building blocks..

i wouldn't say i'm desperate for a child.

but my clock is ticking.

and like every other woman i worry that my alarm will go but i'll have hit snooze. i'll miss the bus and my body will decide without me whether i can or can not conceive.

there's a misconception. how apt a phrase. there's a misconception that as soon as you decide upon this course. this baby path. this road to familyness. that you'll be set upon by the stork within hours. that is is not a choice of when you bear the fruit. but how often.

we're bombarded with images of young mothers. too young. too many. throwing away their progeny. of women whose fertility is so strong it defies modern medicines. of women who can as much contain the virility of their bodies as mortals can capture and contain the beams of the moon.

and there are those of us who need to work a little harder. bear the insult of pokes and prods under bright lights with no hint of softness or romance. where our femininity is called up front for judgment. the female mystery laid bare and found wanting.

we go through the motions of normal life. smiling at those fortunate to have a bundle of joy. secretly wishing it was us. we fear our inner monologue is overheard. and our eyes betray our guilt.

we envy a woman in the shop. her child a beacon of our imagined failure. we wander the aisle as though shopping. stalking the lanes for our own image in miniature. we entertain the idea of lifting the squirming smiling creature from her trolley and wandering away with our purchase.

but we'd be caught of course. locked away for 20 years for child napping. no hope for parole because we are guilty. not just for stealing. but of being barren.

our husband comes to visit. the conjugal visits wither and diminish. after all he was only along for the ride. he wasn't ready for the pitter patter of little feet anyway. besides, his new girl is younger and fertile in the event he change his mind in regard to the status of his family minded ways.

"it's okay" we think, as we sign on the dotted line. that nice butch lady in the corner knows someone who can get us a baby once we get out and start a new life together.

before we know it, we've glazed over in the shop. spent 20 years in 20 seconds. and the young mother is nervously watching. seeking the sick desperation in our eyes as we gaze at her child.

so she pushes off from her perch next to the canned goods. in an act of recovery we continue with our line of sight recently vacated by the wide eyed babe. we reach forward and claim a tin of peaches. the young mother looks back. guilt filling her face. as she realizes she has blocked the store with her fertility.

and there it is.

the choking of aisles by both the barren and the burdened.

a standoff between wombs.

but i'm not desperate.

just waiting.

tick.

tock.

tick.

tracks

they say it's not the destination that counts. but the journey.

often we get so caught up in the mode of transport on our journey. we are sidetracked by the vehicle we're traveling in. so enchanted are we, we fail to notice where we're going. or where we've been.

we're distracted by the mod cons of our little floating bubbles. we're too concerned with having enough gadgets to fidget with. to pass the time in a waking coma. we're so obsessed with comfort and ease. we pull the window shade down. we close ourselves off from the glare outside. from the imagined unsavory and unwanted. and all the while the pretty scenery is forgotten.

after a age we think to check our progress. we find our destination is somehow lost. farther than last we thought. our path has circled and converged. wound in tighter circles. and diverted in lazy waves.

so we make up our minds to clear our path. remove the shiny baubles that glint and glimmer. extract ourselves from our comfortable armor. throw back the window shades and set back down the road on foot.

so all the journey step by step.
is felt.
is smelled.
heard.
and seen.

i wouldn't say i've gone off my track.

so much as to say.

i forgot i was traveling.

the silence of marriage

there is a silence that follows a marriage. a quietness that descends upon a couple like a fog kisses the dewy earth. clinging gently. a tangible sigh which caresses the cheek and alights upon the brow.

it is not a heavy silence. it is not ominous or foreboding. it does not sneak in to your waking world with stealth. it does not disrupt your thoughts. it does not wind it's way into your smile. it simply is.

this silence that covers your home like a blanket is soft. a quilted warmth stitched from whispered words of love. filled with the lightness of laughter. and scented like a thousand shared sunsets.

autumnal wandering...

my shoes are greeted by the raspy whispers of wind and fallen leaves. speaking quietly to each other. from the grey and cold. from the pavement. from the tarmac. from the frozen earth which slumbers.

the wake from my stride brings a flurry of conversation. the leaves admonishing my path over and through them. the wind shushing the complaints and soothing the golden blanket back down onto the concrete bed.

i smile as the brisk air caresses my cheeks as my mother used to. brushing my hair gently out of my face. rubbing my forehead. and placing a single kiss upon my hairline.

my eyes are heavy with the season. the almond shapes are full of trees turning red. of dark berries hanging pregnantly from barren trees. of crimson and burgundy ornaments dotting the hedgerows. they are bitter and sour parcels awaiting harvest and sugar to unlock their rich flavor. forgotten now by a generation of children fed by industrial meals and conformity.

i do not have enough space in my arms to save all these riches. i am no budha with the universe in my mouth. but i can keep a photo of them. the knowledge of them. their presence fills my soul and brightens my smile.

i let this truth slip into the air. my lungs force it out. urging the world to know. to wonder. to sleep. to wake.

i walk on.

lists and lists...

from insider...well technically from VGT...

ooh only 22 things i haven't ever eaten... and only about two that i would never eat...

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

the VGT Omnivore's Hundred:
1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu (kinda, I've had Soju, the Korean version)
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant. (kind of... it was a one-Michelin-star)
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

if misery loves company...

