Come away with me

Hello all! If you are still poking around here, I am no longer updating this blog. However, you may follow me over at my latest writing venture, The Sentimental Club. 

Cheers!

Spring again

So many of us were reflecting last week as we hit the year mark that we all sheltered in place. I've been allowing myself to look back at my line-a-day journal entries and social media posts in order to mark the time, and to think about how little we knew and how far we've come. A year later, this scary virus now has a vaccine, and we are starting to think about bigger plans than our trips to the grocery store. As I look back,  I think of all the ways we have become stronger and more resilient, but also more tender and more sensitive.

One year later, I am still healthy. My parents never got sick. I still have my job. Joel got a new job. We got married. I have done 150 workouts in my living room. I haven't gotten an oil change. My blood pressure is back to normal. 

One year later, I have lost two family members without a way to gather in mourning. I missed my niece's wedding. I haven't seen my Boise family in person since 2019. I've become ever more aware of the decline of my dog's health as weeks pass and our walks become slower, and her face becomes whiter. 

On Monday, during my afternoon stroll on the bluff, a bird call caught my attention. In the tree above me were five or six Northern flickers. They squeaked and warbled at each other before a few of them flew off, and then the call became loud and persistent. I might have seen or heard these birds before, but I never knew their names until I consulted with my niece, an avid birder, who confirmed via text. They are so common, so it was amazing to me that I had never noticed them before now.

In How to Do Nothing, Jenny Odell writes of this shifting of attention, paying more mind to our bioregion, that is, the immediate environment where we live, walk, and generally inhabit. Context is important, which includes our physical space. In the past year I have gained a heightened awareness of the way my house creaks during the day, where the light hits during the different times of year, as well as the names of the weeds that pop up in the garden beds in March and June. And I'm still finding more to pay attention to. I've walked the neighborhood each day and have examined, lately, various houses' siding, as we determine how to re-do ours (and more! ugh). I've talked to more neighbors and watched their activities through the window like a true Mrs. Kravitz. I've hiked the bluff hundreds of times and, like on Monday, am still learning what nature does there, and the names of the plants and creatures that inhabit that space. It feels good to be sensitive and attentive to these things, after so much worry this year, after reading so many news headlines without the energy to read the articles themselves, and feeling a growing inability to retain information or to concentrate for any length of time. The other day at work (in my home office), I had a good idea -- a rare feeling lately -- and before I lost it, I shared it with Joel to make sure it made sense, then walked out the door for fresh air and to celebrate that fleeting joy of reconnecting to what I love about my work, hoping that adding a dose of sunlight to it would keep it from being spoiled by checking my email again too quickly. 

This year has important and life-changing, though it's just one year in the larger context of our lives, in the even larger context of the world around us. There's so much left to learn and grow from. After a year of isolation, mixed with grief and joy, I'm looking forward to the things we're all looking forward to, but I am doing my best to continue to use this time to form deeper habits that are keeping me grounded and are compelling me to pay better attention.

And yes, it's spring again. The year should begin on the vernal equinox because if ever there were a true feeling of turning a new leaf, this is it. It is the best season (where I've lived, at least), even though summer gets all the credit. Those first warm days, those first pops of green buds and the tell-tale yellows of forsythia and purples of crocuses, the return of the birds, the smell of mud, the sound of kids out on the sidewalks -- spring is a reminder that nothing is to be taken for granted but yet here we are again, greeted by persistent life and color and promises of brighter days to come.

There went January

 So...now we're halfway through February and I had this puppy in my drafts for a couple weeks. It already feels like a long time ago, but here's what I meant to post at the end of last month.

One year you’re blogging every week and the next you nearly forget this place exists. Okay, that’s not true. But it’s been nice to take a breather from the weekly blog thing. Now that it’s February, I’m having a hard time remembering what happened over the last four weeks. But…

The best thing about January was sharing some riveting news with friends and loved ones, and if this is the first time you’re hearing of this, surprise! On December 31, Joel and I married each other, in our friends' backyard, in the final hours of 2020. 

