in graduated sizes, each drilled painstakingly and obviously connected together with a fabric that has long since been reclaimed by the earth around it.
Every time I wear a pretty dress, or put make-up on my face, I think of the ancient evidence we've dug up of dyes from every imaginable (and occasionally disgusting) source on this earth, and all the places we used those dyes, and I think of the obvious attraction we have as a species to color.
Every time I stir a pot of something over a flame, I think of a time when fire was a brand new technology, scarcely understood and terrifying, but how it was nevertheless used to create food that meant more than mere survival.
Every time I listen to music, I think of the long line of ancestors whose bodies must, must have been moved to dancing, and I twirl with my arms in the air pretending I'm under an ancient sky at the dawn of man.
Every time I paint, I cry for the homo sapiens who first knew how to see beauty in the world and add to it through the work of their own hands.
I cannot help but get caught in the idea of the moment that these things first happened. What were these creatures before art? Before rhythm and painting and decoration and cuisine? How did they react the first time? Because there was a first time. Somewhen in time, there is a day, with a sunrise and a sunset. The day before this day, there was no such thing as a drum. The day after, there was music!
And the reaction of the others in whatever homo species this occurred in must have been positive enough, or we wouldn't have music today. Or art, fashion, cuisine. The evidence of the value of these things exists in their longevity, from the dawn of man to today. These are, in fact, the markers by which anthropologists date that dawning.
And whenever I consciously participate in these things, I feel strings connecting me to those ancestors, pulling me backwards in time, but also forwards, since those strings also connect me to every human being that exists today, and that will exist in the future.
Tuesday 14 May 2013
Monday 6 May 2013
A Hike to Remember
For the last three years, my birthday has fallen during the Spring Tour of my choir: the University of Alberta Mixed Chorus. Now, I didn't work up the courage to join this organization until I was already halfway through my Anthro degree, and I didn't go on tour until my second year. Adding in the four year gap between my first and second year of university, I've ended up being one of the older members of this group. Many of them are now a decade younger than me.
This doesn't really bother me, and I don't feel out of place there. Lord knows I've got the sense of humor of a thirteen year old boy, and I don't think anyone could accuse me of being a buzzkill or anything like that.
I've never been huge on yearly evaluations; I don't make New Year's resolutions and I'm probably the type of person who would forget her own anniversary, so my birthday is just a day when I can milk being the center of attention for all it's worth. I've never really used it as a marker of 'how far I've come since last year' and I didn't spend the 3rd of May in deep reflection on the ups and downs of being 27, or the fears of being 28.
But this last year has been a transformative year for me, and on tour, the day before my birthday, something magically delicious happened that highlighted the actual distance between 27 year old Brenna, and 28 year old Brenna, and I'd like to tell that story, if you'll indulge me.
A year ago I was sitting on my balcony, smugly happy with the events that had led to my being there. But I realized that there were other things I wanted that I did not have, and I started thinking about what those things were and what I could do to achieve them. And what I realized I wanted, more than anything else, was to be healthier. "Well," I thought, "That's new." I have wanted many things in my life: I have wanted to be skinnier; I have wanted to be more outgoing; I have wanted to be in a loving relationship, but I've never given much thought to my health. Until that moment.
I started with things that felt little and therefore achievable. I wanted to be able to look in my fridge and feel proud that none of the ingredients on any of the labels included words I did not recognize as food. I started buying more whole foods and baking my own bread.
I wanted to cut refined sugar down to almost nothing and replace it with fruit to assuage my sweet tooth. You have to understand, I got through university without ever drinking a cup of coffee, no energy drinks, no pop, no caffeinated beverages of any kind. My drug of choice to keep myself awake during all nighters was Fuzzy Peaches. So I started going to the Strathcona Farmer's Market every Saturday and bringing home mounds of..well, actual peaches...and slowly, my diet underwent a revolution for the better.
I chose to eat one cupcake a week at work instead of one a day. It is unbelievably difficult to cut refined sugar out when you work in a cupcake shop, decorating cakes, working with icing ALL. DAY. LONG. But I managed it. I developed a mantra in my head that I repeated every time a scrap of cake was in my hand and headed to my mouth, "Brenna, your body is not a garbage can." And eventually, I stopped craving sugar every moment of every day.
I started seriously using the treadmill my mother had given me when it stopped being of use to her. I stopped thinking of exercise as a punishment for the way I was eating and started instead to think of it as a way to achieve a very specific goal: to be able to go hiking with friends.
When I lived in New Zealand, I went on two three-day treks with a couple who were in far better shape than I was. I huffed and puffed and perspired my way up the Humpridge and Kepler ridges and suffered lung and muscle agony. Those six days are still the most painful and embarrassing that I have ever endured. Yet they remain some of the most beautiful memories of my entire life.
When I hear about friends of mine going on hikes, I feel a desperate jealousy, since I would love to go with them, but hate being the one constantly lagging behind, hurt radiating from every pore as I struggle to keep up and fail miserably. Those hikes happened in 2005, and I have not had the courage to do any hiking since.
Gradually, the changes I had made in my lifestyle began to be reflected in my clothes. I've lost 40 pounds, 4-5 dress sizes, Lord knows how many inches, and it all seems a bit surreal, since the weight loss and size decrease weren't really my ultimate goal.
But the point of the story is this: On May 2nd, the day before my 28th birthday, the UAMC was taken on a short hike along The Golden Mile Trail outside the Tinhorn Creek Vineyards in Oliver, BC. What we all thought would be a leisurely walk through a vineyard turned out to be a brisk hike on an all uphill trail leading to a bunch of old abandoned mines and spectacular views of the Okanagan Valley. There were definitely a few unhappy people in the group, some of my friends among them, who wished they'd known what kind of "walk" this would really be.
I was thrilled. I felt energized. My whole body felt like it was saying, "Yes, Brenna. You can do this now. You can walk up a ridge without feeling like you might actually keel over at any minute. Your legs and your lungs can take you all the places you want to go. They can do that now." On the way back, at the end of the hike, I was at the head of the pack, jogging down the hill just because I could.
