The going has been rough lately. Too many complainers, more remodeling work than could possibly be accomplished by two people, flopped recipes for supper, and garden plants with curling, blighty leaves. And the weather. Monday and Tuesday were hot, so dense and uncomfortable it was all I could do not to sweat standing still.
But then there was Wednesday. I got home from work, and the cool air outside the car felt like a sigh of relief. I hurried to check the plants in my garden, hopeful that at least they had profited from our temporary tropical climate. Lo and behold, the seeds had sprouted! Green beans, peas, zucchini and cucumbers were bravely reaching tiny green leaves toward the sun. I fawned over them, inspecting their little shoots and marveling at how something as simple as poking a seed into the dirt with my finger could produce these wonders of creation. I checked my "cheater" plants, too - the ones I had purchased in pots at the garden center. The tomatoes' leaves still seemed to be suffering, the edges curling and gray in some places, but they were getting bigger and looked a little healthier I thought.
Heading home to my apartment, I decided it was the perfect night for chocolate cake to celebrate my small green accomplishments. With each window flung wide, birdsong and sunshine streaming through the screens, I set to work. A recipe from the Barefoot Contessa was too good to pass up, with a cup of fresh brewed coffee stirred in right at the end. The scent of warm chocolate permeated the corners of the apartment, chasing out musty, humid smells locked in while the hot air forced us to stay closed tight.
Content, I sat at my computer reading emails. Junk. Junk. Junk. A note from my editor in chief: Two of my stories are on the front page this week, above the fold! "Thanks for all your hard work — it is being noticed and appreciated by the community." How could he have possibly known that I've been feeling like maybe I can't handle freelancing for the paper with everything else that's going on? It's like he has ESP and knew exactly what to say at the right moment. Now I'm smiling from ear to ear and in love with the idea that I have business cards that say "Staff Writer" on them. This guy is good.
When my cake was cool, I whipped chocolate buttercream frosting until my arms were tired, and spread it on the cake an inch thick. Perfect.
And then, not wanting to ask too much of just one day, I went to bed. And the breeze blew through the curtains, frogs singing me to sleep.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Shake It Up, Baby
"I guess there's got to be a break in the monotony, but Jesus, when it rains how it pours." ~ OK Go, "Here it Goes Again"
From having no job - and no real prospects - to two jobs and a house to completely remodel, it feels like someone took the proverbial snow globe of my life and gave it a good, hard shake. Standing upright once more, I'm effervescing gratitude and trying to regain my bearings amid the glitter raining down.
Starting April 25, I'll be the consumer relations coordinator for Farley's and Sathers Candy Company in Round Lake, Minn. Though you likely haven't heard of the company, or the town, you're probably familiar with brands Farley's and Sathers owns including Brach's, Now and Later, Trolli and Fruit Stripe Gum. Word on the street is that employees get a great deal on candy, and I'm looking forward to being everyone's favorite person from now on.
The other job is freelancing for our local paper, the Jackson County Pilot. I did a few design projects recently, and then they asked me to write a few stories each week. Starting out at one seemed prudent, and my first byline will hopefully show up next Thursday.
The other job is freelancing for our local paper, the Jackson County Pilot. I did a few design projects recently, and then they asked me to write a few stories each week. Starting out at one seemed prudent, and my first byline will hopefully show up next Thursday.
And then there's the house: our split level starter home in need of so much love. We close April 26, and then we start tearing it apart. So far, we've come across hundreds of dollars worth of surprises in the process, and I'm sure that's only the least of it. Hopefully in a few months we'll all be laughing about things we found in the sheetrock or that time the hammer narrowly missed hitting Nathan on the head instead of wringing our hands over plumbing nightmares. As I say in French, "On verra."
This last week of my "vacation" is already heavily scheduled. A lot of trips to the coffee shop at odd hours of the afternoon, book reading outside (weather permitting), baking, cooking, eating, sleeping, watching Kathie Lee and Hoda (that's right, I watch it), remodeling sketches, shopping for business casual outfits for spring, breathing. The usual.
Really, I feel blessed. Finding a job in just four months is a pretty good feat. And finding a house in a perfect neighborhood for a great price was a bonus. As I adjust to all these big changes in my life, I feel a little out of breath. But don't worry: breathing is on my list for next week.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Are you chicken or something?
