city girl.

Being a senior at my high school was not a perk-ridden position. Your upperclassman status usually came with the right to torment freshman within reason (not my cup of tea) and the option of having lunch outside in the courtyard on pleasant spring and fall days. I remember these lunches more clearly than most of my jumbled high school memories. The cast changed depending on whether or not it was an A or B day or first of second semester. But I remember La Witt. And I remember that it was here that we hatched the beginnings of The Plan.

The Plan–not to be confused with my Le Plan, which was to move to Paris with Hodge and run a street crepe stand business–was that we (La Witt and I) would move to New York in some adult form of ourselves, preferably after graduating with honors from Northwestern University. In New York, we would naturally own some crazy, gorgeous Manhattan loft. Not that we so foolish as to overlook the cost of living in the Big Apple. We would round up for gay men (boys are always less drama) to be our roommates, pick out our clothes, and help pay the rent. It was all somewhat Sex in the City despite having never seen an episode.

While The Plan was obviously more fluff than substance, it still follows me, living somewhere in the deep if not dark recesses of my mind. Every time I pack up and move again, I wonder if maybe I’m getting closer to the person my 18-year-old self lightheartedly dreamed of becoming. When I was 22, I moved to the East Coast on really nothing more than a whim. By the time I was 24, I was living just a block outside the District of Columbia line, scraping together rent and riding the metro into the city everyday. And now, at 26, I live in a rowhome in the bohemian epicenter (it’s about as hipster as politicians and non-profiteers can get) of our nation’s capitol. Although none of my roommates fall into the gay male category and will probably never be responsible for selecting my outfit in the morning, they are among some of the most urban, intellectual, and interesting people I’ve come across in my four years here.

I may have ended up in the wrong city. And most days I may not have any idea where I’m going in life. But this week–as I pop into my favorite used bookstore on the walk home, or pass the embassies on my morning stroll, or make plans to meet for drinks with my old friends all living within a few block radius, or just drink a beer as new friends stop by–I feel like I just might have fulfilled one of my dreams in a roundabout and unexpected way. It may not get me voted as Most Successful at our 10 year high school reunion but the memory of me in that courtyard knows how far we’ve come.

 

favorite things: new home edition.

1. This desk idea from Design*Sponge will be perfect for my tiny new room.
2. Cute storage tins from IKEA.
3. The realization that I could (theoretically) make my own biscotti. [from Whipped]
4. My first semester of grad school being almost over.
5. New home = New ‘hood.
6. A green reason to use my food processor. [from The Kitchn]
7. And I’m sorry. Did you say Lunch With a Llama?

 

once upon a time and happily ever after.

For a person who has spent most of her life in the middle of things–a middle child, who moved from the Midwest to the MidAtlantic, and now is a contributing member of the middle class in her mid-20s–life has seemed less about the middle and more about beginnings and endings lately. I haven’t blogged about it much (read: at all), as I feel it’s hard to do justice to four years of friendship, house sharing, laughter, cat fights, road trips, dance parties, and tears. To talk about the dissolution of my Second Family would be to acknowledge that it’s happening, that an era is over. I much prefer to focus on what lies ahead–the new house, new people, new neighborhood. For the three of us it all began once upon a time in the middle of the last summer Olympic Games and I can only hope it ends happily ever after whevever life may take us.

a history in bikes.

In my mind my first bike had streamers and a basket, although I’m not sure how much of that is truth and how much of that is the rose-colored glasses of my memory. And it had training wheels. Those I clearly remember. The left wheel rarely touched the ground, making for an uneven ride at best. I developed remarkable skills of balance trying to give each wheel equal attention. It didn’t take us long to figure out that it was harder to ride with them on rather than off. And so the I said good-bye to the training wheels one Sunday afternoon at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I loved my bike. I used to ride in a detachable seat on the back of Dad’s bike before I had my own. And then later on a non-seat on the back of my cousin’s bike. Having my own bike was like being initiated into some sort of if not grown-up at least older club. Soon I decided that streamers and a basket were not very grown up, so my dad pimped my bike. The “childish” accroutements were removed and spray paint was purchased. To keep my ride looking cool, my mom let me splatter paint it. Nothing was cooler than splatter paint circa 1992.

Eventually the home-stylings of the Funk family began to strike me as less cool and I made a very adult decision: I was ready for a 10-speed. My 10-speed was bought at Target, a beautiful Huffy whose garish pink and purple colorations could probably be seen from space if not for the fact that it is stored it in the backyard shed. I never really mastered gear shifting, but that was of no matter to me. The bike gleamed with new-ness. I was in love.

I could write a novel on that Huffy. Contained within that frame were my first few tastes of freedom. Tired of taking me to the library on a daily basis during the school-free summer months, my mom gave me free reign to bike the 10 or so blocks to the corner of Jefferson and Taylor all by myself. Freedom was quite tasty.

Eventually I turned sixteen and traded the independence of the Huffy for that of the Chevy. And only now, a decade later, as I’m about to move into the heart of the city, is my love affair with the bicycle returning. I love photographs of bikes perched sassily against a building. I love the idea of Amsterdam and it’s cycle-loving citizens. I loved the Velo program in Paris that offers the freedom of biking to one and all. And I love not having to fight for a parking space.

My latest bike has 21 speeds–many of which don’t actually work. It was purchased off of Craigslist a little worse for the wear and is neither splatter painted nor flourescent pink. It doesn’t even have streamers. But I’m getting a basket for it. Oh, I am so getting a basket.

inspiration.

