I love our home. I moved in four (!!!! omg. FOUR.) years ago next weekend, to a house that was crammed full of stuff, dust, roommates, and potential. There were years when we had too much junk, too little furniture, and too many things to fix to even know where to start. We still struggle with what project should come next; this summer’s list is truly impossible, and – somehow – virtually identical to last summer’s list. But, after years of sharing our domicile, we’re really, truly getting there. These pictures represent only a few details of our home together, but they highlight a few of the things that I love to pieces: the glorious light, the artsy objects made by our friends and family, the items that represent who we are and what we do. We are both collectors (me more than H-dubs), and our home together shows that. It is full of living things: people, plants, and animals. It isn’t perfect, but it is ours, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

(I’ll come back to G later. I’m having major writer’s block with G, and since this is a self-imposed project, I think perhaps I should stop being stubborn and move on.)

(This is the story of my life, by the way.)

Happy Mother’s Day! Here’s a picture of my gorgeous mom (and dad), looking incredibly stylish.

I’m a bit stuck these days. I’ve been thinking about my next post, and getting really hung up on the idea of G. What could G stand for? Green thumb, growth, grown-up, gratitude… so many things. Each could be worthwhile, but most feel like I’d be sort of faking it. Does that make sense? Each of those g-words are things that I could think about, ponder, share. But none of them really resonate. I’m not an expert with any of them. I might write something wrong, or stupid, or embarrassing to my future self.

This exemplifies how I’m feeling in most of my life right now. I’ve been feeling the weight of self-doubt. And I’ve been “death-spiralling,” overthinking everything and finding myself a bit paralyzed. It’s big things: lifestyle, career, self-image. And it is little things, too: making vacation plans, purchasing window treatments, finishing a painting project. And yes, writing a blog post. I’m just a bit stuck on the idea that every single decision will result in some kind of consequence. Let’s face it, all decisions result in some kind of consequence, for good or ill. Choosing to paint my house results in having fewer dollars in my bank account, being surrounded by cleaner walls, losing a Saturday or two of my life, and having a generally more attractive place to call my own. All decisions involve weighing the options, measuring the consequences, and deciding what is worthwhile. Right? And right now, I’m completely overwhelmed by every possibility. I find myself frozen.

It’s been building for a while, so I’m not entirely shocked to find myself in this situation… or, more accurately, in this emotion. It has been a time of both internal and external pressures. I’m a bit of a pressure cooker by nature: put a bunch of stuff (information, or external opinions) in me, put the lid on it, and let it stew until my internal contents have reached a pressure level that requires careful instructions to release. For the past few weeks, all I want to do is hide out, hunker down, and not deal with anything. It’s time for me to follow the careful instructions to release the valve and let what will be be. Only, that’s a scary prospect, too, with potentially flammable consequences.

And so, here I am, stuck in the middle, between the choosing, the deciding, the thinking, and the doing.

photo lifted from my Aunt Nancy’s Facebook feed

The most unexpected thing about my Granddad’s memorial service/celebration of life/[insert ostensibly uplifting euphemism for "funeral" of your choice here] was that it really was uplifting.

Granddad is the first Important Person in my life who has died. I’m 32 years old, and I realize exactly how unbelievable that is. I didn’t know what to expect from the experience of celebrating his memory, and I haven’t really known what to say about it. It feels wrong, somehow, to say this, but… I found the whole thing pretty amazing and wonderful. It was incredible to meet so many people who said, “your Granddad was one of my favorite people.” It was surprisingly fun having my entire extended family in one place, for the expressed purpose of spending time together. I’m the farthest away by a wide margin, and have been for fourteen years. It’s amazing how much we’ve all changed (and stayed the same) during that time. It’s especially gratifying spending time with all of my cousins. We’ve all turned out, in my humble opinion, to be pretty cool people.

After the service, we gathered out in front of the church. My Grandmom and Granddad attended this church for decades. It was a beautiful day. The dogwoods were blooming, the humidity hadn’t yet reached sauna levels, and there was a soft breeze. My parents, aunts, and uncles had compiled a selection of photographs for the post-service visitation. One of them was a family portrait that was taken about 10-12 years ago, and which hung in my grandparents’ various homes until only a few months ago. We gathered ourselves on the steps in the same configuration, recruited a passerby to wield the camera, and took this photo. I love it. He would have loved it. He would have loved the entire celebration.

We aren’t all the first man on the moon, we don’t all invent penicillin or write a piece of music that anyone can recognize by ear. But we can all leave the world a better place than it was when we entered it. My grandparents were (and are) amazing people, who touched an untold number of lives over the years. And they left us behind to carry on their legacy. I’m so glad to be a part of it all.

My beloved Granddad died this morning. He went peacefully and without pain. He was 89, and I will miss him terribly.