I cannot express the depths of my joy. I am not happier because I am skinnier, or more fit. I am happier because I finally understood that happiness doesn't come like a winning lottery ticket, only to a small and random few, and meted out by absolute dumb luck. It comes through every little teeny tiny choice that I make, day after day. And if I just keep making the choice to move towards the things that bring me joy and contentment and fulfillment and peace, I can literally come out on top.
This is not a story that has an end. I am not finished working on my happiness; I will have to keep making these choices for the rest of my life, through good times and bad.
It took me 28 years to understand who I am and how to make myself happy. I know there are people who come to this knowledge much younger, and I know there are people who will die of old age not knowing, but this is my story, not theirs, and this is the path that I happened to take, and damn, but I am happy with it.
This doesn't really bother me, and I don't feel out of place there. Lord knows I've got the sense of humor of a thirteen year old boy, and I don't think anyone could accuse me of being a buzzkill or anything like that.
I've never been huge on yearly evaluations; I don't make New Year's resolutions and I'm probably the type of person who would forget her own anniversary, so my birthday is just a day when I can milk being the center of attention for all it's worth. I've never really used it as a marker of 'how far I've come since last year' and I didn't spend the 3rd of May in deep reflection on the ups and downs of being 27, or the fears of being 28.
But this last year has been a transformative year for me, and on tour, the day before my birthday, something magically delicious happened that highlighted the actual distance between 27 year old Brenna, and 28 year old Brenna, and I'd like to tell that story, if you'll indulge me.
A year ago I was sitting on my balcony, smugly happy with the events that had led to my being there. But I realized that there were other things I wanted that I did not have, and I started thinking about what those things were and what I could do to achieve them. And what I realized I wanted, more than anything else, was to be healthier. "Well," I thought, "That's new." I have wanted many things in my life: I have wanted to be skinnier; I have wanted to be more outgoing; I have wanted to be in a loving relationship, but I've never given much thought to my health. Until that moment.
I started with things that felt little and therefore achievable. I wanted to be able to look in my fridge and feel proud that none of the ingredients on any of the labels included words I did not recognize as food. I started buying more whole foods and baking my own bread.
I wanted to cut refined sugar down to almost nothing and replace it with fruit to assuage my sweet tooth. You have to understand, I got through university without ever drinking a cup of coffee, no energy drinks, no pop, no caffeinated beverages of any kind. My drug of choice to keep myself awake during all nighters was Fuzzy Peaches. So I started going to the Strathcona Farmer's Market every Saturday and bringing home mounds of..well, actual peaches...and slowly, my diet underwent a revolution for the better.
I chose to eat one cupcake a week at work instead of one a day. It is unbelievably difficult to cut refined sugar out when you work in a cupcake shop, decorating cakes, working with icing ALL. DAY. LONG. But I managed it. I developed a mantra in my head that I repeated every time a scrap of cake was in my hand and headed to my mouth, "Brenna, your body is not a garbage can." And eventually, I stopped craving sugar every moment of every day.
I started seriously using the treadmill my mother had given me when it stopped being of use to her. I stopped thinking of exercise as a punishment for the way I was eating and started instead to think of it as a way to achieve a very specific goal: to be able to go hiking with friends.
When I lived in New Zealand, I went on two three-day treks with a couple who were in far better shape than I was. I huffed and puffed and perspired my way up the Humpridge and Kepler ridges and suffered lung and muscle agony. Those six days are still the most painful and embarrassing that I have ever endured. Yet they remain some of the most beautiful memories of my entire life.
 |
| Hiking the Kepler Trek, 2nd day. This is my all-time favorite of all my photographs. |
When I hear about friends of mine going on hikes, I feel a desperate jealousy, since I would love to go with them, but hate being the one constantly lagging behind, hurt radiating from every pore as I struggle to keep up and fail miserably. Those hikes happened in 2005, and I have not had the courage to do any hiking since.
Gradually, the changes I had made in my lifestyle began to be reflected in my clothes. I've lost 40 pounds, 4-5 dress sizes, Lord knows how many inches, and it all seems a bit surreal, since the weight loss and size decrease weren't really my ultimate goal.
But the point of the story is this: On May 2nd, the day before my 28th birthday, the UAMC was taken on a short hike along The Golden Mile Trail outside the Tinhorn Creek Vineyards in Oliver, BC. What we all thought would be a leisurely walk through a vineyard turned out to be a brisk hike on an all uphill trail leading to a bunch of old abandoned mines and spectacular views of the Okanagan Valley. There were definitely a few unhappy people in the group, some of my friends among them, who wished they'd known what kind of "walk" this would really be.
I was thrilled. I felt energized. My whole body felt like it was saying, "Yes, Brenna. You can do this now. You can walk up a ridge without feeling like you might actually keel over at any minute. Your legs and your lungs can take you all the places you want to go. They can do that now." On the way back, at the end of the hike, I was at the head of the pack, jogging down the hill just because I could.
I cannot express the depths of my joy. I am not happier because I am skinnier, or more fit. I am happier because I finally understood that happiness doesn't come like a winning lottery ticket, only to a small and random few, and meted out by absolute dumb luck. It comes through every little teeny tiny choice that I make, day after day. And if I just keep making the choice to move towards the things that bring me joy and contentment and fulfillment and peace, I can literally come out on top.
This is not a story that has an end. I am not finished working on my happiness; I will have to keep making these choices for the rest of my life, through good times and bad.
It took me 28 years to understand who I am and how to make myself happy. I know there are people who come to this knowledge much younger, and I know there are people who will die of old age not knowing, but this is my story, not theirs, and this is the path that I happened to take, and damn, but I am happy with it.
Friday 8 March 2013
A Tale of Joy
The night of September 27th, 2013 was slightly chilly (no need yet for a coat, but I was thankful for my shawl) with a beautifully warm breeze. I have no earthly idea what the weather was like on the night of September 26th, as I spent most of that night preoccupied with the arrival of my newest niece, Riven Maru Scott Ignacio-Deines.
Neither the labour nor the delivery had been quite what Aaron and Christina (my brother and sister-in-law) had been hoping for, and while they were performing the C-section, I was sitting in a waiting room feeling my intense dislike of hospitals grow with every passing minute. If anyone has ever experienced any type of claustrophobia, they'll know that the phrase "I felt the walls closing in on me" is not random imagery. It feels like the walls are actually getting closer, physically closer, and soon they will be right on top of you, with no escape route. The result for me is a nausea that sits at the base of my throat and will not be persuaded to just fuck off already.