My passion for skin-on, bone-in chicken goes back to my childhood, when we very rarely had chicken breasts for dinner. We raised our own chickens, and my mother often fried or baked a whole one. Each person would get to pick which part s/he wanted, and you couldn't leave the table until all the meat had been cleaned from the bones on your plate. Sometimes you were lucky enough to get the wishbone, in which case someone else volunteered to crack it with you and whoever ended up with the larger part was granted a wish.
After the meal, my dad was always the Chicken Cleaner. While we were busing dishes and putting away leftovers, he sat at the island in the kitchen and carefully disassembled the remaining chicken. The breast meat he cut in great big slabs to be put in his sandwiches for lunch. Everything else he carefully separated from the bones and fat and put in a large Tupperware. Later in the week we would have pot pie, chicken salad sandwiches or chicken
and gravy over mashed potatoes. Delicious!
Since I've been married, I've become the Chicken Cleaner. My husband is much more fond of chicken breasts, and though he will eat chicken pieces, he's not about to sit around after supper picking apart the extras. I don't mind - I've come to enjoy it. The meat shines with broth and melted chicken fat, and in the way only a foodie can, I think it's luscious and beautiful. While I'm pulling meat off the bones and fat off the meat, I think about the times my father has done the same, and the many meals I shared with my family.
Even more than this, I feel like cleaning a chicken is a way to be mindful of the gift we have in our food. Trying not to waste any is just common sense when we think of all it took to get that food to our plates. And besides, Mother won't let me leave the table until all the chicken's cleaned off my plate.
4 Easy Steps to Cleaning Chicken
(recipe inspired by Emily at Zweber Farms)
Leftovers from our supper last night.
1. Put frozen chicken pieces ("pieces" means wings, drumsticks and thighs. I do anywhere from 3 to 9, and the more you do the more efficient it is.) in a crockpot set to "low."
2. Pour in a cup of wine and sprinkle with herbs (last time I did red wine with 1 tsp. parsley and 2 tsp. oregano). Cover the crockpot and leave for work, start the laundry, watch the morning news, etc.
3. In 8-10 hours, pull out the chicken pieces and enjoy for supper. (Great go-withs: spinach salad, wild rice and green beans)
4. After supper, sit down at the table with the extra chicken on a large plate or jelly roll pan. Pull off any skin, fat or bones and discard. Keep the rest and make delicious leftover meals!
BONUS
Run the juice from the crockpot through a strainer. Discard the bits in the strainer. Put the strained juice in a covered dish in the fridge. Tomorrow, discard the hardened fat and you'll have amazing chicken broth!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Timing is Everything
I've often wondered if I don't have a mild case of OCD. I like everything to be just so, and when it isn't I have a little crisis. As you might imagine, I'm hyperventilating at the thought of doing the remodeling on our house and having it turn out less than the best.
The good news hidden in that statement is that our offer on the house was accepted and, barring an unforeseen financial catastrophe, we'll be closing in a month! (See pictures here.) I've accelerated my remodeling planning, and we purchased a few small items already (deck wash, paint rollers, other Menards rebate items). But when I picture us forgetting to level the track for the siding or cracking a granite countertop, I wonder what in the world we were thinking. I have the utmost confidence that we can do a better job than whoever had a go at it last, but will it be perfect? Not likely. I'm just going to have to swallow my crazy and give my best effort. Who knows, my "good enough" is probably someone else's perfect.
Job searching is another place for my OCD to shine. I'm always waiting for the perfect timing. I don't want to take this part-time gig/start learning web design/put in too many applications because then I'll have to leave something I just started to go in another direction. And in this small community, I don't want to lead on any employers just to get an offer from a better job I applied for two days before: When you live on a river, you have to be very careful not to burn any bridges. But, the reality is that I have no idea which path will lead me to employment. So even when I already have an interview, two job applications out, one part-time offer and a networking coffee, I have to keep putting myself out there and trust it will work out.
And in the meantime, I dream of gardens and morning coffee on my newly refinished deck. Unfortunately, I also had a dream about a life-size talking rat that tried to kill us so we wouldn't move in, but I don't think that's indicative of anything. Do you?
Friday, March 18, 2011
Single White Female Seeks Pink Sweater
Last night's festivities reminded me of an essay I wrote for a college English class about going to the bar for the first time in college, right after turning 21. Following is an excerpt:
"Fast-forward to last Saturday, my first trip to Sal’s Bar. Quivering from cold and excitement as I stepped in the door, I extracted my keychain from my things and pulled out my license to show the bouncer. Five seconds later, he nodded and gave the license back. I had secretly expected confetti and congratulatory cheering, but apparently I wasn’t getting it. Shrugging off my disappointment, I followed my friends to a table. According to “bar” time, we were early; it was only about 11:30. Waiting for the dance floor to open and for things to pick up, I actually began to doze with my face resting on the jacket crumpled in my forearms. The two vodka/orange juices – one of which was mostly orange juice – and the shot of rum that I’d downed earlier only served to deepen my fatigue. My drinking adventures were not off to a great start.
