Ten.Fourteen
1. What time is it? All I know is that it's dark and there is some star that is twinkling so brightly.
2. I am moving slowly this morning.
3. Still no deer.
4. The coolness of the breeze caught me off-guard. After so many days of thick humid air, this is a welcomed surprise. Sweater weather in July.
5. Still hanging on to that dream of all of us together so close on a cloud of blue velvet. How the rest of the world disappeared and fingers were laced and the laughter was quiet.
6. This is our last day.
7. Expired domain.
8. Ankle boots in cognac leather and how you know that these are going to change your life. Because shoes can do that, you know.
9. Dad is still sitting here and I'm already missing him. How is it possible to miss someone before they're gone? What other man do I know will appreciate my love of ankle boots in cognac leather?
10. I'm still sitting with that dream of us tucked into that blue velvet cloud, our togetherness so dangerous and sweet.
Ten.Thirteen
1. So much green. This is the first time I've kept my plants so alive. I want this to be a metaphor for my own life.
2. The coffee machine is leaking again.
3. There is no air-conditioning in the warehouse and so he turns on a fan for me - for us. This has become my favorite job: sweeping sawdust off the backdrop, squeezing myself between pieces of furniture to fit it all into a shot, in awe of all the broken beauty.
4. There is a small settee with one broken leg and it always looks like it's floating.
5. These helmets aren't clean but I put one on anyway. Legs wide. Knees bent. Elbows up. Bat straight. Keep your eyes on the ball.
6. I remember the summer before my senior year of high school when I took gym and we headed to the batting cages across from the school. This tall kid with blonde hair and blue eyes watched me swing and miss at the first three balls before he said, "listen. Keep your bat high. Bring out your front leg and kinda step into it when you swing."
7. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. I run down to the desk and ask for more tokens. I'm a little breathless. "This is really therapeutic."
8. I know I'm going to really hurt tomorrow. But it will be the good kind of ache. And isn't that a lot like life anyway?
9. Pink Gladiolas.
10. This is his last night here.
Ten.Twelve
1. Mornings that look like night.
2. The back stoop is cement and herbs. This is now my new favorite piece of my home.
3. Coffee and morning pages on the front stoop. The breeze is cool and refreshing; the humidity has dropped out for just a few hours and I am breathing again. The pages fill up with a litany of gratitudes.
4. The rains are here and the clouds are dark and low and this is what I need now: The quieting of a storm.
5. Silence.
6. Melted butter and olive oil mixed with dried herbs and kosher salt, rubbed over the skin of the chicken.
7. Rosemary represents remembrance and right now I know that I may remember this moment for the rest of my life.
8. We have only 1 full day left together.
9. The smell of yeast and the way flour drifts into and onto places you never intend for it to go.
10. Garden State Soundtrack. How this movie and these songs marked the beginning and ending of so many things and helped me remember how to feel. How this movie and these songs still lead me to of all the tender places within my body.
Ten.Eleven
1. The whirring sound of the coffee grinder.
2. The peppermint is springing back to life; no sign yet that the rabbits are coming close enough to the house to eat the herbs.
3. There are too many things about Chicago that I do not like, namely, the gentrification and the prices you pay for parking. But driving along Lake Shore Drive can make you forget about it all.
4. Life is a lot like this maze of mirrors.
5. The Golden Ratio. 1.618. Looking for patterns.
6. In ice is the memory of the world. - James Balog
7. If I hadn't seen it in the pictures, I wouldn't have believed it at all. - James Balog
8. This is the memory of the landscape. That landscape is gone. It may never be seen again in the history of civilization and it's stored right here. - James Balog
9. What does it mean to have a visual voice?
10. There is so much to know and un-know.
Ten.Ten
1. Late.
2. The sky is thick and gray and the wind is beginning to pick up.
3. As much as I love light, I crave days like this that are long and dark and time is slow.
3. The children are gone and the husband is gone and this is the silence I've been longing for all summer.
4. How silly it is that I have to practice breathing.
5. What am I ready to release?
6. The sage and peppermint and oregano and basil are in new pots. I see six tomatoes. My cuticles are caked in soil.
7. It's still so quiet.
8. The sun is behind the clouds and it is making God light. That kind of light where the clouds are outlined in gleaming silver and you can see the rays beaming down toward Earth.
9. The only sound is the wind whipping through these trees.
10. Everything is sacred.
Ten.Nine
1. 4:02 a.m. Hello again big, bright moon.