It finally lifted when I saw my brother wheeling the most perfectly perfect piece of perfection ever created out of the operating room and into the midst of five loving, gushing relatives.
It didn't take long for the nausea to return. In fact, all it took was a good look at my brother's face.
When Christina was finally moved into a recovery room, she was...shall we say...not quite lucid? Certainly not up for entertaining visitors. Her parents kindly offered to drive me home so I wouldn't have to take the bus that late at night (if they were even running at that point...I don't recall how late it was when we left).
I hadn't planned on going back to the hospital the next day, not wanting to overwhelm the new mommy, but a quick call put my worries to rest and I headed to the Royal Alex after work. It wasn't until I was in the recovery room, watching Christina hold Riven, watching my brother moving more tentatively than I've ever seen, brand new daughter cradled in his arms, that the knot of nausea finally eased away completely, to be replaced with utter joy. I realized that this is what I'd been missing the night before: a loving, happy, if exhausted, interaction between the three of them. Just knowing that Riven was a healthy baby and that Christina had made it through her operation hadn't been enough, and I had felt all day the weight of hope and fear battling against each other in my heart.
Later, I bused across the river, then strolled home along Saskatchewan Drive. As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, it was a wonderfully pleasant night for things like strolling, the breeze gently blowing my skirt and shawl and hair around me; just enough to feel the movement, not enough to be annoying. In fact, with the weight that had just been lifted, I felt like I was floating home. Oh, what a wonderful night! What wonderful joyous things exist in the world! Finally, a smile on my face.
About four blocks from home, an older (gentle)man in a boat of a convertible glided slowly passed me, then stopped his car, and reversed until he was right next to me. He leaned over and said, "Miss, you look absolutely lovely this evening." Then he leaned back, and without waiting for my (stunned) response, drove off in what I can only describe as the vehicular version of strolling.
Our culture has built firm walls up where interactions with random strangers are concerned. We can hardly stand to meet the gaze of people passing on the sidewalk, let alone speak to them. What could compel a person to attack those walls with something as intimate as a compliment?
I think he must have seen some measure of the joy that I was feeling. He must have seen it in the gait of my walk or the look on my face. Or maybe he is just the kind of person who spends his late autumn evenings handing out drive-by compliments.
Whatever his reasons, I found myself imitating him today, when I passed a woman on the sidewalk after work. It wasn't merely that she was a beautiful woman with impeccably styled hair and clothing. It was the expression on her face (joy) that had me breaking out of my cultural comfort zone to look her in the eye, smile, and say "You look stunning today!"
Regardless of what causes real joy in a person, small everyday nothings or huge life-altering somethings, that joy can occasionally be so effusive that it seems to radiate out and touch people around you...even perfect strangers. And that is awesome.
Neither the labour nor the delivery had been quite what Aaron and Christina (my brother and sister-in-law) had been hoping for, and while they were performing the C-section, I was sitting in a waiting room feeling my intense dislike of hospitals grow with every passing minute. If anyone has ever experienced any type of claustrophobia, they'll know that the phrase "I felt the walls closing in on me" is not random imagery. It feels like the walls are actually getting closer, physically closer, and soon they will be right on top of you, with no escape route. The result for me is a nausea that sits at the base of my throat and will not be persuaded to just fuck off already.
It finally lifted when I saw my brother wheeling the most perfectly perfect piece of perfection ever created out of the operating room and into the midst of five loving, gushing relatives.
 |
| Riven, minutes out of the womb. |
When Christina was finally moved into a recovery room, she was...shall we say...not quite lucid? Certainly not up for entertaining visitors. Her parents kindly offered to drive me home so I wouldn't have to take the bus that late at night (if they were even running at that point...I don't recall how late it was when we left).
I hadn't planned on going back to the hospital the next day, not wanting to overwhelm the new mommy, but a quick call put my worries to rest and I headed to the Royal Alex after work. It wasn't until I was in the recovery room, watching Christina hold Riven, watching my brother moving more tentatively than I've ever seen, brand new daughter cradled in his arms, that the knot of nausea finally eased away completely, to be replaced with utter joy. I realized that this is what I'd been missing the night before: a loving, happy, if exhausted, interaction between the three of them. Just knowing that Riven was a healthy baby and that Christina had made it through her operation hadn't been enough, and I had felt all day the weight of hope and fear battling against each other in my heart.
Later, I bused across the river, then strolled home along Saskatchewan Drive. As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, it was a wonderfully pleasant night for things like strolling, the breeze gently blowing my skirt and shawl and hair around me; just enough to feel the movement, not enough to be annoying. In fact, with the weight that had just been lifted, I felt like I was floating home. Oh, what a wonderful night! What wonderful joyous things exist in the world! Finally, a smile on my face.
About four blocks from home, an older (gentle)man in a boat of a convertible glided slowly passed me, then stopped his car, and reversed until he was right next to me. He leaned over and said, "Miss, you look absolutely lovely this evening." Then he leaned back, and without waiting for my (stunned) response, drove off in what I can only describe as the vehicular version of strolling.
Our culture has built firm walls up where interactions with random strangers are concerned. We can hardly stand to meet the gaze of people passing on the sidewalk, let alone speak to them. What could compel a person to attack those walls with something as intimate as a compliment?
I think he must have seen some measure of the joy that I was feeling. He must have seen it in the gait of my walk or the look on my face. Or maybe he is just the kind of person who spends his late autumn evenings handing out drive-by compliments.
Whatever his reasons, I found myself imitating him today, when I passed a woman on the sidewalk after work. It wasn't merely that she was a beautiful woman with impeccably styled hair and clothing. It was the expression on her face (joy) that had me breaking out of my cultural comfort zone to look her in the eye, smile, and say "You look stunning today!"
Regardless of what causes real joy in a person, small everyday nothings or huge life-altering somethings, that joy can occasionally be so effusive that it seems to radiate out and touch people around you...even perfect strangers. And that is awesome.
 |
| A life-altering something, in her Auntie's arms |
Sunday 10 February 2013
Happiness is Out on the Balcony, Having Tea
Do you ever find yourself betting your happiness on some future event or circumstance in your life? If I were just doing this, or if I were just living there, or if I just met 'The One' or if I just had x amount of money, then happiness would spring up in me and all my troubles would melt off into the ether! Right? I can't be the only one who has ever done this.