Around midnight, people began to stream in the door, the DJ rolled up the partition closing off the dance floor, and a carnival-like chaos began. As the last little bit of alcohol sloshed its way through my liver and left me sober on the dance floor, I began to notice several flaws in the party atmosphere. I shouted to my friend Ashley, “It’s kinda’ loud right here.”
“What? Can’t hear you!” she hollered back.
Dancing closer, I yelled with dangerous proximity to her ear, “I’m going to take a break. These heels are killing me.” Smiling reassuringly over my shoulder at her concerned countenance, I wedged my way through packed bodies. My excuse had not been a lie; the patent leather pumps I’d donned in honor of my first trip to the bar were extending my arches past any reasonable angle. It was, in fact, an accident that the shoes were still in my closet. I’d meant to throw them out months ago owing to their complete lack of function. Anxious to make my bar debut a success, I had dug them out along with a baby-doll tank that was cut too low, a short-sleeved, black cardigan – which would have elicited winter weather dress-code warnings from my father – and faded blue jeans.
Despite acting as camouflage in the crowd at the bar, the outfit let in a distinct draft at the neckline and was cutting off the circulation to not one but several body parts. Now, like my Aunt Vicki at a wedding dance, I seated myself on the sidelines, took off my heels, and began to rub my feet while inwardly admonishing the DJ for playing the music too loud. Gazing at the scene in front of me, I spotted a small group of middle-aged women and men – the college students call them “townies” – standing aloof around a table in the corner. They made intermittent attempts at conversation, which seemed ridiculous with the speakers blaring. Wondering at their desire to pass a perfectly good Saturday evening with a group of rowdy pre-adults, I looked past them to the dance floor.
My freshman RA, despite sobriety, was twisting her arms back and forth in unison to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” while sidestepping with enthusiasm. A tall guy was spinning a helpless young woman in eternal circles and crushing her right hand in a confident ballroom grip turned deadly with distorted senses. Her grimaces were followed by relief when he wrapped her arm around his neck for a dip. As two girls re-enacted some MTV rap music video footage close to the DJ’s booth and the music thudded aggressively, a memory tapped at my brain: the Christmas party in 11th grade that my friends and I threw. I showed up in a lumpy, pink sweater and white turtleneck toting a Pyrex® neoprene carrying case to safeguard my family-sized green bean casserole. I had never heard the end of that and had endured the nickname “Mother Marie” until I graduated. Right about now I would have traded my license for that sweater.
Moving my gaze in an attempt to recapture the party spirit, I caught sight of a group of guys swaying slightly as they greeted one another after an apparent extended absence. Red, white and grey Johnnie sweatshirts were the order of the night, and I took jealous notice as the draft from the door blew down my shirt once again. They spoke over the raucous with an ease borne of practice, and I admired their triumph over the previously-discussed dialogue dilemma. Suddenly, realizing how creepy I must look staring at everyone with my back propped against the wall and my shoes thrown aside, I hopped down from my perch on the bar stool. Struggling back into my pumps, I weaved a path to the bathroom where there was sure to be company for a single girl. As I arranged my hair with the aid of the standard streaky restroom mirror, I spotted a travel companion from study abroad. She saw me at the same moment and stepped toward me for a surprised hello and a hug. Just then a girl calmly walked directly back out of the stall she had entered and was kind enough to mention that further usage would be impeded by vomit.
Making a face at Crystal, I said that I hoped I’d see her around and promptly exited the bathroom. That was it. I was tired, sore, no longer drunk and out of patience. Squishing through hands holding drinks, Johnnies hitting on Bennies who were hitting on other Johnnies, shouting faces and friends having the time of their lives together, I stalked down my friend and asked her if I could take her up on her offer to leave whenever I was tired, because that happened to be now. Serendipitously, she had just hung up the phone with a crush who she’d persuaded to come pick us up. Relieved to be finally headed home, I shrugged on my jacket, walked out of the bar and climbed speechlessly into the backseat of a waiting, warm car."
Maybe I'm just 80 at heart, but the noise and the rowdy kids is all too much! Our St. Patrick's Day companions were certainly nice, and I mean no disrespect, but I think it will be a long time before I set foot in another bar.