2. If only every drive into the city was as quick and quiet as this one. I'd make my way more often.
3. Flashing yellow lights as the lanes go from four to one. A car, black and charred and flipped onto its roof.
4. The darkness of Lower Wacker.
5. This is the first time I've ever seen the sun rise over Lake Michigan and I am breathless at the sight: electric orange orb rising up over the rippling water.
6. This does not feel like Chicago.
7. The view from here. My god, the view. I'll cling to the memory of this.
8. This sand. This water. This moment with her as she looks out over the water.
9. Apples sliced for pie. Sugar and cinnamon and flour on my fingertips.
10. The figs I bought yesterday are soft and sweet. I roll the seeds on my tongue.
Ten.Eight
1. 4:07 am and there is nothing but moonlight.
2. 5:03 am and now the moon clings to the horizon. It is low and glowing orange and I want to stare at it instead of the road.
3. I always forget how vast and wide this world is until I take myself out past the edges of what I know.
4. This whole morning is a journey past an edge.
5. There are sounds that you hear only during these sacred early hours. There is so much life that goes unnoticed in the bright waking hours.
6. She is pure light.
7. This is the good kind of exhaustion.
8. On the return home I see the powder blue four-square with its American flag. I try to recall the last time I drove through a two-stop-sign kind of town. I want to stop and take a picture with the barn and its grayed-out wood. I wish I could pull over and steal a handful of wheat, all golden and brown.
9. I want to know this landscape intimately. So that when I step out into it, it is less of an intrusion and more of a communion.
10. Gelato, please.
Ten.Seven
1. The deer are back again and the fawn is sturdy on her feet. We lock eyes, the three of us (mama, baby, and me), and stand still until we finally resume our work. They continue to graze and I drag the hoses.
2. The gentle way in which the air blows at the hem of my dress.
3. The clouds look like halos.
4. I am so very tired.
5. The smell of frankincense and myrrh fills the room as I move the vacuum back and forth. Why is it that the act of cleaning feels so holy to me?
6. I pick the dandelion weeds without gloves and so sometimes, when I'm not careful, my fingertips ache from the prickles.
7. It is the thoughtfulness of the gift that brings me to tears.
8. I've always judged myself for the ways in which I am so thoughtless. And as I write this right now I realize that the best gift I can give is that of my words.
9. The air is still moving.
10. Sometimes the light looks best through dirty glass.
Ten.Six
1. I am the only one awake.
2. There is something about the the height of the grass that makes me high-step through it as I drag the hoses.
3. The recycling truck is always first and it is the crashing of glass that greets me this morning.
4. Five baby tomatoes, soft yellow and pale green.
5. The scent of peppermint, oregano, and sage. I promise them that this time I will keep them alive. I finger the dried-out leaves of the potted hydrangea and reveal the new growth below. When does nature know to quit?
6. It is the whiteness of the walls, I think. How the whiteness is so expansive. I am uncomfortable.
7. I think again about the words I said to them last night: "I have to focus on the ways in which I can cultivate joy for myself."
8. Goodbyes. I am surprised by my sadness.
9. The dusty but rich color of the strand of dried rosebuds.
10. I am still the only one awake.
Ten.Five
1. Late.
2. The color of straw and orange and blue-grey in the sky.
3. This is the kind of food that makes you feel good: potatoes and cheese and onion, hot and melty. White casserole dish.
4. The slanted light in the basement. How the desk is in the shadows but my body is illuminated.
5. I am off-pitch.
6. Two geese, high above, wings beating in unison.
7. I am hungry for the things we do not have.
8. Thin-skinned neon pink blooms are here once again.
9. I am daydreaming about the ripples of the lake all those years ago and the time we stayed up late, sitting on the dock in the moonlight.
10. Late night arguments that center on an unspoken but understood love between kinfolk.
Ten.Four
1. How I wonder why I'm awake so early, at the first light, before the alarm. Before I'm fully rested.
2. I watch the videos I took on my phone of last night's fireworks, remembering the time we stopped in Arcola, Illinois and stood in the Dairy Queen parking lot, bones vibrating and ears ringing from the booms.