We had no rings, no formal speeches, no fancy clothes under our down jackets, just our witnesses and ordained friend who asked us if we took each other as husband and wife. It was a decision twelve years and six months in the making, and when it was made, we wasted no time. Our lives were already so interwoven and committed to each other that marriage, to us, felt like opening ourselves to a warm embrace that had long been waiting for us. With each person we have shared our news with (starting with our parents, the next day), I’ve felt that embrace expand. 

I must admit that I didn’t think things would feel that different after marriage, but they do. And while I’m admitting things, I’ll add that it’s lovelier than I expected, even as I knew what to expect with Joel as a partner. And while in another reality I would have loved to see my friends and family beside us when we gathered, being able to strip away the trappings of a wedding really made things feel more personal and allowed us to focus on the chapter we’re launching. The friends who were able to be with us were part of our story from the very beginning, which was special, too. It was the best way to end one year and begin another. I've carried this poem by Mary Oliver in my pocket all winter, and it has felt all the more poignant ever since.

We left two days later for a quick trip to Walla Walla and called it a honeymoon (with the dog). The gorgeous weather made outdoor wine tasting bearable, and it was nice to eat another city’s takeout. We also stopped in at a jeweler to figure out our ring sizes and came home and made those purchases for our left hands.

Then came the insurrection, the inauguration, the news of friends receiving the long-awaited vaccine.

A mixed bag of joy, agony, joy, anxiety and joy, as usual.

Here are other highlights, the ones I can remember, at least.

What we’ve eaten:

I’ve been creating these little calendars to help me meal plan and to document what we’ve eaten. I usually only plan out a few days at a time - depending on my grocery shopping plans - which allows for flexibility, the lack of which is the primary reason I’ve resisted meal planning. On the back of the calendar I list recipes I want to try that month, which includes desserts, and I refer to it each time I’m plotting out the next few days or weekend. When the month is over, I slip the paper in a sheet protector and stick it into one of my recipe binders. It then becomes a reference if I’m looking for ideas for future months.

We’ve eaten a number of hearty soups, some standbys like pizza, hodgepodge clean-out-the-fridge dishes, and recipes from new issues of Bon Appetit and Milk Street magazines. Desserts are where I’m having the most fun, with a red wine marble cake, Swedish orange almond cookies (pink icing from blood oranges), and a loaf cake with macerated prunes (with port and whiskey) and pistachios. I also made a new sourdough loaf that contained dried fruit and sunflower seeds that made for incredible toast.

Joel made the month, though, with the most unusual soup, Royale Bolognese, to celebrate the new year. What you’re seeing above is essentially parmesan dumplings in a clear meat broth with fresh nutmeg. It was quite a process to make and the results were incredible. I’ve never eaten anything like it. We think this will be our New Year’s Day tradition. The recipe came from Pasta By Hand, a wonderful cookbook that hasn't failed us yet.

The rest of the time I eat a steady diet of oatmeal for breakfast, and poached egg and greens for lunch (sprinkled with a little feta, plus some Triscuits or toast on the side), with lots fruits and vegetables in between. I’m off of weekday booze, save for a small glass of vermouth that I allow myself as a reward for cleaning the bathroom on Wednesdays after work, and we usually crack open a bottle of wine on Fridays. Lately that bottle has been lasting us all weekend (which is shocking - last year we could polish off one in a night). My blood pressure is now on the high end of normal.

We got a milk frother for Christmas (thanks to me) so I’m also enjoying the occasional cappuccino with my Aeropress.

Watching:
I’ve been thinking of how little I remember of the stuff we watch. We are in the last season of Frasier, and I’m ready for it to end as they’re recycling some old bits from previous seasons, back when Frasier was in its heyday. We watched the first (very short) season of Lupin (Netflix), which was enjoyable, and the latest season of Call My Agent(Netflix). We also enjoyed The Flight Attendant (HBO). For movies, I’d recommend The Dig, a new feature from Netflix. It was also fun to watch the documentary about the Monterey Pop Festival (HBO) and see what festival-going was like in the 1960s, before large corporate sponsorships and smartphones took over the scene. Joel keeps selecting French/Italian/Spanish movies that I never remember the names of later. I need to write this stuff down. He would agree, though, that most of it was forgettable.