"Fast-forward to last Saturday, my first trip to Sal’s Bar. Quivering from cold and excitement as I stepped in the door, I extracted my keychain from my things and pulled out my license to show the bouncer. Five seconds later, he nodded and gave the license back. I had secretly expected confetti and congratulatory cheering, but apparently I wasn’t getting it. Shrugging off my disappointment, I followed my friends to a table. According to “bar” time, we were early; it was only about 11:30. Waiting for the dance floor to open and for things to pick up, I actually began to doze with my face resting on the jacket crumpled in my forearms. The two vodka/orange juices – one of which was mostly orange juice – and the shot of rum that I’d downed earlier only served to deepen my fatigue. My drinking adventures were not off to a great start.
Around midnight, people began to stream in the door, the DJ rolled up the partition closing off the dance floor, and a carnival-like chaos began. As the last little bit of alcohol sloshed its way through my liver and left me sober on the dance floor, I began to notice several flaws in the party atmosphere. I shouted to my friend Ashley, “It’s kinda’ loud right here.”
“What? Can’t hear you!” she hollered back.
Dancing closer, I yelled with dangerous proximity to her ear, “I’m going to take a break. These heels are killing me.” Smiling reassuringly over my shoulder at her concerned countenance, I wedged my way through packed bodies. My excuse had not been a lie; the patent leather pumps I’d donned in honor of my first trip to the bar were extending my arches past any reasonable angle. It was, in fact, an accident that the shoes were still in my closet. I’d meant to throw them out months ago owing to their complete lack of function. Anxious to make my bar debut a success, I had dug them out along with a baby-doll tank that was cut too low, a short-sleeved, black cardigan – which would have elicited winter weather dress-code warnings from my father – and faded blue jeans.
Despite acting as camouflage in the crowd at the bar, the outfit let in a distinct draft at the neckline and was cutting off the circulation to not one but several body parts. Now, like my Aunt Vicki at a wedding dance, I seated myself on the sidelines, took off my heels, and began to rub my feet while inwardly admonishing the DJ for playing the music too loud. Gazing at the scene in front of me, I spotted a small group of middle-aged women and men – the college students call them “townies” – standing aloof around a table in the corner. They made intermittent attempts at conversation, which seemed ridiculous with the speakers blaring. Wondering at their desire to pass a perfectly good Saturday evening with a group of rowdy pre-adults, I looked past them to the dance floor.
My freshman RA, despite sobriety, was twisting her arms back and forth in unison to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” while sidestepping with enthusiasm. A tall guy was spinning a helpless young woman in eternal circles and crushing her right hand in a confident ballroom grip turned deadly with distorted senses. Her grimaces were followed by relief when he wrapped her arm around his neck for a dip. As two girls re-enacted some MTV rap music video footage close to the DJ’s booth and the music thudded aggressively, a memory tapped at my brain: the Christmas party in 11th grade that my friends and I threw. I showed up in a lumpy, pink sweater and white turtleneck toting a Pyrex® neoprene carrying case to safeguard my family-sized green bean casserole. I had never heard the end of that and had endured the nickname “Mother Marie” until I graduated. Right about now I would have traded my license for that sweater.
Moving my gaze in an attempt to recapture the party spirit, I caught sight of a group of guys swaying slightly as they greeted one another after an apparent extended absence. Red, white and grey Johnnie sweatshirts were the order of the night, and I took jealous notice as the draft from the door blew down my shirt once again. They spoke over the raucous with an ease borne of practice, and I admired their triumph over the previously-discussed dialogue dilemma. Suddenly, realizing how creepy I must look staring at everyone with my back propped against the wall and my shoes thrown aside, I hopped down from my perch on the bar stool. Struggling back into my pumps, I weaved a path to the bathroom where there was sure to be company for a single girl. As I arranged my hair with the aid of the standard streaky restroom mirror, I spotted a travel companion from study abroad. She saw me at the same moment and stepped toward me for a surprised hello and a hug. Just then a girl calmly walked directly back out of the stall she had entered and was kind enough to mention that further usage would be impeded by vomit.
Making a face at Crystal, I said that I hoped I’d see her around and promptly exited the bathroom. That was it. I was tired, sore, no longer drunk and out of patience. Squishing through hands holding drinks, Johnnies hitting on Bennies who were hitting on other Johnnies, shouting faces and friends having the time of their lives together, I stalked down my friend and asked her if I could take her up on her offer to leave whenever I was tired, because that happened to be now. Serendipitously, she had just hung up the phone with a crush who she’d persuaded to come pick us up. Relieved to be finally headed home, I shrugged on my jacket, walked out of the bar and climbed speechlessly into the backseat of a waiting, warm car."