Okay. Fine. So you didn’t think the Library of Congress flickr page was absolutely thrilling. I can live with that, I suppose. But you have to admit this new project–Inspiration Across the Nation–is rather fantastic adn well… inspired.

Check it out! Or, better yet, contribute!

happy belated earth day.

This book caught my eye months ago during a casual afternoon of bookstore browsing. Seeing it displayed on a table in the travel section resulted in one of those classic “Why didn’t I think of that?!?” moments. I only had a chance to do a preliminary flip through, but it truly is as marvelous as it sounds if you’re a map/travel/general knowledge nerd like myself.

I had forgotten about this discovery until this week, as I’m reading The Subway Chronicles and find myself spending an inordinate amount of time riding public transportation while reading about transportation and subsequently reminiscing about my own experiences on public transportation. And conveniently, Earth Day and mass transportation go together like chocolate and peanut butter. So happy belated earth day! I hope you had a lovely commute this morning.

of books, bags, and bikes.

I’ve been on a bit of a blogging hiatus. Inspiration is all around me, but the spirit just hasn’t been willing. My pictures are not loading on to my computer. My room is in the unique state of chaos that can only exist right before a Big Move. End-of-the-semester projects are beginning to pile up and stare tauntingly from aforementioned chaos. And for a girl who was raised by a man who does not believe in stress, I’ve been experiencing a sensation that could be easily confused with such mythical nonsense quite a bit of late.

So I’m easing back into this with a couple of links, just to get my feet wet.

Have we ever discussed the superiority of UK book covers? Maybe? There isn’t actually all that much to discuss aside from the fact that they are superior. More illustration based, I’ve been told. It makes browsing books on Amazon.co.uk a pleasant way to pass the time on a slow day. I hadn’t indulged this small pleasure of mine much recently, but the fates were wooking in my favor this morning, when I dug up this article from February which led me to this book. Cooking without a recipe (a private, seemingly unattainable goal of mine)? Paris? Yes, please.

I haven’t had a chance to do much cooking at all recently (see beginning of post)–with or without a recipe–but I did have the good luck to stumble upon La Pasta at my local Whole Foods. Pasta has been my go to dinner when I’m in a time crunch for the past decade. But locally made pasta? This was a revelation for me. And a very good one indeed. As I lead a non-pasta-maker existence (not for lack of wanting, though), being able to buy pasta made in my zip code… next best thing. My Whole Foods conversion is complete.

Before my next trip to Whole Foods though, I need to invest in a new shopping bag or two as my current one had a rather unfortunate run in with a shopping cart that left it looking swiss cheese-esque. To not bring your own bag to WF is a crime of harsh environmental proportions. Already intimidated by its yuppie ways, I try not to bring further judgment upon myself. So I was very excited to find a new spring line for sale through Reusable Bags. Pretty!

And is there anything better than going shopping with new bags on a new bike on a summer day? Maybe only cooking without a recipe and dreaming of Paris.

english majors.

Strange things can happen on a terrifically sunny, beautiful day when you spend it in a cubicle staring at your computer screen. You may find yourself in the NPR online gift shop at 4:30 in the afternoon contemplating the purchase of an organic cotton tote bag with a food-friendly graphic design and the NPR logo… because nothing goes together like All Things Considered and a bag of organically grown apples.

Be forewarned though, if you find yourself in this predicament, already quite bit off the work path, you may suddenly be thrown completely off track by this.

Actually, this probably only happens to me.

Happy Friday.

grand ideas.

Best of intentions be damned. I can’t seem to get myself into the kitchen on a regular basis. But this didn’t keep me from picking up the bon appetite travel issue (and subsequently making a mental note to visit Cork, Ireland, in the very near future). And it certainly won’t keep me from picking up Clotilde’s new book. Or from subscribing to Orangette’s blog.

I can’t seem to get enough of the idea of food, even if my own life is filled with delivery-Thai, Zpizza, and the occasional broiled fish or pasta night. I feel the more I surround myself with images of food, recipes, aprons, and Fiestaware, the more likely I am to become a part of the food culture that so intrigues me.

And now that the blogosphere has led me to Jessica’s Biscuit (discount cookbooks!), it’s only a matter of time before I pick up Alice Water’s The Art of Simple Food with the recipe for herb pizza dough just so I can entertain the glorious idea of a weekly pizza night complete with homemade crusts and the most lovely of dinner guests.

Perhaps that’s why I like the idea of food so much, it’s a building block of a much grander idea–that of community.

public transportation.

I’ve always suspected I have a staring problem. Other people fascinate me, and I do a terribly poor job of averting my gaze to hide this fact. And while people watching in the park or at a cafe is all well and good, people watching on public transportation is my personal preference. This is due in large part because I like to see what people are reading. I smile at the 40-something man with his comic book. I watch the blind woman with her braille New York Times in unabashed wonder. I see the young man reading Eat, Pray, Love, and yearn to strike up a conversation with him regarding how the book speaks to male readers. I see a woman reading a Raymond Chandler novel and remind myself that I’ve been meaning to pick up one of his novels as well. I see Grisham and Lipmann and Coehlo and Pollan. It’s better than the Sunday Washington Post Book World.

I’d like to say I don’t judge. I don’t believe we are what we read. But remember the next time you pull your book out on the morning commute, someone might be watching and wondering. Points for originality.