Listening:
I’ve given up podcasts and am exclusively listening to audiobooks on my daily walks in my effort to read more books this year. I finished The Body by Bill Bryson, which was fascinating, though many facts are hard to retain. A few passages, however, I will never forget, such as how kidney stones used to be removed, or the story of a guy who fell from a plane without a parachute and survived, and how we can thank mustard gas for the existence of chemotherapy. The main takeaway was that our bodies are smarter than we realize, and that there’s so much that’s still a mystery. I also finished Ibram X. Kendi’s How to Be an Anti-Racist. He writes very methodically but breaks it up with his personal experiences. I was talking to someone who has also been listening to the audiobook version of this, and we agreed it's best to take it in small portions.

Music-wise, it’s mostly music for chilling out. Mia Doi Todd's Cosmic Ocean Ship album has been nice during my afternoon slumps. We also learned of a French band called Catastrophe, a fun and dancy group...the music video for "Maintenant ou Jamais" feels a lot like the dance parties my post-college housemates would host, i.e., a handful of people flailing their arms and spinning, channeling other eras with their outfits. I miss those days.

Reading:
Aside from my audiobooks, I’ve finished Circe by Madeline Miller, The Cold Millions by Jess Walter, and Writers and Lovers by Lily King. All were so different, and all were so engaging. We’re off to a good start this year. Between reads I fit in some short stories by Mavis Gallant as a palate cleanser. I just started Dirt by Bill Buford which is already fun.

Making:

I frogged this project last year and picked it back up for 2021 -- a fun sock pattern called Hickory, which is sometimes a challenge for my hands but worth the effort.

 This year has already brought some sadness and new challenges, and right now I'm focusing hard on things that bring color into my life. I'm wearing more jewelry and buying plants and picking out colorful yarn and fabric for new projects. And I'm making sure we always have something for dessert.

So long, 2020

When I started my weekly posts for 2020, I expected to share a year of adventure. In February I went out with a friend and declared that one of my goals for 2020 was to travel somewhere, near or far, every month. We were already off to a good start in January after a quick weekend trip to Coeur d'Alene. I was thinking about Nelson, B.C. for February. We were about to book tickets to France and Spain for March. My friend suggested we try for a group trip to Walla Walla in April (maybe for my birthday!). Other big milestones were on the horizon, so it just felt like a year to get out and go places.

Memories of these kinds of conversations are what many of us look back on as reasons the year was cursed. We brought it upon ourselves, making these grand plans, feeling optimistic and itchy to do something in a year with such an important ring to it: 2020. Our blind optimism caused these plans to evolve into uncertainty, then into cancelled itineraries, and then into a year in which I barely needed car insurance due to driving less than 3,000 miles. Superstition aside, as a result, this blog ended up being just a heightened version of what it was always meant to be - a place to share things I've made (and read and watched and listened to) -- only this time, it was because it was all I could do. It became, unintentionally, a pandemic journal. 

I learned at an early age that if I picture how I want things to turn out too clearly, I will be disappointed. I learned much later that no matter what happens, the one thing I can control is my response to a situation. I pictured a year of going places, but gosh darn it if by the end of it I didn't make the most out of staying put. 

Little did I know that maintaining the routine of writing here each week would become crucial to my mental health. Every Sunday, I'd think about what stood out about the past week, both good and bad. It helped me pinpoint things I needed more or less of in the week ahead. It helped me process challenging events. Each time I hit "Publish" was a sort of celebration that I made it through another week, all things considered. We all adapted to this year, for better or worse. I'm grateful to be able to look back and see how I did it.

Though I'm holding my hopes for 2021 loosely, I'm carrying the gratitude I accumulated this past year into another year of uncertainty, knowing that I am blessed beyond measure to have a small home to keep, people to love and who love me, a job that brings challenges and fulfillment and a steady paycheck, dear friends who live within a mile, a bluff and a valley at the end of the block to throw my cares to, a good data plan on my phone, and, obviously, hobbies to keep my life interesting. 

