Boursin and Puff Pastry

"Happy Hour at Home" tonight provided interesting fodder for my imagination-- oddly enough, developing happy hour at home was its central piece. How delightful to spend a few hours with friends, at home, low pressure, enjoying food and drink in a leisurely environ. Leaving Kathy's home, after a couple hours of refreshment, I felt invigorated and ready for the evening. 

As the night heat settles down between the leaves of my plants and flowers, and the slightest cool eases down from the clouds, I rest inside my home of AC, dark wood and large pillows and look out at the clarified mist on the local street lamps. Which hour of this day will be my happy hour? The last several have been lovely, but could I have one here in my home? A happy hour at home? 

I think an essential part of living honestly is the ability to identify a time during each day when one is happy. Of course, few of these hours, for the vast majority of the population, come at work or running errands. Instead, it seems that the freedom of happiness most effectively arrives in the moments at home, where comfort reigns (or should), where the dog snuggles and where loved ones come together. After all, if happiness is not at home, where might we find it? 

Of course, there are places all over the world that provide happy strains- for me it is mountains and oceans (noisy oceans, especially), though there are many - but the home front offers the complete happiness that can actually assuage angst, worry and sadness. To me, the distinction of home is so clear. Even so, I do not feel at home everywhere in my home. At my dining room table, I feel trapped and stagnant. In my kitchen, I feel anxious, busy and creative and in my living room I feel bored and lame. In my office I feel inadequate and disorganized, and in my spare bedroom, I feel lost and alone. On my patio, however, I feel lovely. Lovely and amazing and free and powerful. And when I slip (not very gracefully) into bed each night, I feel all the weight of living rise and float toward the open window as the easy evening breeze floats through my dark, screened window and lulls me to rest. 

So my new inspiration for a better life is to create a patio bed where I will spend one happy hour each day, resting in comfort and power, and knowing that my life is more steady because of it. Let other hours of the day hold what they will...I shall have happy hour with my flowers in bed. 

Sunny side up

"Here, now draw the sun up there in the corner," she said, handing me the goldenrod crayon. I obediently drew a curved line around the top right hand corner of my drawing and colored it in, checking to make sure Mrs. Reno approved. Next, I drew goldenrod and burnt orange rays coming out of the sun and made sure there were dimples at either end of my smiling face just below.


Why is the sun always yellow in children's pictures? Back in my Crayola days, I know I had never seen a yellow sun. In fact, from what I'd seen at the time it seemed to be white or light blue...and sometimes red, but I was sure I'd never seen it look yellow. Most of the time, it just seemed colorless, actually. It was the clouds that were so pretty (and why did clouds always have to be white?).

That yellow sun didin't fade away in gradeschool...or high school. In fact, do we not all think of yellow when we hear "sunshine" and the aptly named "sunflower"? Perhaps there is something I don't know about light and refraction and all those other physics terms that I am pretty sure my allergy medicine made me sleep through. If I were to paint a picture now, I think I might make my sunshine orange and blue and white and purple and red. That's when it looks the best. Sunsets in Michigan confirm that. See, a yellow sun is not only simple and inaccurate, but it limits our ideals. How unfortunate to think that a perfect sunny day would merely be yellow...pardon, goldenrod (a rather nasty autumn weed, no less). And think of the limits we place on the imagination by insisting that perfection be measured so one-dimmensionally. Even then I insisted on adding orange.

For years I've been certain that we were duped by kindergarten instructors. Sky = blue. Sun = Yellow. Tree = Green. But the other morning on my way to work in the early light, I saw a yellow sun. I saw the sun that inspires preschool teachers everywhere to pull out the yellow hued crayon for little girls everyday and demonstrate the best way to draw the sunshine in the top right hand corner of her picture. But it wasn't yellow or goldenrod. It was every shade yellow, several shades of brown and cream and gray. It was beautiful and glorious at that sleepy hour of the day. But it sure isn't something you can find in a Crayola box...even the 64 pack with a sharpener.

Sour Patch Kid

This week I began teaching an assortment of classes as a teacher is wont to do at the beginning of a new semester. Amidst the slew of writing classes I will lead, I have one lone gem—a literature survey course. For many English teachers the survey course is the bane of their existence...same material, slow pace, weak students…but I have to be honest. I’m excited just to be teaching literature at all. At least I was until today.