Unfortunately, this kind of thinking doesn't always (or even usually) pay off. And when it doesn't, we think to ourselves how foolish we were to pin our happiness on future things instead of present things. The present is much easier to manage, since we know more of the variables. The future is a wrench thrower.
But you have to understand, there are lottery winners in the world. Every once in a while one of those "If" bets has to pay off.
I pinned quite a bit of my happiness on an apartment balcony.
Living in a basement suite with roommates while going to university was economical and convenient, but it didn't take long for the lack of natural lighting to suck me into a vortex of inner darkness. Melodramatic, I know, but true. The place was decorated in all matching beige IKEA standards, and was actually very nice for a rental, but it wasn't MINE. It wasn't my furniture, my space. And it didn't have a balcony.
I don't know why the thought of a balcony was so important to me. I think it was because it's a space in the city that is outside but doesn't run the risk of neighbours popping their head over the fence. Maybe that doesn't sound very sociable of me, but I grew up surrounded by nothing but forest. When I went to play outside, I went alone, and that is how I like it. So a balcony! So isolated! So insular! If you want to join me in my outside space, you have to first be invited, so there is no risk of unwanted visitors!
When I finally found my current apartment, complete with balcony, I was concerned that I'd put too much emphasis on this little corner of the world, and that it couldn't possibly live up to my expectations. In truth, when I first moved in I almost never used the balcony, afraid of what would happen if my bubble should burst.
Eventually, when I got things set up with a chair and table and plants and BBQ, I started venturing out, and in 2012, I spent almost every summer evening out there. I thought I would do more reading, but it turns out I just like to sit outside and daydream, wondering about the lives of the people walking, biking, driving past me. I particularly enjoyed smelling my tomato vines. Don't judge me! It's a marvelous smell!
I moved in September 2011, but it wasn't until summer 2012 that I really owned that space and found the happiness there that I'd been hoping for, betting on.
I've been getting better about centering my happiness in the right now instead of the someday. I've started doing things because they add to my present joy, not because I think they might pay off later. I've started placing the onus for my happiness on my actions alone, not on random events or people that I have little to no control over. I've changed my perspective a lot and come out, not just happier, but more content than I ever was before.
But still, the fact that this particular bet paid off for me? Feels pretty damn sweet.
Unfortunately, this kind of thinking doesn't always (or even usually) pay off. And when it doesn't, we think to ourselves how foolish we were to pin our happiness on future things instead of present things. The present is much easier to manage, since we know more of the variables. The future is a wrench thrower.
But you have to understand, there are lottery winners in the world. Every once in a while one of those "If" bets has to pay off.
I pinned quite a bit of my happiness on an apartment balcony.
Living in a basement suite with roommates while going to university was economical and convenient, but it didn't take long for the lack of natural lighting to suck me into a vortex of inner darkness. Melodramatic, I know, but true. The place was decorated in all matching beige IKEA standards, and was actually very nice for a rental, but it wasn't MINE. It wasn't my furniture, my space. And it didn't have a balcony.
I don't know why the thought of a balcony was so important to me. I think it was because it's a space in the city that is outside but doesn't run the risk of neighbours popping their head over the fence. Maybe that doesn't sound very sociable of me, but I grew up surrounded by nothing but forest. When I went to play outside, I went alone, and that is how I like it. So a balcony! So isolated! So insular! If you want to join me in my outside space, you have to first be invited, so there is no risk of unwanted visitors!
When I finally found my current apartment, complete with balcony, I was concerned that I'd put too much emphasis on this little corner of the world, and that it couldn't possibly live up to my expectations. In truth, when I first moved in I almost never used the balcony, afraid of what would happen if my bubble should burst.
Eventually, when I got things set up with a chair and table and plants and BBQ, I started venturing out, and in 2012, I spent almost every summer evening out there. I thought I would do more reading, but it turns out I just like to sit outside and daydream, wondering about the lives of the people walking, biking, driving past me. I particularly enjoyed smelling my tomato vines. Don't judge me! It's a marvelous smell!
I moved in September 2011, but it wasn't until summer 2012 that I really owned that space and found the happiness there that I'd been hoping for, betting on.
I've been getting better about centering my happiness in the right now instead of the someday. I've started doing things because they add to my present joy, not because I think they might pay off later. I've started placing the onus for my happiness on my actions alone, not on random events or people that I have little to no control over. I've changed my perspective a lot and come out, not just happier, but more content than I ever was before.
But still, the fact that this particular bet paid off for me? Feels pretty damn sweet.
Monday 17 September 2012
A Short History of the Stuff I've Bought
When I look around my apartment, I can't help but notice how few things I've purchased for myself. Almost everything permanent (ie, not food and clothing) is secondhand or a gift. I was going to bore you with the details of what has been given to me over the years, but halfway through the list I realized I was boring myself. So I will spare you that particular torture!
Suffice it to say, most of my stuff was at one point the property of my mother, father, brothers, sisters-in-law, grandparents, friends, etc. The things that were gifts just for me are, of course, treasured for the thought that went into them, and the things that are second hand from these people are equally treasured, as I can't help but attach good memories to the objects through their association with those I love who used them first.
The whole point of this list though, is to highlight the things that I did buy for myself. Not the little insignificant things, like rings for the shower curtain...but the bigger ticket items that made a dent in my bank account for which I have no justification. These are not basic necessities; I bought them because I wanted them...there aren't many.
These are not listed in chronological order, but in order of importance to me, from least, to most.
1. Silver Hookah. I bought this from the Turkish booth at my favorite of summer festivals: Heritage Festival in Hawrelak Park. It's beautiful (though currently badly tarnished). I've only used it once, but it looks gorgeous on my desk, with the hose wrapped around my lamp. It brings back wonderful memories of both my university experiences, as well as my time at the festival with my dear friend Stef, which has become something of a yearly ritual. I don't really use it, but it still makes me smile when I look up at its intricate etching.