This is the last of my weekly posts, not just because 2020 is ending but because I need a break! I will return but on a less predictable schedule. In the meantime, thank you for sticking it out with me and if you've been reading for any number of weeks, I hope you found some inspiration to keep notes about your life, to start (and maybe finish) new projects, or that you at least got some good book or movie recommendations.

Cheers, and Happy New Year.

Week 52

 Wooooooooo! Here we are! 

Christmas and my first week of vacation are both behind us and I'm already feeling wistful. I filled those first few days of the week with gentleness toward myself and didn't give myself too much to do. My one priority each day was to soak in the sun as much as I could. I walked my usual haunts and made a beautiful late-afternoon Christmas Eve visit to Manito Park. Listening to Bach while walking through frozen gardens is magical.

Christmas was sweet. Our gifts were mostly given for both of us to enjoy -- we call it "Us-mas." Joel gave us extremely thoughtful gifts (handmade wooden napkin rings, vintage glassware), mine were mostly practical (e.g. a new milk frother, a nonstick fry pan). The pets got some new toys, too. We Zoomed with all of our family at different points in the day which made me feel a little less homesick. And on Christmas night, it snowed. It made for a bright night and invigorating trek the next morning in our snow pants across the bluff. We sat for a moment on a little mound and looked out at the valley that we look at a bazillion times over the course of a year and watched the misty clouds move around it.

In other news, as of this week I am the proud owner of an at-home blood pressure monitor, which is fun and instantly makes me feel a couple decades older. My numbers have been consistently high this year, and I went to the doctor at the beginning of the week to try to figure out what is going on. It's not for lack of exercise, or needing to lose weight -- I eat few processed foods (pretzels and cheese are my primary sources of weakness) and cut back on coffee to mostly weekends. My cholesterol is low. We definitely drank more alcohol this year, but we've cut back considerably in the last month, and I've inadvertently lost a few pounds because of it. I don't feel more stressed than usual but I do suspect it may have something to do with it. And I need to drink more water. It's my mystery to solve and get a handle on in 2021. 

Wish me luck.

Recipes

My family was texting about our traditional family recipes leading up to Christmas, i.e., Oma's rouladen, Mom's ham and egg souffle. I was happy to find a package of lebkuchen on my doorstep on Monday morning from Boise, which is already half gone, less than a week later. But otherwise, our holiday food was mostly influenced by Joel's family traditions this year. We ate chili on Christmas Eve (made with ground turkey instead of beef), and I made his family coffee cake for Christmas morning. 

For Christmas dinner we went nontraditional but still festive with coq au vin rosé, in the Instant Pot. This might be my first Christmas without beef. 

I'm also enjoying that new nonstick fry pan for all my egg-and-spinach concoctions.

Watching

We watched all the Christmas movies this week: A Christmas Story, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, Bad Moms Christmas, Muppets Christmas Carol, and a favorite from my childhood which I had not seen in maybe 20 years: Mame, starring Lucille Ball, which isn't really a Christmas movie save for the "We Need a Little Christmas" number in it. It was a real blast from the past. 

We also watched Mank, on Netflix, which was mostly confusing, even after having watched Citizen Kane recently. 

Making

I finished these crazy socks using the Late Night Socks pattern on Ravelry. That was fun. I recently signed up for a quarterly box from Quince & Co. where they send you yarn and a pattern every three months. The first one is on its way!

Reading

I'm working my way through Circe whenever I feel like there isn't something else I could be doing. It's hard for me to sit on the couch and just read, though now with the snow on the ground I feel like more daytime book-reading is in my future. Mom also got me a book that's been on my list this year, Writers & Lovers, and Joel's copy of Jess Walter's new book, The Cold Millions, is also waiting for me. And we got another book called Wine for Normal People that's been fun to page through as we sip our small amounts of wine. 

Listening

Same as last week: a lot of Christmas, a lot of classical. John Fahey's Christmas album is a good one for some instrumental tunes. 

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I've got one more of these to round out 2020. We're almost there! 