Closeted within most teachers is a small voice that screams out huge negativities. These thoughts are not always completely unreasonable, but they usually lean toward exacerbated, habitual and generally untrue. The voice in my head is no exception. It screams and shouts about my incompetence, my lack of sufficient preparation (regardless of the amount of time I’ve put it), and my complete lack of interest to anyone but myself. I hear it every time I get up in front of a class that’s not about writing.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to teach literature. And I think I’m going to be damn good at it if I’m not damn good already. That doesn’t stop the clawing voices though. Nothing stops those voices. Today, however, was a special treat.

The second day in my Intro to Lit class brought me two new students. One was very inconspicuous and seemed nice. The other also seemed nice, and while he may have been aiming for inconspicuous, there was something in the look on his face that just wouldn’t allow me to stop noticing him. Perhaps it was his v-neck sweater neatly draped over his seersucker striped shorts, that made me stare. Whatever it was, throughout our class discussion and the entire class I found my eyes glancing often at this boy.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t because he was cute, attractive, alluring, etc. This kid represents pretty much the scariest person who could possibly show up in my class. He was the embodiment of that little voice in my head. Perhaps it was the sneering expression, the arms crossed across his chest, which shouted so loudly of indifference. Maybe it was the nonchalant way he would get up and leave for a couple minutes, even though we’d just taken a break, that illustrated the insignificance of what I was doing up in front of the class. It could’ve been the way he kept exhaling loudly, almost sniffing at what he deemed to be weak, poorly composed questions in the front of the class. Whatever it was, this kid and his mean eyes scored me right down the middle today. Sure, I got through it. Yes, I did let class out about 30 minutes early, but I got through it.

Next week, when I go back to that classroom to talk about new stories, about Hawthorne, Pritchett and other great, amazing writers…I will be channeling my old professors. Perhaps they will be able to ward off the nasty looks of this impostor for me. If they can’t help, rest assured I’ll be out of the gate fighting this time. No home town preppie is going to scare me out of Hawthorne or any other writer for that matter.

pineapple and vidalias

While social graces are occasionally a bit too sugary for my taste, they haven't entirely lost their value. The note slid unnoticed beneath my door and waited patiently to be seen. Accustomed to receiving soft knocks rather than furtive notes, I lounged, read my book, relaxed, happy to be alone in my home.

I sauntered into the kitchen for another glass of wine and noticed a rumpled, used looking sheet of paper edging its way into my foyer. On it, in a clipped, vaguely apologetic tone, my year-long gone neighbor made a triumphant return to the hood, informing me that she'd be back the following weekend. How might this mousy, socially stunted person's homecoming affect me? Sure, we share a landing, but we have never unnecessarily exchanged words. See, it's always the beastliest things in our collections that step too heavily and knock too often the adjoining wall, is it not? Here on Winona, it's the beastly sofa.

Too big and awkward to fit through either of her own doorways, the forlorn, albeit nicer than mine, sofa finds that my condo offers the only path to its home...the only way to its final resting place looking out over the courtyard. And so, since that is the ONLY way...my space is necessarily intruded upon in this manner each time said neighbor relocates.

In actuality, a healthy crew of movers could get that sofa right where it needs to be without crossing my threshold. Knowing her floor plan, I've laid in bed several mornings this week imagining just how it could work, exactly the right turns and angles that, if observed, would deliver both me and the sofa. But how do you tell a socially inept person that they're just too lazy to figure something out. How do you let her know that she doesn't own the right to walk through my condo with a sofa just because she bought one that is too big? What does she do with all that extra space on the sofa anyhow...she is a rather small person, you know.

Frustrated and angry, I waited all week to call the scrawled number on the bottom of the note. I even left the note on the floor, not bothering to dignify it with a place on my counter. Perhaps if she had knocked and spoken with me in person I would not be so angry. Maybe if she'd taken the time to write it on a piece of paper that wasn't crushed and wrinkled and white. Certainly if she had used an envelope and maybe a simple folded card...or a letter pressed "sorry" card...some nicety surely would've softened my scorn.

Stumbling in Saturday night--er, Sunday morning, that is, I realized the moving day was here and I hadn't responded. Shit. I couldn't very well call her at 3:30am and let her know I would begrudgingly let her invade my space. Surely she wouldn't catch my tone of bitterness at such an hour. Even worse, what if she knocked at 8:30am and my hung over self had to answer the door smelling of stale red wine? No, that wouldn't do either. As I paced around, glancing at the note (still on the floor) and thinking about the sandwich I might make, it hit me. A note.

