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Maybe it’s all this chatter about my school days, but this morning, I was remembering Weekly Readers. Does this ring a bell? Are they still around? No doubt a quick search of the Internets could answer this question. Hold on.
Answer: Yes, it is.
But I digress. The whole point is that I’ve decided to start a weekly reader of my very own with the hopes that I will not be committing any sort of trademark infringement. The selections with be entirely subjective as the joy of a blog as you know means having complete editorial control, but I like to think it might justify the embarrassing number of hours I spend during the week absorbing random information while I should be working and allow you to do the same.
And so without further ado, I present The WTOS Reader, Volume 1, Issue 1.
General Interest: The Art of Translation [NPR], For anyone who loves books, nerdy things, or Les Miserables.
Current Events: Obamaism [New York], Want to relive November 4, 2008 over and over? I do.
Essay: The Chelsea Affect [Granta], Because Arthur Miller was brilliant and funny (and wrote more than The Crucible).
Cookery: A Great Relief [Orangette], Not everyone gets to make the Thanksgiving turkey. I would settle for biscuits being my Thanksgiving trademark.
Book Reviews: Graphic Tales [Bookslut], I’ve already owned up to my love of young adult fiction, but aside from Persepolis I’ve never taken the next step into young adult graphic novels. Now I want to.
I’ve always preferred novels to poetry. At the risk of sounding like the worst English literature major ever, I don’t necessarily get poetry most of the time. I faked my way through British Romantic Literature, expecting Austen and getting Blake and Byron. But occasionally, a poem resonates with me, moves stealthily around my mental blockade and touches a part of my heart or mind that is often ignored.
Mahmoud Darwish’s “Remainder of a Life” is one such poem. I keep it tacked up on my cubicle wall between a softball schedule and a colleague’s thank you note, a humble place for a powerful work. It is a poem about death, and perhaps an odd choice for daily reading. But I find his straightforward approach to both his subject matter and language comforting. It is beautiful in its simplicity and imagery.
And so, in light of Mr. Darwish’s own death this past weekend, I wanted to share this favorite poem of mine with you… a poem for those of us who don’t always get poetry.
A coworker today commented on how I wear my hair. In the summer, there isn’t a great deal of variety. My only stipulations are that it is (a) up and (b) off my neck.
My Hair Uniform from Memorial Day to Labor Day:
I don’t give it much thought. Twisting it up is a subconcious act at this point, requiring little to no thought and placing minimal demands on my time. You probably see 100 girls with a similar style of disarray on your head during your morning commute. It’s nothing special. And it’s not even that pretty.
But for all it’s simplicity and chaos, I love this style. There are far more flattering things I can do with my hair (most of which require at least 30 minutes of my time, various products, a blow dryer, and an expensive straightener to look good for an hour max), but it was this lack of style that Madeline loved. And it is this style that I will probably wear long into adulthood.
Madeline was one of my best friends when I was in high school. We played together after school Monday through Thursday and frequently on Friday or Saturday night, too. She ate my mac n’ cheese, even when it was “crunchy.” She made me get up and play outside when I only wanted to sit in front of the TV. And she always listened to my problems. Madeline was 14 years younger than me. And between you and me, while her mother paid me very well, I would have been friends with Madeline for free.
Our friendship was sealed around her fourth birthday. I was a mess of teenage girl self-confidence issues at the time, which were magnified by my inability to control my hair. Most days if my hair left down prompted my mother to call me “Wanda the Witch.” (If I ever end up in therapy, I’m sending her the bill.) And so on this particular day I had it up in it standard knot. I was sitting on the floor, participating in some forgotten game of pretend when I felt Madeline pat my hair gently and sigh. Then, looking me in the eye, she said as only one so young and innocent and unaware of style can, “I love your hair, Katie. It looks just like a beautiful flower.”
These days when I reach back to twist up my hair, I don’t think of its unruliness or its inability to hold a nonfrizzy curl. I think of Madeline. And I think of flowers. And I wouldn’t trade my hair with anyone.
For a long time Registering was at the top of the pro column of my ongoing To Marry or Not to Marry Debate. And even now, who doesn’t find the idea of the little scanner gun rather fun? And while I still reserve the right to register if/when my time comes, I have found after shopping off my share of registries that the process leaves me feeling impersonal and detached–as I scan the list for (a) something in my price range and (b) something more exciting than a pair of saucers.
I can’t remember what I gave my cousin for her wedding. Or my best friend for that matter (maybe a gift card?). I think it’s safe to take this as a sign that I am contributing to the start of people’s lives together in a rather unmemorable way. And so I made a new deal with myself a few weeks ago: I buy something off the registry, but I supplement the impersonal with the personal.
Which is where the napkins come in…
With only about 10 days and 2 showers to prepare for, I picked up a 12-pack of cloth napkins from Bed, Bath, & Beyond and ransacked my embroidery thread stash. I wanted to incorporate the wedding date into each design and one was definitely far simpler (re: quicker) than the other. But in the end, I was really happy with both, if for no other reason than I’ll remember what I gave these two wonderful couples and I hope that they will remember, too.
If you’re interested in embroidering your own napkins/tea towels/pillows, I found surprising success with my rather improvised method:
Make a simple design using MS Word or Publisher. Print out. Trace the design on the opposite side of the paper so that it is backwards. Scan the backwards copy as a PDF. Print out this new document using a laser printer. Iron on to fabric. Stitch.