2. Acoustic Guitar. I used to play around on my mother's piano, and got to a point where I felt a deep love and affection for that instrument. However, though my mother has said I can have the piano, I have no place to put it, and no money to invest in its repair. So, missing music in my life, but not really wanting to buy an expensive piano since I technically already have one, I went to Long and McQuade and bought a guitar and started to teach myself how to play. I am currently at Level: Excruciatingly Awful. No really, I'm pretty bad. On the upside, I've started singing with more confidence, in order to drown out the clunking noises I make with the guitar. And however unimpressive my playing may be to me, it still makes me happy to play...although I don't play with enough regularity to grow calluses, and it doesn't take long for my fingers to wimp out on me.
3. Bright Red KitchenAid Lift-Stand Mixer. Ooooooh baby....Aside from one particularly hot pink bra, this is the sexiest thing I own. Normally something like $450 dollars at a place like Sears, Costco let me have this one for $199.99...and I love it. A lot. Guh...Excuse me...we need a moment alone....
4. So the last and most cherished thing I bought for myself isn't so much a thing as a collection. A collection of books, housed on shelves that I didn't buy (thanks Mom and Dad). Now, I won't pretend that I bought every single book on here, plenty of them were gifts...but for the most part, this is MY baby. This is where my heart is. These books are what really turn my apartment into a home instead of just a space I rent. The collection is a labour of love that started the day I gathered my loose change together so I could buy A Wrinkle in Time at a school bookfair and will end the day I stop breathing. When I look at these shelves, I see my life laid out; my interests, my loves and passions, the stages of my education. I see the way I've changed, the things I've left behind and the things I look forward to based on the changing genres of these books. I can remember how I felt upon first reading many of these. Some of them I bought and haven't read yet, but every one of the them is magical to me, and says something about my values and my character, as well as my interests. Not for a second have I looked at these books and thought, "Well, that was a waste of money."
Well, that's it. That's the list.
See, it's not that I don't like stuff. I really enjoy beautiful objects or useful machines (lord knows I salivate every time I see a Kitchen Aid pasta roller attachment), but I don't need a lot of stuff around me. When I stand in a home decor or appliance store, I look at everything and wish I had one of each awesome thing I see. But I don't buy those things, and it's not just that I don't have the money. It's that when I go home, to my adorable little apartment, I don't feel that I am lacking anything. No, I didn't pick out any of my own furniture, and no, I don't own a chef's knife, and if I should make pasta it would be with a rolling pin...because I somehow have two or three of those...not really sure how that happened...but my lack of fancy gadgets has in NO WAY stopped me from producing amazing food in my teeny tiny kitchen, and even the rarity of personally chosen home decor objects has not stopped me from using the gifts and second hand items I've received to create a space that is fundamentally Brenna: full of color and warmth.
Suffice it to say, most of my stuff was at one point the property of my mother, father, brothers, sisters-in-law, grandparents, friends, etc. The things that were gifts just for me are, of course, treasured for the thought that went into them, and the things that are second hand from these people are equally treasured, as I can't help but attach good memories to the objects through their association with those I love who used them first.
The whole point of this list though, is to highlight the things that I did buy for myself. Not the little insignificant things, like rings for the shower curtain...but the bigger ticket items that made a dent in my bank account for which I have no justification. These are not basic necessities; I bought them because I wanted them...there aren't many.
These are not listed in chronological order, but in order of importance to me, from least, to most.
1. Silver Hookah. I bought this from the Turkish booth at my favorite of summer festivals: Heritage Festival in Hawrelak Park. It's beautiful (though currently badly tarnished). I've only used it once, but it looks gorgeous on my desk, with the hose wrapped around my lamp. It brings back wonderful memories of both my university experiences, as well as my time at the festival with my dear friend Stef, which has become something of a yearly ritual. I don't really use it, but it still makes me smile when I look up at its intricate etching.
2. Acoustic Guitar. I used to play around on my mother's piano, and got to a point where I felt a deep love and affection for that instrument. However, though my mother has said I can have the piano, I have no place to put it, and no money to invest in its repair. So, missing music in my life, but not really wanting to buy an expensive piano since I technically already have one, I went to Long and McQuade and bought a guitar and started to teach myself how to play. I am currently at Level: Excruciatingly Awful. No really, I'm pretty bad. On the upside, I've started singing with more confidence, in order to drown out the clunking noises I make with the guitar. And however unimpressive my playing may be to me, it still makes me happy to play...although I don't play with enough regularity to grow calluses, and it doesn't take long for my fingers to wimp out on me.
3. Bright Red KitchenAid Lift-Stand Mixer. Ooooooh baby....Aside from one particularly hot pink bra, this is the sexiest thing I own. Normally something like $450 dollars at a place like Sears, Costco let me have this one for $199.99...and I love it. A lot. Guh...Excuse me...we need a moment alone....
4. So the last and most cherished thing I bought for myself isn't so much a thing as a collection. A collection of books, housed on shelves that I didn't buy (thanks Mom and Dad). Now, I won't pretend that I bought every single book on here, plenty of them were gifts...but for the most part, this is MY baby. This is where my heart is. These books are what really turn my apartment into a home instead of just a space I rent. The collection is a labour of love that started the day I gathered my loose change together so I could buy A Wrinkle in Time at a school bookfair and will end the day I stop breathing. When I look at these shelves, I see my life laid out; my interests, my loves and passions, the stages of my education. I see the way I've changed, the things I've left behind and the things I look forward to based on the changing genres of these books. I can remember how I felt upon first reading many of these. Some of them I bought and haven't read yet, but every one of the them is magical to me, and says something about my values and my character, as well as my interests. Not for a second have I looked at these books and thought, "Well, that was a waste of money."
Well, that's it. That's the list.
See, it's not that I don't like stuff. I really enjoy beautiful objects or useful machines (lord knows I salivate every time I see a Kitchen Aid pasta roller attachment), but I don't need a lot of stuff around me. When I stand in a home decor or appliance store, I look at everything and wish I had one of each awesome thing I see. But I don't buy those things, and it's not just that I don't have the money. It's that when I go home, to my adorable little apartment, I don't feel that I am lacking anything. No, I didn't pick out any of my own furniture, and no, I don't own a chef's knife, and if I should make pasta it would be with a rolling pin...because I somehow have two or three of those...not really sure how that happened...but my lack of fancy gadgets has in NO WAY stopped me from producing amazing food in my teeny tiny kitchen, and even the rarity of personally chosen home decor objects has not stopped me from using the gifts and second hand items I've received to create a space that is fundamentally Brenna: full of color and warmth.