3. The sparrow is back again. Flying in frightened circles again. This must be a sign.
4. The sway of the tall grass on the berm.
5. My inability to make a conclusion is frustrating.
6. Circles.
7. The struggle to articulate the fullness of the situation.
8. We say the same things over and over.
9. Why are we here again, doing this again, saying this again, wishing for this again?
10. I watch myself stand outside the loop.
Ten.Three
1. Train horns at 5:33 a.m. Long and drawn out.
2. How many different way can I describe the density of air? It is milky, thick, heavy, syrupy, sticky, unmoving.
3. Mam and baby dear: the way they both turn toward me when I slide open the door, heads up, ears perked before they resume grazing.
4. Cigarette smoke: the way it lingers long after the last drag.
5. Wet grass.
6. The collapse into cool, white sheets.
7. The way writing on this piece of hotel stationery evokes the smell of bergamot and lavender and rain.
8. Sawdust. Varnish. The sound of the power washer against thin metal.
9. The thinness of the air.
10. Smears of black ink.
Ten.Two
1. The fog rising off the tall grass is thick and orange-hued.
2. Why is it that we scrub ourselves clean beyond recognition? Who do we think we are fooling?
3. The coffee tastes bitter and burnt but I drink it anyway because this is ritual and sometimes we forsake soul-sense in devotion of habit.
4. Milky air.
5. I am not breathing.
6. I hold my breath too much.
7. The way he is more himself when we are alone: head tilted, limbs so long and lean and folded over.
8. My skin is damp. Dewey. I am my own ecosystem.
9. There is a car up ahead whose taillights look like sirens. How the sight of what might be sirens makes me hold my breath.
10. I hold my breath too much.
Ten.One
1. A little black sparrow flew in frightened circles in front of the alcove this morning.
2. It's been 4 weeks since he last saw the barber and now the hairs, golden and brown, are curling around his temples and along his forehead.
3. The way his hands move in front of him when he beings to talk. It's one of the reasons I love him: His passion is never as quiet and unassuming as mine.
4. What is it? That sound of blade against wood? Rhythmic thuds.
5. A reflection of myself: shoulders curved too far forward and a neck bent to an unnatural degree. I am leaning into myself. Or am I curling away from someone or something?
6. The angles of light in this house and the way we walk in and out of the shadows.
7. There are not enough trees on our property to break up the wind and the small green leaves of the pepper plant whip back and forth.
8. Tenderness in the breast. First the left and now the right, and how I think about the cancer in my grandmother and my aunt and how I try to always convince myself that this tenderness is nothing.
9. Cold white sheets.
10. Fireworks boom in the distance.
Life + Bacon Jam
I feel as though I'm retracing lines in a book, over and over again, watching the pen marks deepen and widen. But this is life: some sort of motion that looks like a sine wave but feels more like a circle. Every transition—the wishing, the getting, the releasing—is different and yet the same. And yet, that doesn't make each one any less hard. So I'm here, still gripping on to the bits of myself that have stayed the same while staying open to what newness might develop.
“A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything.”
After a morning of antiquing, we stopped to have lunch at Preservation Bread and Wine in downtown Geneva. Why we had yet to dine there, I do not know. Small plates are our favorite way to eat and their charcuterie and cheese options are amazing. It's tucked into a narrow building with exposed brick and close tables, and filled with the smell of grilled dough. The wine list is eclectic and fun with a good mix quality, affordable wines. But it was the slab of slate hosting large crostinis topped with a savory and sweet bacon jam, peppery arugula, and tangy blue cheese that gripped me.
The following morning I set out to find a recipe that I could replicate and share for an upcoming dinner party. Thankfully, my neighbor Katie shared her version with me. I made only a slight modification from her original: cooking the bacon first so that the onions can cook down and caramelize in the drippings, adding a little more depth and flavor. There are a handful of other recipes I'd still like to try, but this one is a simple one to begin with.
BACON JAM CROSTINI
- 1/2 lb of thick cut hardwood smoked bacon cut into 1-inch pieces
- 1 red onion, thinly sliced
- 1 tsp of apple cider vinegar
- 1 cup dried pitted dates
- Black pepper to taste
- French baguette
- Butter
- Arugula, washed and dried
- A good blue cheese of your liking
- Using a cast iron skillet, cook bacon on medium-high heat until done but not crispy. Use a slotted spoon to remove the bacon from the pan.
- Toss in your onions. Stir constantly to keep your onions cooking, but not burning, until they turn deep in color.
- Add your caramelized onions (plus any remaining drippings), bacon, dates, and pepper into a food processor and pulse until smooth.