I lunged into the kitchen, whipped out my extra strength, lined post-it notes (electric turquoise) and composed a brief message for my pen pal. I would be home to let her through by 2:30pm and all night after that, oh, and I don't really live here any more (my subtle excuse for the delay...not entirely valid, but somehow fitting). Fixing the note over my peep hole, I was sure she'd see it before she knocked.

The morning came. I felt better than I thought and planned to go about my regular Sunday. As I walked out the door, I noticed the note was gone, surely digested and appreciated (i hoped...) by my Napoleonic neighbor. But though the note surely expressed my wishes as the invadee, I felt my note insufficient to bridge the three steps between her door and mine. All these words on paper and no facial expressions, smiles or otherwise. I couldn't handle it. While I had briefly stooped to this woman's level of communication, I had to show that I was the true lady in this situation, i was the real human being here. I wasn't afraid to chat. On my way out, I listened briefly at her door to see if she was home. The rush of heavy objects smashing together greeted my early morning ear, and I knocked tentatively on the opaque blackened door.

As the door opened, a hesitant, small face greeted my swath of white scarf and day old sun. Hair pulled back and eyes taught with surprise, "Hey! Oh hey! Um, I got your note," she said.
Stuntedly, "Good...that's great...so how's the move going?"
"Oh, it's okay. I don't want to ruin your day, so really, I hope this isn't too much of an inconvenience," she said, apologizing rather than going with my small talk scheme.
I assured her that it was no problem and I'd be back in a few hours when she would be able to tromp through Belgium boldly and with ease. After about 45 seconds of stilted conversation I excused myself and rushed off to church. Hateful, hateful sofa, I thought to myself. Even after church all the holy spirit would have me think was "Damn sofa. It's going to kill my entire afternoon."

A brief bitch session at lunch with Michelle over under-poached eggs, and I found myself hauling back to the hood. At home I began to take things down from the wall, resigning myself to being invaded, willingly or otherwise. At least I had a week to hate her, I thought, as I grudgingly pulled my beautiful vases of dried flowers down, a couple stray eucalyptus leaves scuttling to the floor. I peeked out to the back porch and saw the sofaic monstrosity resting patiently on the back floor. Wrapped up in plastic tape and blankets, its puppy eyes were no match for my annoyance. Weak and alone as the couch seemed, my sympathies didn't budge.

With my neighbor nowhere to be found, I settled for straightening a bit, moving things from here to there to pass the time. We agreed on 2:30...where was she? I heard the entry door creak open and peeked to find her followed by her 2 movers, boys from work. They came right in to get started, and she and I began a painful small talk conversation that lasted all 20 minutes it took to get the damn thing through my house. I tried to be the friendly neighbor, the neighbor from TV shows whose teeth are always so white and clean (even right after lunch). I attempted to be indifferent to the noises coming from the kitchen, my hospitality impervious to catastrophe. This was show time- the only time to make a good impression on the person I would live next to for three short weeks and then never see again.

Here's the thing...

I spent a week hating this woman and everything that she stands for. I spent several nights bashing her social skills and considerations and surely numerous afternoons questioning her intelligence. But through that damned small talk I learned about the path she's traveled for the last year-- ill found job changes, interstate relocation, missed connections and several failed attempts at love, familial and otherwise...and I just plain felt bad for the girl. She had been dealt a really bad hand, and it was clear that a bitchy neighbor was the last thing she needed. So what did I do?

I asked her to dinner.

Three hours after my space was so rudely co-opted and trampled, my new neighbor came over for pineapple barbequed chicken, grilled veggies and corn on the cob. We ate, talked about food and Chicago and wine, and we got to know each other a bit. She had wine to share, I had someone to cook for, and the sofa rested peacefully next door. While there were a couple moments of awkward silence and a couple surprising differences in taste, we both agreed that the grilled Vidalias were superb and being single in Chicago was about the best life you could ask for. After dinner, parting ways, we shared the same sentiment-- gosh, I wish you weren't leaving. Smiling and saying goodnight, I closed the door, listened to the four footsteps that would take her home, and heard my own strange words echo through my head, "I don't really live here anymore..."

Summer Reading List

House of Spirits - by Allende
Blind Assassin - by Atwood
The Falls - by Oates
Blindness - by Saramago
The Dew Breaker - by Danticat
and just for fun...sort of...The Consolations of Philsophy