You know how certain people are just larger than life? That was my Granddad. He was tough as nails, surviving an unreal number of life-threatening ailments over the past two decades. He served in World War II as a member of the Army Air Force. After leaving the armed service, he attended Washington and Lee University. He met my Grandmom around that time, while she was… waiting tables? I think it was waiting tables at a restaurant in Natural Bridge, Virginia. They drove each other bananas over six decades of marriage (in the most charming way), and they loved and depended upon each other completely. After owning a car service station for many years, he went back to school and became an elementary school teacher. He had this marionette, Pistol Pete, who would mock shoot the students if they weren’t behaving. This is something that, clearly, you could not do now, but he did it then, and it was hilarious.

Granddad made up songs. He had an enormous toy railroad. He was horrified that I wasn’t learning my multiplication tables at school, so he mailed me flash cards and called to quiz me once per week. That’s the only time in my life I can remember looking forward to math. At Thanksgiving, he carved the turkey, and I got to help. We (loudly) snuck bites of turkey, in his words, “to make sure it wasn’t poisoned.” My Grandmom would always swat him when he said that. When I was little, he would serve himself a grapefruit for breakfast, and serve me an orange. I remember waiting with anticipation while he sliced the orange across its equator, then separated each tiny triangle of fruit from the pith with this little curved knife-looking thing. He liked peanut butter and potato chip sandwiches. He loved roast beef sandwiches. He also loved vanilla ice cream with Hershey’s syrup. He once described a particular chicken salad as, “Not a ladies-who-lunch chicken salad.” It was a compliment. He made a mean whiskey sour. I (thankfully) asked him how to do it a few years ago, and he showed me. I now make a mean whiskey sour.

One of my earliest memories is of standing on the step-stool in my Grandmom and Granddad’s house. It was yellow and creaky, and had a weird, sticky seat. I was standing on it, by the kitchen table, and we were making designs on the table in a pool of confectioner’s sugar. He had sifted it out like a snowscape, and we licked our fingers, swept up the sugar in paths, and ate it. I couldn’t have been more than three at the time, and I remember it feeling like magic. A few years ago, I saw an identical red step-stool at a yard sale, and I bought it. I think of him every time I walk by it, countless times per day.

Granddad was my own Paul Bunyan, Johnny Appleseed, and Walt Disney. He could do anything, survive anything. He could tell the best story, make me laugh the hardest, make me feel the most special. He was, and will always be, my heart. I know that sounds cheesy and “woo-woo,” but he was. He loved people unconditionally, he charmed everyone he met, and he always made you feel like the most important person in the world. He had that impact on everyone.

My kids will hear about my Granddad. They’ll roll their eyes, as I tell them how Granddad did this and that. I’m sure they’ll think, “he couldn’t possibly be as awesome as my Granddad.” And that’s true. My dad will be a killer granddad one day. (Not yet. Three to five year plan, folks. Let’s not get carried away.) But man, my Granddad? He was pretty dang special. He was a helluva guy. Just last night, around 3 a.m., I was pondering what he would say about the mockingbird debacle – which, yes, is ongoing. “Darlin’,” he’d say, “it’s just another one of God’s creatures.” I’d whine back, “I knoooow. But what should I dooooooo?” “Well,” he’d ponder for a moment. “You should take a broom outside and smack that tree around until he flies off!” “THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT,” I’d exclaim. He’d pause. “Well, then, why are you asking me????”

And this brings me to the future. Because, the idea of his spirit not being here on Earth? That just can’t happen. And here’s the intimidating part: it’s up to those of us who knew him to become that spirit.  We can’t dislike the girl with the pink hair, because he would have asked her all about it. He would have gotten a kick out of her answer. We can’t judge the man who jaywalks, because he would have pulled over and asked, “sir, why are you in such a hurry? Is everything OK?” He would have offered him a ride, or wished him good luck. We can’t roll our eyes at the sneezy girl on the bus, because he would have offered her his hanky and told her to drink some orange juice. (He would have suggested it as a fine substitute for milk on cheerios, but I cannot bring myself to go that far.) I think I finally understand what they mean by “holy ghost.” It’s becoming that spirit, here in this world, so that it doesn’t ever die. It only gets bigger and bigger, and more meaningful.

And so, I raise this outstanding whiskey sour to the greatest man I’ve known yet. May we all endeavor to be like you. I’ll see you later, OK? Love you love you.

So.

Remember my goal to run/walk a 5K? In 37 days, I’m doing it.

I was very clear in setting that goal that I would run/WALK the 5K. I’m a legitimately terrible runner. I don’t think I’ve ever run a mile straight through in my life. In elementary school, I was always one of the last kid huffing and puffing my way in to the finish line for the President’s Physical Fitness tests. (Sidebar: do you remember those? I was great at exactly one thing: the sitting stretching thing. I could reach past the end of the test block. The rest? Well. Bless your heart.)