Week 51

Reality hit me pretty hard this week. I think I've held it together pretty well, all things considered -- the isolation, the working from home, the getting along with my partner despite close quarters all the time, the Zoom meetings and FaceTime happy hours, the health precautions to reduce the spread of COVID. But Thursday was my dad's birthday. It marked a milestone for me - a year since I've flown in a plane. A year since I've been to Boise. A year since I've seen my mom and dad. I've never gone this long without any of those things. In the meantime, both Joel and I are both experiencing health issues that are, at least (hopefully) temporarily, taking away some pleasures of eating and drinking, at the height of revelry, just as we enter vacation time that we've looked forward to for months. I have no doubt that what we're experiencing is, to some extent, a result of what we've been through this year.

I keep reminding myself how much worse things could be. Regardless, it's been a year.

Listening: I filled my week with music, because I needed it. For Christmas spirit, a little Dave Brubeck. For general mental health, classical music. A newsletter I follow shared a list compiled years ago by public radio's "Performance Today" of their 50 recommended classical music CDs. I'm working my way through them on Spotify. I had never heard John Adams' "The Chairman Dances" before, and loved it. I listened on my walk and it made me feel energized. And I've spent a lot of time with Bach's Brandenburg Concertos. What can I say, the harpsichord lightens my mood.

Reading: I'm still digging Circe.

Watching: We spent 20 bucks to watch Wild Mountain Thyme (trailer), and it was the best $20 we've spent on a movie in a long time (and first in maybe a year, since going to the theater for the last time was around Christmas time). It was set on two neighboring farms in Ireland, featuring two attractive neighbors (Emily Blunt and Jamie Dornan) who have known each other since childhood, with a little Jon Hamm (playing the American cousin) and Christopher Walken (playing the Irish father) thrown in for good measure. I would happily live on location of this film, and in Emily Blunt's wardrobe, rain and all. 

We finished The Queen's Gambit, which ended on just the right note. I loved watching Beth's fashion and hairstyles change over the years - she was absolutely gorgeous, and the lighting throughout each episode was well suited to her look. Still, it was strange to watch a show about chess without knowing anything about how the game works -- I still have no clue.

Recipes

Nothing of note here. I've been making things up on the fly with a pantry full of canned soup and saltines when necessary. This week I made things I've made before - crispy marinated tofu with rice, pizza, sheet-pan chicken. Mark Bittman's black bean burgers were probably the best and simplest version of bean burgers I've made. Otherwise, I've paused the Christmas baking. Except for the pumpkin-peanut-oat biscuits I made for Luna (recipe via Martha Stewart). She was very appreciative. And I used leftover pumpkin to make some basic whole wheat muffins, which have been a nice treat at breakfast. 

For the love of the dog

On Saturday night, we brought in takeout -- a Puerto Rican Christmas meal of arroz con gandules (herby rice with green pigeon peas), pernil asado (slow-roasted pork shoulder), and ensalada de coditos (macaroni salad), with a side of coconut rice pudding, and to drink, coquito, a coconut nog to which we added a little spiced rum. It was such a treat.

Making

I'm done making gifts and am now revisiting abandoned projects, like socks. I'm also developing spreadsheets for planning my 2021 makes, budget, reading, house plans, etc. I love spreadsheets. And I'm trying to figure out what to do with this blog, too. It can't live on Blogspot for much longer, as I hate the platform, even though it's free. I'll be sure to keep you posted on my next moves in future posts.

Until then, please join me in enjoying what we can to the fullest this week. It's almost Christmas! 

 

8th Annual Book Report

One of the few truly great things I did in 2020 was read. A good book kept me away from the headlines and allowed me to escape or learn something or think about my life differently. I read more books this year than ever before. How did I do it? I occasionally read more than one book at a time, and I also listened to a number of audiobooks -- I found a few that really hooked me, which is rare. I also didn't read a lot of long books, so that helped. And I purchased a Kindle Paperwhite earlier in the year, thinking it would come in handy on my travels, but it turned out to be a godsend during a pandemic, too. 

For reference, more books I've read: (See: Year 1 | Year 2 | Year 3 | Year 4 | Year 5 | Year 6 | Year 7)

Since I'm dealing with a longer list of books this year, I'm going to format this a bit differently in hopes that it's not a slog to read, or to write.