Tuesday 4 September 2012
Teaching me to think for myself was probably your first mistake...
I love living in the city.
This came as a surprise to me, based on my country upbringing. And, considering how often my parents *hint* that I should move back to the country, I think it came as a surprise to them as well.
But, having given it a little deeper thought (which I am generally in the habit of doing) I came to a few theories as to how a girl raised exclusively on a farm in the middle of northern Alberta should come to feel so at home with the hustle and the bustle of a city.
I blame my parents.
My parents were not born and raised on farms. Though they certainly have stories to tell about visiting their relatives in the country, they were both raised in a city, and lived in cities as adults, and there's no way their urban lives didn't influence the way they raised their children. So even though they eventually moved to the middle of nowhere, they still hadn't totally assimilated to country life by the time I came around.
When they would cook foods with Indian or Asian influences, they'd tell stories about the restaurants they'd been to in Vancouver, and the experiences they'd had with those people and foods and tastes.
When we sat in the evenings, reading in the living room, it was CKUA radio in the background, bringing together music from every corner of Canada, of the world, of time, in every musical genre imaginable.
We watched the Edmonton News in the evenings, and then the fabulous Canadian political satire shows, This Hour Has 22 Minutes, and the Royal Canadian Air Farce. When I was bored, I'd pick a book out of the library, from the books that my parents had accumulated over the years.
In short, my parents taught me to appreciate the variety and weirdness that exists in our world, whether they knew that's what they were doing or not. In foods, in books, in musical genres, in cultures, they taught me to seek out things that were different from what I already knew, to expand my own mind, and to learn from all these things.
Now...can you guess where (rural vs. urban) you can find a wider variety of weird shit?
I can't blame my love of the city entirely on my parents, though. Some of that has to be my own personality. For all they taught me to appreciate weird things, they could never force me to love them.
But I look around myself, standing in the middle of things like the Edmonton Street Performers festival, or the Heritage Festival, or the Fringe Festival, and the crush of people (weird people) and music (weird music) and the smell of food (weird food) makes me so inexplicably happy. That there exists so much in the world that I don't understand is exciting to me.
And even the people that live here that match me, demographically speaking, who speak the same languages and eat the same foods and listen to the same music and read the same books and have the same color skin and the same genitalia and sexuality as me...even these people, who match me statistically, are not living the same life that I am. We are totally different souls, and I am reminded of this all the time in the city. Every time I walk to work, watching the traffic roll past me, I wonder about the stories of the people in the cars. Or every time I sit on my balcony and listen to snippets of conversations I will never hear the end of, I am reminded that there are an infinite number of ways to live a life, and mine is only one.
It is a remarkably humbling and yet enjoyable feeling.
This city has given me so much to do and see and experience. It is a feast for an inquisitive mind. It is a bright tapestry of others' lives, and I love it. I absolutely love it.
Don't get me wrong, I'm sure at some point I'll write a post all about how much I love the country, because I do. See, I've got layers...like an onion.
This came as a surprise to me, based on my country upbringing. And, considering how often my parents *hint* that I should move back to the country, I think it came as a surprise to them as well.
But, having given it a little deeper thought (which I am generally in the habit of doing) I came to a few theories as to how a girl raised exclusively on a farm in the middle of northern Alberta should come to feel so at home with the hustle and the bustle of a city.
I blame my parents.
My parents were not born and raised on farms. Though they certainly have stories to tell about visiting their relatives in the country, they were both raised in a city, and lived in cities as adults, and there's no way their urban lives didn't influence the way they raised their children. So even though they eventually moved to the middle of nowhere, they still hadn't totally assimilated to country life by the time I came around.
When they would cook foods with Indian or Asian influences, they'd tell stories about the restaurants they'd been to in Vancouver, and the experiences they'd had with those people and foods and tastes.
When we sat in the evenings, reading in the living room, it was CKUA radio in the background, bringing together music from every corner of Canada, of the world, of time, in every musical genre imaginable.
We watched the Edmonton News in the evenings, and then the fabulous Canadian political satire shows, This Hour Has 22 Minutes, and the Royal Canadian Air Farce. When I was bored, I'd pick a book out of the library, from the books that my parents had accumulated over the years.
In short, my parents taught me to appreciate the variety and weirdness that exists in our world, whether they knew that's what they were doing or not. In foods, in books, in musical genres, in cultures, they taught me to seek out things that were different from what I already knew, to expand my own mind, and to learn from all these things.
Now...can you guess where (rural vs. urban) you can find a wider variety of weird shit?
I can't blame my love of the city entirely on my parents, though. Some of that has to be my own personality. For all they taught me to appreciate weird things, they could never force me to love them.
But I look around myself, standing in the middle of things like the Edmonton Street Performers festival, or the Heritage Festival, or the Fringe Festival, and the crush of people (weird people) and music (weird music) and the smell of food (weird food) makes me so inexplicably happy. That there exists so much in the world that I don't understand is exciting to me.
And even the people that live here that match me, demographically speaking, who speak the same languages and eat the same foods and listen to the same music and read the same books and have the same color skin and the same genitalia and sexuality as me...even these people, who match me statistically, are not living the same life that I am. We are totally different souls, and I am reminded of this all the time in the city. Every time I walk to work, watching the traffic roll past me, I wonder about the stories of the people in the cars. Or every time I sit on my balcony and listen to snippets of conversations I will never hear the end of, I am reminded that there are an infinite number of ways to live a life, and mine is only one.
It is a remarkably humbling and yet enjoyable feeling.
This city has given me so much to do and see and experience. It is a feast for an inquisitive mind. It is a bright tapestry of others' lives, and I love it. I absolutely love it.
Don't get me wrong, I'm sure at some point I'll write a post all about how much I love the country, because I do. See, I've got layers...like an onion.
Wednesday 11 July 2012
The Great Pork Roast Adventure
I bought a new cookbook a few weeks ago. I had been eyeing "Donna Hay: Seasons" since Christmas when I received my most coveted of Christmas gifts: a Chapters gift card. I stood in front of it for a long time, but since it cost twice the amount of the card I had, I decided not to purchase it. But LO! Fate smiled upon the Brenna Bear! Where should this cookbook reappear but in the Winners, at half the original price! Huzzah! And though I was unemployed at the time, I could not just walk away from Fate.
