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When Tom is gone I like to bake.

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Success: Peanut Butter cookies for Dad, taken verbatim from 500 Cookies. Have I talked about this book before? I got it from my friend Toria for my birthday–she and Rach also got me 500 Pies and Tarts a couple of years back–and they’re both so totally cute and user-friendly and full of inspiration. Yum. Anyway, these were so good that when I took extras to work yesterday they MYSTERIOUSLY disappeared off the counter in five seconds while I brought the broken fax machine downstairs to the garbage. (Ok, also: so my job is sometimes really boring, so I have to make up little projects for myself, and this week I decided that every day I was going to take one of the old, obsolete, broken pieces of office equipment that are scattered all around in all the storage closets and on top of random filing cabinets and bring them to their final resting place. It is Thursday and I am not nearly done. In a related story, my office is dusty. In another related story, apparently I could have saved myself the hundred grand and not gone to college after all.)

Moral of the story: I like PB cookies because you get to smash ’em down with a fork. 

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Jury’s still out: cheesy beer bread. Okay, it’s so pretty, right? And the top is all crispy and cheesy and I really wanted to like it, but I used a LongTrail because all we had in the fridge was LongTrail or Corona, and in the end it just tasted kind of…bitter? I don’t know. A little too beery, in any case.  It was, however, DELICIOUS with lots of butter on it. Anyway, sliced and frozen for the next time we have soup for dinner. AND the whole thing was worth it because when you add the beer to the flour the yeast causes this instant explode-y chemical reaction. I love science. I think they should teach science using baking in school. I wonder who I talk to about that.

Moral of the story: Beer. Better drunk than eaten. (Drunk? Is that right? I think it is, but saying it out loud makes me feel…well, drunk, frankly.)

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Walk it out.

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New picture. So there.

Sometimes I go to New York and hear concerts that make me crazy and see movies that make me cry and my family is feisty and I ramble around. Sometimes I see a girl from high school and a boy from college at a bar on Avenue A, and then I see another girl who made my life a vague sort of misery ten years ago on TV. Buying a wedding gown. On Say Yes to the Dress. 

Sometimes it’s raining and I feel things too much and my feet are cold inside my socks, and by the time Tom picks me up at South Station he says, “How you doing?” and I say, “I am really, really glad to be home.”

This week: Back. Updike’s Rabbit at Rest. Financing some new endeavors. Working out some old demons. 30-Day Shred started yesterday. Martha’s November issue. Taking my vitamins. Eating my fiber. Tom in Missouri. Boston Book Festival. Contemplating quilting. Poking (cautiously) around the edges of some holiday prep. Looking for inspiration everywhere. Outside my window. Inside my guts.

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This is my favorite poem.

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The Earth keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.

“Fiddler Jones,” by Edgar Lee Masters, part of the Spoon River Anthology.

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Triptych.

Utter bliss: I just came into three (3) giant (like way bigger than science-fair size) pieces of sturdy white foamboard–for free.

Clearly some homemade art is in order–the bedroom in particular has a lot of unused wallspace–but what, is the question.

I’ll probably collage–I always collage–but I’m totally open to suggestions, too.

Please discuss.

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what about aliens/what about you and me

Jennie reminded me tonight about Carbon Leaf, whom we saw with JMraz back in 2005 when we lived in the same building and left notes on each other’s dry erase boards ten. times. a day.

Have a song, is what I am saying. I freaking love this song. And it’s not even hip-hop. 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUxp63OTyog]

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School this week.

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Second Quarter. Three stories to send out. Some Geraldine Brooks to start. Finished Oscar Wao, a thunderstorm-quick read which left my head spinning but honestly feeling a little cold. Notebooks to cover. Pictures to hang. Some fancy new software to learn. Concert at Boston House of Blues on Wednesday. Bolting to New York on Thursday. Jackie. Bethany. Sierra. Have scarf. Have sunglasses. Have coffee. Will travel.

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