(SIDEBAR: THEY STILL EXIST.)

Anyway. While including “walk” in the 5K goal might be partly laziness, I also want to finish up the challenge feeling successful in some capacity. To me, the point of the yearly goals is to feel better about myself and my life, not worse. So, while I intend to run as much of it as I can without dying, I will be OK with walking when necessary.

But I am still training. Slowly, sometimes sporadically, I am putting on my (new! bright orange!) running shoes and heading out the door, iPhone running a 5K training app, music blaring. I’m averaging about 2.5 miles (of run/walking) in around 30 minutes. No one is going to give me any medals, but I’m proud that I’m sticking with it. I’m proud that I have never stopped a workout midway through, because I just don’t think I can finish it. I’m proud that I finally (wo)manned up and bought the appropriate accoutrements for this endeavor. Proper sports bras, I love you, let’s make out. (Oh, we’ve already moved to second base? OK, fine.)

(Can I add a few more parentheticals to this post? What do you think?)

And the thing is, I’m sort of enjoying it. I actually get why people do this to themselves on a daily basis. I’m not sure I’ll ever join their ranks, but I do understand the appeal, for the first time ever. And, I think because I’m aiming for a distance goal, instead of just attempting to lose weight, I feel like I could potentially get better at this. One day – probably not in time for this 5K – I might be able to run a mile or two without keeling over. I might even strive for it.

But first, let’s see how things go for the next 37 days.

Two nights ago, I had a terrible dream. I dreamt that there was a mockingbird  ensconced in the tree directly below our bedroom window. At 3 a.m., it made its presence known at top volume. Its song? A medley of car alarms. You know the one. You’ve heard it. They even do a “bit” about it in How I Met Your Mother.

It was a laughably bad dream. Nature collided with my own personal hell. I mean, really, how pointless are car alarms? Have you ever heard one go off and thought, “Gee, I should go check and see if someone is stealing a car”??? No. You hear them go off and start metally cursing the cretin who has not yet figured out how to turn of said alarm. (endrant)

In the morning, I’d slept fitfully. I told the Horse Whisperer about the dream, and said that I was more than half convinced that it had actually happened. He laughed at me, saying that there was no way we had a mocking bird problem. Several times throughout the day, we laughed about it. As we drifted off to sleep, he said, “I hope you don’t hear any mocking birds in your sleep tonight.”

You know where this is going, right? You do. My very lucid dream was no dream. There is, indeed, a mocking bird outside our bedroom window. And yes, it is mocking the multi-phased car alarm of my nightmares. This time, at 2 a.m.

My first waking emotion was vindication, if you want to know the truth. The second was complete and utter dismay. I have dealt with this situation before (HOW FREAKING “LUCKY” IS THAT????), and it is unlikely that this bird will find a new tree for several nights. In the middle of the night, I began pondering going downstairs with my broom and beating the hell out of the tree, in the hopes that our “friend” will decide that it isn’t quite the heavenly abode he’d assumed. I’m not sure I’m ready to terrorize One Of God’s Creatures that way, but I’m perilously close.

I love making dinner. I love starting with ingredients and ending with something delicious. I find the ritual of chopping vegetables, stirring a sauce, or browning onions to be deeply meditative. It makes my heart happy.

In the past few months of busy time, I’ve barely been cooking. I’ve fallen into the trap of heating things up – a practice that is absolutely fine, if you don’t love cooking the way I do. I recognize that times like this require sacrifice of some luxuries, and for me, that’s been spending an hour or more in the kitchen each evening. Now that things are (knock on wood) slowing down, here are a few things I’d like to make.

1. The Caribbean Pork Shoulder braise in All About Braising. If you’ve been around here for any length of time, you know that this is my all-time favorite cookbook. Molly Stevens also recently released a second book, All About Roasting, which my mother in law gave me for Christmas. I haven’t used it yet, and I’m dying to try that, too.

2. Red Shrimp Chowder with Corn, from The Wednesday Chef. This is one of my all-time favorite recipes, and the broth really makes it. I’m counting down until summer produce arrives at the market, so I can make this.

3. Smitten Kitchen’s Chicken and Mushroom Marsala. Favorite favorite favorite.

4. Poached Salmon with Corn and White Wine Butter Sauce. The Horse Whisperer adores this, and it got him hooked on zucchini. Winner winner chicken salmon dinner!