Maybe I'm just 80 at heart, but the noise and the rowdy kids is all too much! Our St. Patrick's Day companions were certainly nice, and I mean no disrespect, but I think it will be a long time before I set foot in another bar.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Winter is Me
I watched snowflakes fly on Sunday with an ironic smile. On the heels of a lovely warm week, during which snow melt was significant and spirits were high, a dose of winter weather put us back at square one. No more trips to town without long underwear and forget about smelling the aroma of grilled steaks and burgers on our evening walk. Perhaps I should be sad, but I'm not. It is February, after all. On the first warm day, I put out of my mind thoughts of the universe realigning so that we could have a Floridian climate and instead enjoyed the unexpected bounty. Now that it's gone, I've picked up my knitting, snuggled into a fleece hoodie and made myself spiced coffee and scones for breakfast.
I love winter precisely because of its terrible weather. Nature's display of omnipotence never fails to impress me. It's scary sometimes to think that ultimate power resides in people, and we decide exactly how life plays out. Considering my personal mistakes in judgement, not to mention those of others, an occasional snowy reminder that we are not in control soothes me. And as we shift to a digital lifestyle where things are man-made, manufactured, mass-produced, I like the idea that a snow storm can unplug us and create space for wonder and amazement.
I tried to remember these philosophical musings as I scraped two layers off of my car Monday - the top one snow, the bottom one frozen rain. As I worked, the ache of my wimpy arm muscles was drowned out by the clinking of tree branches all around me, their hardened hoarfrost chipping and falling with each contact. I had to smile, amused that every time I get to the point of really hating winter, something stops me.
In the midst of this return to winter weather, I'm reminded of my unemployment. I've come to accept it, though at first, it seemed ridiculous to watch the Today show almost every morning, steaming coffee or tea in hand. Now I see it's sort of like having temperatures above freezing in February: It's a short warm streak, not a change in seasons. I'd better enjoy it while it lasts because just like Minnesota's weather, things will soon right themselves, and I'll barely have time to look back and remember how nice it was to have a break in the clouds.
I love winter precisely because of its terrible weather. Nature's display of omnipotence never fails to impress me. It's scary sometimes to think that ultimate power resides in people, and we decide exactly how life plays out. Considering my personal mistakes in judgement, not to mention those of others, an occasional snowy reminder that we are not in control soothes me. And as we shift to a digital lifestyle where things are man-made, manufactured, mass-produced, I like the idea that a snow storm can unplug us and create space for wonder and amazement.
I tried to remember these philosophical musings as I scraped two layers off of my car Monday - the top one snow, the bottom one frozen rain. As I worked, the ache of my wimpy arm muscles was drowned out by the clinking of tree branches all around me, their hardened hoarfrost chipping and falling with each contact. I had to smile, amused that every time I get to the point of really hating winter, something stops me.
In the midst of this return to winter weather, I'm reminded of my unemployment. I've come to accept it, though at first, it seemed ridiculous to watch the Today show almost every morning, steaming coffee or tea in hand. Now I see it's sort of like having temperatures above freezing in February: It's a short warm streak, not a change in seasons. I'd better enjoy it while it lasts because just like Minnesota's weather, things will soon right themselves, and I'll barely have time to look back and remember how nice it was to have a break in the clouds.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Valentine Not-the-Sames
With my recent influx of free time, I had grand plans of learning to bake bread. My mind danced with visions of ciabatta, rustica, italian and french loaves lining my kitchen counters. But the bread cookbook I put on hold at the library never did turn up, and I sort of forgot about baking in favor of creating curtains and doing the laundry. Each time I think I'm really going sit down with a bread recipe and figure it out, I recall my past failures with yeast (many) and the temperature in the room (much too cool for raising breads), and I reach for an easier project.
"And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."
~Hamlet, by Shakespeare
I comfort myself with the fact that this is most certainly a law of human nature, something everyone struggles with: the "First Step." You keep yourself from taking the first step because you're disinclined to entangle yourself in an endeavor that promises to be both lengthy and convoluted. But once the first step is taken, more often than not the remaining ones are much easier. It's like getting out of bed in the morning. Impossible, not going to happen, don't want to go to work, can't stand the thought of starting my car in this arctic cold, wishing the world would just carry on without me today. BUT, once I actually swing my feet out from under the covers and throw myself into the chilly onslaught of shower water, I find I'm actually pretty awake and kinda hungry for breakfast, I need the money from my job, it's not that cold with a hat and mittens, and we're off!