As my sister-in-law remarked upon inspecting my purchase, "It's food porn!" And it really is. The food in each picture is highly styled, and the photography has a smoky, dreamy quality to it. It is interspersed with photos of landscapes and picnic set-ups. This is the kind of cookbook that inspires in me a desire to cook something more amazing than I have ever cooked before. And while some people buy cookbooks in order to be deliberately instructed, I buy cookbooks to fan into flames the burning embers of my culinary passions.
Okay, so my metaphors are a tad melodramatic.
After buying this book, I became employed again; a cash-earning, cash-spending member of society once more! I invited my brother and sister-in-law over for dinner to celebrate the end of my poverty, and so I could try out some recipes from my new book.
I got off work at 5:00 pm Saturday and walked home slowly. It was sweat-drippingly hot (a temperature I do NOT agree with) and when I got home, I spent some time sitting on my balcony reading and eating grapes and feeling very decadent and urban and sweaty. Eventually I put together a menu. In attempting to search for arugula salad recipes in a different cookbook, I stumbled across a Pork Roast recipe from David Tanis' book, "A Platter of Figs" that could not be ignored, and added it to my menu.
List complete, I looked up the hours for the Italian Centre on the south side, since the 52 bus stop is directly in front of my apartment building and the bus goes just past the Centre. Also, because their cheese is awesome. They were open until 9 and it was only 7. "Perfect," I thought to myself. Except that when I got downstairs and checked the bus schedule, the 52 bus was not going to arrive until 7:33. "Well, screw that," I thought, "I'll just walk down to the Save-On-Foods."
As I walked, I decided that if the Save-On didn't have the pork roast I was looking for, I would leave immediately and walk to the next 52 bus stop.
Save-On had nothing but chops and ribs. But, on the plus side, it was beautifully air conditioned in the store.
I waited for the bus, and made it to the Italian Centre at 8:15 pm. And while they had most of what I was looking for, they did not have the elusive pork roast. "Don't fret, Brenna Bear! There was a sign for a Sobey's in the parking lot directly east of this building! Maybe the Sobey's will have your roast!" Now, laden down with fruits and veggies and cheeses and cans of coconut milk, I wandered over to the next parking lot, only to find that the Sobey's was actually a Sobey's liquor store, with no associated grocery store. "Wait, is that an M&M meat shop across the parking lot?" Yes, it was, but it was closed.
Now 8:45, I went to catch my bus back home, thinking I would drop off my loot and then make a bike run to the Safeway, or the actual Sobey's nearest my place. But, upon calling Buslink, I learned that the 52 bus was on an hourly rotation, and would not be there until 9:33 pm. "Curse the heavens!" I decided to walk the three blocks east to see if there was another bus line that might take me home sooner. But what did I see on the corner of whatever avenue I was on and 104th Street? THE GREAT CANADIAN SUPERSTORE!
"They will have a pork roast!" I thought. And they did. HAL-LE-FREAKING-LU-JAH! By the time I left Superstore, I was carrying six bags of groceries and was more than a little tired. I got approached in the parking lot by a homeless man asking for money, and when I responded that I don't carry cash, he responded jovially, "Hey! We've got that in common!" I would have offered him food, but I didn't think raw pork or frozen phyllo pastry would be particularly appetizing to, well, anyone...
Instead of walking all the way back to my bus stop, I sat down at the nearest stop and learned that the number 6 to Millgate Transit Centre would be there in 15 minutes. I have no earthly idea where Millgate is, but I assumed that the transit centre would have a bus that headed north. At that point, I just didn't want to be on my feet anymore. I didn't even care how many transfers I would have to make.
I got on the bus, awkwardly pushing through with all my bags until I was across from the back doors. The bus moved two blocks. Two. And stopped at a red light. A red light that never turned green. Because the street we were on was blocked just past the intersection by a train that was moving unbelievably slowly. A train that eventually stopped on the tracks. The bus driver opened the doors so that we might not suffocate in the heat. Once again, "Screw this," I thought to myself. I hopped out and booked it back the five blocks to the 52 bus stop. It was now 10:15. The bus came at 10:33. I was desperately thirsty, but didn't want to risk missing the bus and being stuck there until 11:33. The closest thing I had to liquid among my groceries was Greek yoghurt or fresh lemons. I suffered through.
Eventually the bus came, and with only one random stop (for the bus driver to get coffee from the Starbucks on Whyte and 104th) I made it home.
Now, the whole reason for me shopping the night before this dinner, after an 8 hour workday and the start of a disgusting heat wave, was to be able to season the pork roast overnight. So after this miserable grocery excursion, I still had to put together this dish. I got finished at 1 am.
The next morning, I invited my friend and her husband to join us for supper, since I thought I had, maybe, just slightly, gone overboard by buying a 6-pound roast for three people.
In the end:
All of this with copious amounts of homemade Iced Tea.
I spent all day Sunday making this. And despite the sore feet and the pile of dishes (that I still have not gotten to), it was the best day I've had in a while.
I love cooking. There is a freedom that runs through my whole body when I cook. I cannot cook without music, and I frequently pause in my chopping, shredding, stirring, to twirl around in circles with my arms in the air. My heart feels lighter when I run my fingers through a pile of washed spinach, or grab a handful of velvet soft flour out of the bag. I massaged olive oil into the roast for an indecent amount of time. My feet are light, my hands are gentle, my face is relaxed when I waft a hand over a saucepan of poaching peaches. All my senses are ignited, lit up, dancing.
When I cook a menu derived from a cookbook or cookbooks, I marry together the part of me that is obsessed with timing and punctuality and order and measurement (and it's no small part: I blame my German heritage) with the looser, more creative and spontaneous side of myself.
There is no other act in this world that expresses so perfectly the person that I aim to be. There is no other act that shows so clearly my love for this world and the things in it. There is no other act that can transmit from me to you how much I love you.
And for that love, I will sacrifice my time and my dignity in search of Pork Roasts.