I’ve recently become fascinated with cupcakes. And can you blame me? It’s a cupcake world. I began noticing this when I moved within a few blocks of Love Cafe, where I could get a coffee and a CakeLove cupcake to make studying a little less of a chore. Then A started singing the praises of Georgetown Cupcake (who is rumored to sell out of cupcakes almost daily), and I noticed that a Hello Cupcake was going in near my Metro station. And finally, while browsing the Anthropologie in Seattle, I saw it: a book filled with cupcake recipes and lovely photography for only $10.
I bought it, drooling over pages of delicious sounding recipes, and planning my career as a famous cupcaketeer (this was pre-sheep/llama farm plans).
And now this wondrous book is at A’s house.
And A is out of town.
And his birthday is in less than 48 hours.
So I decided it was time to consider my options:
a. Break into his apartment for a rescue operation.
b. Return to my roots–Betty Crocker Funfetti
c. Find a recipe from a blogger I trust
I ended up going with d. none of the above, also known as, d. Use a recipe from celebrity you adore who evidently has a knack for making delicious cupcakes. That’s right. I headed to Harris Teeter, Amy Sedaris Cupcake Recipe in hand. And $25 (I was out of even the most basic of ingredients) and 1.5 hours later, I had myself 23 (filled the first batch a teeny tiny bit too full and falling just short of the recipe intended 24) rather successful made-from-scratch cupcakes on my hands. I’ll let you know how the icing phase goes tomorrow…
I could see this obsession taking me places. Forget novel writing and quilting–it’s the life of a pastry chef for me.
It is a truth universally acknowledged if not necessarily infallible that bad things happen in threes. Looking back on this week–Sunday to Sunday–I can offer evidence to this Law of Nature. Check. Check. And check.
So it’s quite nice when the market offers you good things in threes: Strawberries (for jam), Basil (for pesto), and Basil and Tomato Feta (for any and everything I can put it on). Karma isn’t always a bitch.
Bringing my booty home, I elected to spend the hottest day of the year thus far in the company of my stove. Who needs air conditioning anyway?
I had been down the basil pesto road before. And it was as lovely as I remember it. Everyone’s spirits seemed to lift as the scent of leaves filled the house. I began making hourly pilgrimages to the deck to check on the status of my own basil plant.
Thank goodness A shoved more seeds into the soil. Maybe it will be filling jars by August…
The real coup of the day, however, was the strawberry jam. I know I’ve been yammering on about this for weeks (maybe months) now. And it wouldn’t have been a surprise if I found myself wildly disappointed by the results, because (a) expectations were high, and (b) I don’t actually like jam that much. Case in point: I’m a peanut butter, no jelly kind of gal.
But, oh, so fun! So easy! And so very delicious!
The inspiration came from Molly, but I worked mainly from the adapted recipe on The Kitchen Sink sans rhubarb. I ended up using two pints of strawberries and just a little less than two cups of sugar. End result: Almost a pint of jam. Adjust ratios accordingly to make more or less.
Spread it on toast and you’ll soon forget all the bad things from the week before…
Or pour it into smaller jars, buy a few bottles of wine, and finally put together those house warming baskets you’ve been postponing for weeks now.
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.
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.
I was relatively young when I started collecting keychains. I had keychains long before I had keys. Family vacations were a thriving resource for adding to this collection. I had keychains from every major tourist attraction and theme park in Florida, the entire Land of Lincoln, any mountain of note in Colorado, obscure sites in the South, and exotic locales that my father visited for work, like Witchita. I didn’t exhibit them on my wall in any creative way. I simply kept them in a paper bag in the bottom drawer of my desk. I liked having them. I didn’t need to show them off. It was enough to know they were there.
The same could be said for the boxes of VHS figure skating television specials I recorded off the television. Or the notes folded into paper footballs and stuffed unceremoniously into the top desk drawer. I saved covers from favorite magazines and my father’s childhood rock collection (in a Precious Moments box). Speaking of Precious Moments, they were among the only item I hoarded that actually went on display and then obsessively packed away when there were media rumblings of an imminent earthquake threat.
I liked stuff. Even then.
Having to pay for my own “stuff” as an adult hasn’t curbed this innate sense of materialism at all. This week alone I’ve considered the purchase of or actually purchased a bike (used), a quilt (on sale), a dresser (tbd), frames for old pictures, a vintage box, hooks for hanging scarves and purses, and several albums on iTunes. I am at least mentally doing my part to stimulate the stale American economy.
My compulsive spending habit is one problem, but the incessant acquisition of “stuff” provides its own trial, usually on a biennial basis, right around the time I realize “lo and behold, I’m moving again.” This realization is immediately followed by a sense of wonder at a) how much stuff I have, and b) how I’ve managed to fit it all in such a small place. Then my inner-pioneer girl (all Missourians have one) starts thinking about the simpler life and how all this is going to weigh down the wagon and be bad for ole Bessie, the metaphorical horse pulling the moving wagon. And thus begins the cycle: purge, move, acquire, repeat.
Snippet from a conversation concerning the location of the new National’s Stadium:
Me: I hope there are still tickets left on such a gorgeous night!
Him: Don’t worry. There are plenty of things to do in Navy Yard if the game is sold out.
[A pregnant pause to consider the absurdity of this statement]
Him: Like crack, for example.
Author’s Note: There were tickets available, the stadium is stunning, and the hot dogs are delicious.