Of course, I have yet to finish reading my web design book, bake more than Betty's quick dinner rolls or sort through The Mess Room where all the boxes live that contain odds and ends with which no one wants to deal.
Before I can start any of those projects, I have to get ready for Valentine's Day! I haven't really celebrated this holiday since elementary school, where I would sort my class Valentines by which had candy and which were just notes (lame sauce). But this year the holiday represents a flurry of activity and excitment. It started with my first batch of chocolate chip cookies made in Jackson. I sent them to Nathan's work, and they were well received. However, he discouraged me from regularly producing baked goods for his coworkers on account of they were likely to get used to the idea and be disappointed when, for whatever reason, I decided to skip a week or four. Good point, dear.
But baking is the one thing I have left in my unemployed wheelhouse, so I needed an excuse to bake again. Bingo: Valentine's Day. Now I'm debating whether to go with chocolate or vanilla as my main flavor - weighing the benefit of a pretty pink frosting against the rich flavor of cocoa - rifling through recipes, assessing ingredients, getting my baking face on. This mission includes perusing the Valentine's display at Walmart (don't ask!) for suitable accessories to my baked goods. A shaker of red, pink and white sprinkles catches my eye; the perfect cliche to top whatever I end up creating. When I see the name on the bottle, I giggle. "Valentine Nonpareils." In French, "Valentine Not-the-Sames." Picturing the PDL engineers eating Valentine Not-the-Sames, I continue to giggle the rest of the way through the store.
For now, I'm in heaven. There's baking and card-making to be done, so many opportunities to create and share warm fuzzies and sweet surprises. I'm not sure what I'll do after the big day is over, but one thing's certain: This midwinter season would be not-the-same without the excitement Valentine's Day is bringing to Jackson!
"And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."
~Hamlet, by Shakespeare
I comfort myself with the fact that this is most certainly a law of human nature, something everyone struggles with: the "First Step." You keep yourself from taking the first step because you're disinclined to entangle yourself in an endeavor that promises to be both lengthy and convoluted. But once the first step is taken, more often than not the remaining ones are much easier. It's like getting out of bed in the morning. Impossible, not going to happen, don't want to go to work, can't stand the thought of starting my car in this arctic cold, wishing the world would just carry on without me today. BUT, once I actually swing my feet out from under the covers and throw myself into the chilly onslaught of shower water, I find I'm actually pretty awake and kinda hungry for breakfast, I need the money from my job, it's not that cold with a hat and mittens, and we're off!
Of course, I have yet to finish reading my web design book, bake more than Betty's quick dinner rolls or sort through The Mess Room where all the boxes live that contain odds and ends with which no one wants to deal.
Before I can start any of those projects, I have to get ready for Valentine's Day! I haven't really celebrated this holiday since elementary school, where I would sort my class Valentines by which had candy and which were just notes (lame sauce). But this year the holiday represents a flurry of activity and excitment. It started with my first batch of chocolate chip cookies made in Jackson. I sent them to Nathan's work, and they were well received. However, he discouraged me from regularly producing baked goods for his coworkers on account of they were likely to get used to the idea and be disappointed when, for whatever reason, I decided to skip a week or four. Good point, dear.
But baking is the one thing I have left in my unemployed wheelhouse, so I needed an excuse to bake again. Bingo: Valentine's Day. Now I'm debating whether to go with chocolate or vanilla as my main flavor - weighing the benefit of a pretty pink frosting against the rich flavor of cocoa - rifling through recipes, assessing ingredients, getting my baking face on. This mission includes perusing the Valentine's display at Walmart (don't ask!) for suitable accessories to my baked goods. A shaker of red, pink and white sprinkles catches my eye; the perfect cliche to top whatever I end up creating. When I see the name on the bottle, I giggle. "Valentine Nonpareils." In French, "Valentine Not-the-Sames." Picturing the PDL engineers eating Valentine Not-the-Sames, I continue to giggle the rest of the way through the store.
For now, I'm in heaven. There's baking and card-making to be done, so many opportunities to create and share warm fuzzies and sweet surprises. I'm not sure what I'll do after the big day is over, but one thing's certain: This midwinter season would be not-the-same without the excitement Valentine's Day is bringing to Jackson!
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