... then does that mean happiness loves seclusion?

it would stand to reason. i've been quiet lately. according teh interwebnets i haven't posted since may. may. it's now august. that's two whole months where normally i would have had an entire notebook full of crabby musings and crappy poetry and general bitchiness.

but it's been two months of silence.

i don't know how i feel about this.

i'm sad on one hand. sad that i'm not tip-tap-typing all day. sad that i'm not wallpapering the world with my ever so clever quips and shit. sad that i feel a bit crap as a writer.

but then. i feel happy. because i am happy. because i haven't had to complain about much. not just because not much has been happening. but because i just don't have anything to write about. no one really wants to hear about what's going on when you're happy.

i certainly don't think my happy stories are terribly entertaining... "and then we laughed and laughed and went to bed at 10:00 in our separate beds because we're virtuous..." it's not fun. it's boring. god. i'm living it and it seems boring.

but a good boring. don't get me wrong. i am happy. i've never been happier.

but we do go to bed at 10pm. not in separate beds. we're not living in a 50's sitcom for crying out loud. but there is something odd about going to bed at 10pm. most people are out doing stuff... i don't know what. but i know there are out there doing it. i can hear them. ewww. not that! actually i can hear that sometimes. sometimes during the day. don't you people have something better to do than have sex in the afternoon?

oh my god. listen to me.

next i'll be sitting out on the front lawn yelling at kids while drinking out of a jam jar.

pray for me. or not.

whatever.

this is what all you have to look forward to. and you know who you are. you all know who you are....

better than prozac

the crinkle of waxed paper as it gently pulls away from the creamy yellow treasure within.

the crunch as grain after grain of sweetness is whipped into a heavenly foam.

the satisfying crack as a an egg releases the building blocks of patisserie.

the soft whisper of flour against paper.

all these things have a way of combining and easing away the odd sense of emptiness which creeps into my heart sometimes.

melting chocolate. the matte finish. smoothing into dark pools.

baking.

it's my prozac.

monday never came

she fell in love on a wednesday. as far as things go, she felt wednesday was a perfectly nice day to fall in love. there were enough days left to be distracted by work but, not too many days left, to risk forgetting the first gentle tingles of love.

the exact moment she fell in love is difficult to pinpoint. it could have been the second she noticed that the way he walked was full of an understated confidence which, she had always felt, was impossible to achieve except perhaps in movies. or the multitude of times she had lost herself in the way he spoke that she feared he would think her slow and dimwitted. or it could have been the hours she felt it took to describe the color of his hair to ever more bored acquaintances and strangers she passed on the street.

more likely however, it was the instant his eyes showered her in sincere interest. as though the deep blue orbs were in fact spotlights which drew her from the hidden depths of the background players to star at the front of the stage. the heat of his gaze stripped her bare. burning away all the layers of self consciousness and self loathing. leaving her naked and clean for all world to see and judge.

it was in that one minuscule moment that her heart whimpered in surrender and, like a puppy with her tail between her legs, her whole inner self rolled to expose her tender side in complete submission.

for the rest of the week a smile took residence upon her face. it stayed like an unexpected but welcome guest who would never over stay their welcome.

she knew she shouldn't have fallen in love. the circumstances were stacked against her like so many dusty books in a library, heavy with words and knowledge, leaning precariously, ready to tumble. she found herself clothed in the familiar layers of doubt and cynicism. she knew he would leave just as everything else that was good in her life eventually did.

when the day came she was aloof. her visiting smile was packing up it's glow and readying for departure. she pretended she didn't care, not really, not this time.

she knew he could see the truth even before her tears betrayed her performance. she knew he could see past the thin curtain of confidence into the frailty of her heart. she knew as he played his part and, gently kissed her goodbye, that her heart would never be her own again.

she fell in love on a wednesday. she thought her heart would be broken on a monday.

she never knew that monday would never come.

comfort

cold butter. moisture condensing on the smooth yellow surface. a little block of sunshine. cut into irregular cubes.

i drop the small lumps into a bowl of flour. silky and smooth. dry liquid. the dusty splash as the butter belly flops into the white sea. little clouds of wheat dissipate into the air. the minuscule grains flutter and land around the bowl. dusting the counter.

i smile at the moment when my fingertips first plunge into the expanse of flour. my hands undulate like a sea monster under an unsuspecting ocean liner. searching. hunting. i strike and grab my prey. sliding and spreading my fingers over and into the chilled fat. mixing the flour into the butter. quickly. with purpose. soon the once smooth sea of flour is dappled with yellow. the texture is coarse yet uniform.

a splash of icy water curdles the surface. uniformity is destroyed. clumpy and grainy. tossed about until a small amount of pressure is applied and a shape is formed. held. pressed and flattened. a disk of pure joy.

once rolled out and shaped further. this humble lump is both modest and mesmerizing. a shell for more interesting ingredients. a costar. never the main player. yet, failure with simplicity and even the best filling becomes somehow, less.

tender and strong. flaky and sincere. simple and complex. sweet or savory. hot or cold.

i take comfort in pastry.

i'm made from the same recipe.

the coincidence of dreams

last night i dreamed the world was white. i built a snowman with my dad. my cheeks were tinted with exuberance and chill. my laughter crystallized and floated down to mingle with my fathers sonorous voice in the soft bed of snowflakes.

it was early morning. the sun was out. so were the stars. it just me and my dad.

...

i woke up this morning.

i pulled back the curtain.

the world was white.

i made a snowman about a half hour ago.

now i'm just waiting for my dad.