5. Another Smitten Kitchen gem: this Chana Masala. It is delicious, and totally worth the eleventy-billion spices.

6. Meatloaf. I don’t have a recipe for meatloaf, I just crib from what I observed my dad do for years. Ground beef, egg, breadcrumbs, various seasonings and whatever is left in the fridge. Also, onion. The Horse Whisperer DETESTS chunks of onion in things, and I’ve finally found a way of dealing with that. I chop the onion into hunks, then give it a whirr in the food processor. Then I mash the onion puree into the ground beef mixture.

7. I’d also like to dive into the many recipes that I’ve pinned over here.

Is there anything you’d highly recommend making?

Have I ever told you the story of Bonita Raisin? Either way, I’m about to, so hang on to your hats: shit’s about to get real.

(That’s tonally inappropriate in every way for that story, but I’ve always wanted to say it, so there we are.)

Many, many years ago, I ran my first mini-gala. I was an intern, and I prided myself particularly on my attention to detail, my efficiency, and a litany of other saintly qualities. My ability to read almost anyone’s handwriting wasn’t necessarily on the top of that list, but it did appear in the seemingly endless ranks of my self-assigned accolades. (Can you tell that I don’t particularly enjoy reflecting upon myself in that era?)

So, there I was, a veritable wunderkind in the art of reading other people’s handwriting, working on my first gala. And, friends, if you’ve never worked on a gala, just picture handling RSVP cards for a wedding. Rather, imagine handling RSVP cards for about 10 weddings, all at the same time. There were some quality handwriting samples there. (There were also some quality names, which I cannot type for fear of people Googling themselves, but HOLY SMOKES. The Horse Whisperer and I allude to some of the more impressive name combinations on a weekly basis.) Through the help of our database, the internet, and our staff, I figured out almost all of them.

Except for Bonita Raisin.

Here’s the thing about a name like Bonita Raisin: it could totally be a real name! I mean, no, in most places, it couldn’t be. But in San Francisco, in an institution where I had already input many legitimate-but-hilariously-bad names, it was absolutely viable. And girlfriend’s handwriting was a total wreck. Loops and swirls and scribbles galore. I attempted to check every possible document, I called people who might possibly recognize the handwriting, I looked through society pages in an effort to identify something close, but to no avail. Bonita Raisin she had written, and Bonita Raisin she would be.

The night of the event arrived, and guests were stepping out of cars in their most beautiful evening attire. I was seated outdoors, it was cold and misting, and up walked a very dashing young couple. She said, “Hello, my name is Susanna Bauer*,” and I immediately knew that Bonita Raisin had arrived. In my most charming-yet-sheepish way, I explained that I hadn’t been able to read her name, but that I had brought a spare place card to fill out for her. She became indignant, and asked, “well, what did you think it said????”

You can only imagine her ire at being assigned the name Bonita Raisin.

Her husband was hysterical with mirth. “Hey, babe,” he said, “at least you’re a beautiful raisin!”

She was not amused.

*not her name, either. I can’t remember what it was, actually.

Years ago, I did a series of posts based on the alphabet. Yes, it was totally elementary school. And it was also the writing exercise that helped me figure out how to use my blog.

Let’s be real: I’ve been having a hard time using my blog for a while.

So, A is for alphabet posts, which I’m going to commit to once more. Who knows if this is going to spark anything? All I know is that it’s the first thing that has gotten me to open the “add new post” window for a while. At least I feel like I have something to focus on, which is helpful.

A is also for absent. Although I’ve been avoiding this place, averting my eyes and slinking past the bookmark when I open my browser, I’ve also been absent for lots of Actual Reasons. There have been events galore, including residencies of an incredible visual artist, an acclaimed cellist, and an entire choir of adults and children. I’ve been struggling with what to say about it all. It was exhilarating, satisfying, and exhausting. There were great days and horrible ones. It was completely insane, and I hope I don’t have to keep cramming so much stuff into such a tight window of time. And it was awesome, fun, and inspiring.

In short, there was a lot.

The thing is, I know enough not to talk about work in lurid detail. Sure, there are killer stories I could share, but doing so doesn’t feel terribly prudent, from a long-term professional growth perspective. And really, I’ve spent the vast majority of the past four months working – there have been actual 100+ hour workweeks. (I realize that, for those of you who are doctors and lawyers, this isn’t that alarming. Please remember, I am a nonprofit arts administrator. This is wackadoodle.)

The Horse Whisperer and I had a bit of a “come to Jesus” talk the other night, about the fact that we’ve basically been roommates for a few months. It’s not ideal, nor is it how I want things to be. Neither of us really knows how to deal with it, given that we both love our jobs, we both believe in what we do professionally, and we both tend to burn ourselves out at the end of each day. There’s no solution yet, but at least we’ve started talking about it, which is a marked improvement.

Anyway, that’s a cursory overview of “stuff.” How are you? What are you up to? I miss you all terribly.