Aperetivo

The Start to Something

There are some new friends around here these days thanks to some gracious referrals from Esther the Dolly Mama and Lauren Cibene from The Rest of Us so I just wanted to make sure I said hi in the proper way, and welcome you into this space. Like most invested homeowners, I’m a perpetual redecorator. Moving furniture, hanging art on the walls just to take it down, changing the paint color.

I do the same to this space sometimes, but never fear. The paint color may change, but it’s still the same room, with the same intent: to make you feel at home.

As you can tell, life around the table and the food on it play a large part in how I show up here and see the world. It wasn’t always that way- in fact, food was something I avoided for decades (which I write about sometimes). Thanks to my evangelical upbringing, eating disorders/disordered eating, clinical anxiety, and OCD, making amends with my own worth and body is a lifelong process. But it’s what feels most natural to me now- healing is a wonder. Here are some things you have always been able to find here in all posts over time, but not always all at once:

• Shelf Life is an ode to my reading and contemplative life. I’ll share books, podcasts, articles, videos that I’ve consumed and found magic in.

• Stories Served Warm will be where I stretch my writing muscles. I might share something original here about motherhood, relationships or social and spiritual creative life; or point you in the direction of where my writing lives elsewhere.

• The Daily Bread Is food related content; recipes, restaurants, etc.

• Cravings or the Love List is where I get to share what’s nourishing me; for always or for the moment.

• Please Pass The… Is where we get to dig into community. Maybe ask some questions, highlight a fellow writer in this space, feature a human doing good in the world.

If I am able to convince you of nothing else, it’s that we all belong to each other. And since that’s the core truth I live and die by, it means everyone has a seat at this table ( unless you’re an asshole, committed to doing harm, refuse to lead with an open heart and mind, and do not acknowledge the beautiful humanity in others.)

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Shelf Life:

The Ministry of Time had exceptional reviews, so I picked it up in the airport at a Hudson Books like it was circa 1999 before hopping on a plane home. I didn’t love it. There. I said it. I did finish Conjure Women a few weeks ago however, and I am STILL thinking about it.

I’ve also begun The Artist’s Way again, for the third time. This week is my first week and I’m a bit mortified that these affirmations still hit me so hard. Shouldn’t I have reconciled with my shadow artist by now? Shouldn’t I have KNOWN I had been living the life of a shadow artist? Gah. So much to process.

The poet’s I’m OBSESSED with right now? Glad you asked. Joy Sullivan. Kate Baer. And Maggie Smith, forever and ever amen.

Also- I KNOW that Amazon is easier, more affordable and sometimes the only way we get life-saving words delivered exactly when we need it. Also, also- the library is the first best place to look, and if you want to own it- bookshop.org is the very next best thing.

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Stories Served Warm:

Uncharted Paths and Wasting Potential

When I was in the classroom, one of my favorite stories to build up relationships and student engagement was to tell them I was a college dropout.

You do not know silence until you have a room full of 30 over-anxious, over-achieving AP Lit and Comp students trying to parcel out the madness their teacher just spoke out into the ether like it was the lunch menu.

I. AM. A. COLLEGE. DROPOUT.

Do not fear, I did return to obtain the degree that allowed me access to precious minds. But I didn’t for a while.

And it was shocking to them that an adult would admit that they didn’t have their life figured out. That, in fact, they still change things up every now and then and quit and start over.

I still feel the weight of that, like an apple in my palm. Every once in a while, I am in a season that begs to be shaken. I want to buy an outrageous dress- or a convertible. (Though my beloved, ancient, British racing-stripe green Mini-Cooper Dorothy will always have my heart).

I want to set fire to the ladders I keep climbing and “waste my potential” on an art degree or a PhD in Creative Writing. Comparative literature. Fine Arts studies. I want to walk into a community theater audition completely unprepared.

If I still had students, I would probably tell them that.

That uncharted paths, pivots and the roads less traveled are terrifying AND what gives life, life.

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The Daily Bread:

I fancy myself a decent home cook/baker. I read cookbooks like novels, put post-it notes with page numbers and shopping lists on my fridge, order tahini, labne, harissa, and orange blossom water. But there are things too sacred to attempt on my own. Too perfect to be entrusted with my own hands.

One of them is the morning bun.

The morning bun, otherwise known as the cardamom bun is Swedish in origin. A delicate croissant-like dough wraps around like a little rose bud, in layers delicately scented with butter, sugar, the tiniest hint of cinnamon and a generous dusting of my favorite spice of all time- cardamom.

If I am given a choice, I am a savory girl 99% of the time. Sweets (unless it’s dark chocolate with nuts) don’t hold as much appeal as a second helping of dinner, to be honest. Unless, unless….the offering is a glorious cardamon bun.

It smells like Christmas and summer all at once. It holds everything good. Our favorite local bakery Bread and Culture makes one I dream about every Saturday morning. While their offerings vary from season to season (all of them delicious) there are a few mainstays. Thank the gods the morning bun is one of them.

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Cravings:

When the sun starts sinking lower, later and the sun actually warms the pumpkin pine floors of this ancient ,200 year old behemoth of a house, I only want Blueberry coffee.

Yes, you heard me. Ordinarily, I am a purist. Yirgecheffe, whole bean, ground seconds before brewing or bust. But. I spent the summers of my childhood in New England and can’t get the taste of huckleberries off my tongue, as my grandfather drank his black coffee on the front porch. The mouthful of huckleberries with the scent of freshly-brewed coffee smells like home. It’s also delicious.

Musical theater makes me cry ugly tears- so do fully committed High School Choral Conductors. I love Kate DiCamillo middle readers. New England summers. Hosting dinner parties. Poetry. Lay theological conversations. Thinking about what it means to be a spiritual creative. Art. Hugs. People. Dirty martinis (with blue cheese olives). Watching other people step into their callings.

Due to my workaholism, I’ve severely neglected the parts of myself that literally and figuratively cry out for these things. Writing down what I crave (or what I sometimes refer to as the “Love List”) is the first step back to reclaiming my personhood. As I’ve said in other posts, it’s simply too late not to love.

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Please Pass The…

My friend and brilliant writer has a memoir out this week. Read about it here:

Why I Wrote A Book No One Will Like

Buy it here: Tiger in a Lifeboat.

Mother’s Day is this weekend, and if you have a Grandma in your life still, this might be a great gift to give (and you’ll find a piece written by me in it).

My friend Kendall is doing this incredible thing; writing a memoir IN REAL TIME. Right here on Substack. If you love the natural world and how it speaks the greatest of lessons- you won’t want to miss it. Start with this one:

I. It All Started With a Pebble

Lastly, Andrea Gibson is a gift. If you’re feeling tender, and in need of permission to acknowledge how much you need, read this:

The Hardest Winter Of My Life