As my sister-in-law remarked upon inspecting my purchase, "It's food porn!" And it really is. The food in each picture is highly styled, and the photography has a smoky, dreamy quality to it. It is interspersed with photos of landscapes and picnic set-ups. This is the kind of cookbook that inspires in me a desire to cook something more amazing than I have ever cooked before. And while some people buy cookbooks in order to be deliberately instructed, I buy cookbooks to fan into flames the burning embers of my culinary passions.
Okay, so my metaphors are a tad melodramatic.
After buying this book, I became employed again; a cash-earning, cash-spending member of society once more! I invited my brother and sister-in-law over for dinner to celebrate the end of my poverty, and so I could try out some recipes from my new book.
I got off work at 5:00 pm Saturday and walked home slowly. It was sweat-drippingly hot (a temperature I do NOT agree with) and when I got home, I spent some time sitting on my balcony reading and eating grapes and feeling very decadent and urban and sweaty. Eventually I put together a menu. In attempting to search for arugula salad recipes in a different cookbook, I stumbled across a Pork Roast recipe from David Tanis' book, "A Platter of Figs" that could not be ignored, and added it to my menu.
List complete, I looked up the hours for the Italian Centre on the south side, since the 52 bus stop is directly in front of my apartment building and the bus goes just past the Centre. Also, because their cheese is awesome. They were open until 9 and it was only 7. "Perfect," I thought to myself. Except that when I got downstairs and checked the bus schedule, the 52 bus was not going to arrive until 7:33. "Well, screw that," I thought, "I'll just walk down to the Save-On-Foods."
As I walked, I decided that if the Save-On didn't have the pork roast I was looking for, I would leave immediately and walk to the next 52 bus stop.
Save-On had nothing but chops and ribs. But, on the plus side, it was beautifully air conditioned in the store.
I waited for the bus, and made it to the Italian Centre at 8:15 pm. And while they had most of what I was looking for, they did not have the elusive pork roast. "Don't fret, Brenna Bear! There was a sign for a Sobey's in the parking lot directly east of this building! Maybe the Sobey's will have your roast!" Now, laden down with fruits and veggies and cheeses and cans of coconut milk, I wandered over to the next parking lot, only to find that the Sobey's was actually a Sobey's liquor store, with no associated grocery store. "Wait, is that an M&M meat shop across the parking lot?" Yes, it was, but it was closed.
Now 8:45, I went to catch my bus back home, thinking I would drop off my loot and then make a bike run to the Safeway, or the actual Sobey's nearest my place. But, upon calling Buslink, I learned that the 52 bus was on an hourly rotation, and would not be there until 9:33 pm. "Curse the heavens!" I decided to walk the three blocks east to see if there was another bus line that might take me home sooner. But what did I see on the corner of whatever avenue I was on and 104th Street? THE GREAT CANADIAN SUPERSTORE!
"They will have a pork roast!" I thought. And they did. HAL-LE-FREAKING-LU-JAH! By the time I left Superstore, I was carrying six bags of groceries and was more than a little tired. I got approached in the parking lot by a homeless man asking for money, and when I responded that I don't carry cash, he responded jovially, "Hey! We've got that in common!" I would have offered him food, but I didn't think raw pork or frozen phyllo pastry would be particularly appetizing to, well, anyone...
Instead of walking all the way back to my bus stop, I sat down at the nearest stop and learned that the number 6 to Millgate Transit Centre would be there in 15 minutes. I have no earthly idea where Millgate is, but I assumed that the transit centre would have a bus that headed north. At that point, I just didn't want to be on my feet anymore. I didn't even care how many transfers I would have to make.
I got on the bus, awkwardly pushing through with all my bags until I was across from the back doors. The bus moved two blocks. Two. And stopped at a red light. A red light that never turned green. Because the street we were on was blocked just past the intersection by a train that was moving unbelievably slowly. A train that eventually stopped on the tracks. The bus driver opened the doors so that we might not suffocate in the heat. Once again, "Screw this," I thought to myself. I hopped out and booked it back the five blocks to the 52 bus stop. It was now 10:15. The bus came at 10:33. I was desperately thirsty, but didn't want to risk missing the bus and being stuck there until 11:33. The closest thing I had to liquid among my groceries was Greek yoghurt or fresh lemons. I suffered through.
Eventually the bus came, and with only one random stop (for the bus driver to get coffee from the Starbucks on Whyte and 104th) I made it home.
Now, the whole reason for me shopping the night before this dinner, after an 8 hour workday and the start of a disgusting heat wave, was to be able to season the pork roast overnight. So after this miserable grocery excursion, I still had to put together this dish. I got finished at 1 am.
 |
| Late night Pork Roast Assembly |
The next morning, I invited my friend and her husband to join us for supper, since I thought I had, maybe, just slightly, gone overboard by buying a 6-pound roast for three people.
In the end:
 |
| Arugula Salad with Tomatoes, Fennel, and Parmesan chips, with a Balsamic Vinaigrette |
 |
| Fennel and Rosemary Pork Roast |
 |
| Spinach and Goat Feta Phyllo Pies with Tzatziki |
 |
| Poached Peaches and Nectarines over Coconut Risotto with Vanilla Bean-Infused Honey |
All of this with copious amounts of homemade Iced Tea.
I spent all day Sunday making this. And despite the sore feet and the pile of dishes (that I still have not gotten to), it was the best day I've had in a while.
I love cooking. There is a freedom that runs through my whole body when I cook. I cannot cook without music, and I frequently pause in my chopping, shredding, stirring, to twirl around in circles with my arms in the air. My heart feels lighter when I run my fingers through a pile of washed spinach, or grab a handful of velvet soft flour out of the bag. I massaged olive oil into the roast for an indecent amount of time. My feet are light, my hands are gentle, my face is relaxed when I waft a hand over a saucepan of poaching peaches. All my senses are ignited, lit up, dancing.
When I cook a menu derived from a cookbook or cookbooks, I marry together the part of me that is obsessed with timing and punctuality and order and measurement (and it's no small part: I blame my German heritage) with the looser, more creative and spontaneous side of myself.
There is no other act in this world that expresses so perfectly the person that I aim to be. There is no other act that shows so clearly my love for this world and the things in it. There is no other act that can transmit from me to you how much I love you.
And for that love, I will sacrifice my time and my dignity in search of Pork Roasts.
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