- Slice your baguette into 1/2-slices, spread a thin layer of butter on both sides, then add to a heated pan. Toast both sides until golden brown.
- Remove your grilled bread from the pan, top with the bacon jam, a layer of arugula, and a few sprinkles of blue cheese.
Life + Bacon Jam
I feel as though I'm retracing lines in a book, over and over again, watching the pen marks deepen and widen. But this is life: some sort of motion that looks like a sine wave but feels more like a circle. Every transition—the wishing, the getting, the releasing—is different and yet the same. And yet, that doesn't make each one any less hard. So I'm here, still gripping on to the bits of myself that have stayed the same while staying open to what newness might develop.
“A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything.”
After a morning of antiquing, we stopped to have lunch at Preservation Bread and Wine in downtown Geneva. Why we had yet to dine there, I do not know. Small plates are our favorite way to eat and their charcuterie and cheese options are amazing. It's tucked into a narrow building with exposed brick and close tables, and filled with the smell of grilled dough. The wine list is eclectic and fun with a good mix quality, affordable wines. But it was the slab of slate hosting large crostinis topped with a savory and sweet bacon jam, peppery arugula, and tangy blue cheese that gripped me.
The following morning I set out to find a recipe that I could replicate and share for an upcoming dinner party. Thankfully, my neighbor Katie shared her version with me. I made only a slight modification from her original: cooking the bacon first so that the onions can cook down and caramelize in the drippings, adding a little more depth and flavor. There are a handful of other recipes I'd still like to try, but this one is a simple one to begin with.
BACON JAM CROSTINI
- 1/2 lb of thick cut hardwood smoked bacon cut into 1-inch pieces
- 1 red onion, thinly sliced
- 1 tsp of apple cider vinegar
- 1 cup dried pitted dates
- Black pepper to taste
- French baguette
- Butter
- Arugula, washed and dried
- A good blue cheese of your liking
- Using a cast iron skillet, cook bacon on medium-high heat until done but not crispy. Use a slotted spoon to remove the bacon from the pan.
- Toss in your onions. Stir constantly to keep your onions cooking, but not burning, until they turn deep in color.
- Add your caramelized onions (plus any remaining drippings), bacon, dates, and pepper into a food processor and pulse until smooth.
- Slice your baguette into 1/2-slices, spread a thin layer of butter on both sides, then add to a heated pan. Toast both sides until golden brown.
- Remove your grilled bread from the pan, top with the bacon jam, a layer of arugula, and a few sprinkles of blue cheese.
The Thin Place
“ In thin places, we become our more essential selves.”
I don't always do a good job of explaining why I've become so attached to northern California. I mean, it's beautiful. Beyond beautiful, really. The air is clean and fresh. The color of the tomatoes brings tears to my eyes. I remember the one time, while walking down the street in St. Helena, how an orange rolled under the car. And I remember the way the soles of my converse conversed with the fallen olives, soft and hard.
California is where everything within me stills and the only voice I can here is my own. The only breath I'm aware of is my own. There is space for me there. Perhaps it's because I spend most of my time in the shadow of the mountains, deep in the valley, in awe of the way the sun rises and sets against the mountain peaks.
And so I share with you just a few of my moments from this past March, when the air was both warm and cool and the wild mustard bent in the breeze.
The Return
8 weeks here and still I am treading the waters of all that feels unknown. I know the names of only 4 streets—they are the ones that lead me back to home. I forget the names of the faces of neighbors that appeared in that first week. And there are the birds and the trees and the native grasses I've yet to identify. In the midst of all of this newness I've struggled to hold on to what is familiar. But what remains constant: food, wine, and words.
This space, SOMMERSALT, is meant to be a space to house the simple, storied beauty that is life. It's for the small and bright ways in which I find pleasure.
Of course, this is not the first time I've tried to return to blogging. Over the past few years I've started and stopped, usually when it begins to feel forced and unnatural. But right now, there is nothing forced or unnatural about a return to a devotion of my essentials for being.
I believe in simplicity and beauty. I believe in the holiness of dark and the illuminating fullness of light. I believe in the healing power of mountain views, a properly made bed, and homemade bread. I believe in the necessity of expression in whatever medium feels most natural. And I believe that the most honest of conversations happen over a bottle of wine shared in the glow of a warm fire.
Let this space be that fire.