A re-read: Peace Like a River by Leif Enger. I read this shortly after graduating college, so 15 years ago? It still held up as a great story though slightly sentimental, one of those books that has a message.

Favorite new-to-me author (though unfortunately now dead): Mavis Gallant. I read two of her collections this year: The Other Paris and Across the Bridge. Her stories are ones I can really sink into. They're largely about nothing in particular, but her character development is so rich and surprising, sad and hilarious. She is a master of minute detail. If you are an internal processor, you might love her, too.

Books I felt the need to read and ultimately wished I hadn't: My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh and Normal People by Sally Rooney. I think I've aged out of whatever genre this is, or am just no longer drawn to drama of this sort.

Books about precocious children: How to Behave in a Crowd by Camille Bordas and Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson. How to Behave... was my favorite. Isadore is a 12-year-old youngest child who keeps running away from his super-smart family in France, but doesn't want to cause trouble. His perspective of the world and of people is so heartbreaking, insightful and true. The writing and the dialogue between siblings is smart and surprising and made for a joyful read (despite the darkness of the plot). The ending hit me hard. Nothing to See Here was a different kind of read, especially since I listened to the audiobook -- enjoyable but somewhat forgettable.

Books that were recommended to me: The Curse of the Boyfriend Sweater: Essays on Crafting by Alanna Okun; and No Baggage: A Minimalist Tale of Love and Wandering by Clara Bensen. Both were recommended to me by a longtime coworker who clearly gets me (thanks, Julie!). Reading Okun's essays felt like passages I might have written about crafting and anxiety and connection; Bensen reminded me of myself in my 20s when I had just begun to date a guy named Joel who made me feel adventurous and alive and willing to take a few risks.

Most rewarding fiction of the year: Flights by Olga Tokarczuk. This was a truly masterful work that completely surprised me. It's a book about the passage of time, of migration and travel, of the body, and to be honest, it was a good challenge for me. By the end I questioned what it was I had just been through, then I re-read the beginning and began to put the puzzle together.

Two very random audiobooks about death: Why Religion? A Personal Story by Elaine Pagels; and Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives by David Eagleman. I mean, you have to be in the mood for these. In the former, there's a lot of tragic and untimely death in this woman's life, and the woman also happens to be a religious scholar, but wasn't brought up in a religious home. The audiobook element didn't add anything to it. However, with Sum, another book about death, each tale was narrated by a different reader, which was probably the only reason I listened. I don't remember a single one now, though.

The book worth revisiting every four years or less: Hope in the Dark by Rebecca Solnit. I love that she points out that the word "emerge" is inside the word "emergency." I've thought about that a lot this year.

The best audiobook I've ever heard and this is not an overstatement: The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, read by Tom Hanks. The thing that's missing for me with audiobooks is that I rarely get that feeling I get with physical books of not wanting to put a book down, or looking forward to picking it back up again. Not with this one. I made sure I had it with me anytime I had time to listen -- on walks, on errands, while knitting. It was an excellent story, and I love Ann Patchett in general and the ways she writes about family, but with Tom Hanks in the mix, in the early throes of the pandemic, it was just a delight. I would listen to it again on my next roadtrip, whenever we do that again.

Escapist pandemic reads: The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman by Mamen Sanchez (a light-hearted mystery/love story set Madrid); L'Appart: The Delights and Disasters of Making My Paris Home by David Lebovitz (a memoir from one of my favorite food writers); Florence Adler Swims Forever by Rachel Beanland (imagining life in 1930s Atlantic City, based on a true story). I was happy to read all of these - none of them was heavy or complicated, just charming and enjoyable.

The one I read to see what the fuss was about: Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens. You must know that I am automatically skeptical when it comes to this kind of category, and there were a few things that bugged me about this book, plotwise, but I do know why it captured so many of us. It was a good book.

Four good books about food and cooking: Consider the Fork by Bee Wilson; Home Cooking: A Writer in the Kitchen by Laurie Colwin; The Seven Culinary Wonders of the World by Jenny Linford; The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth by Roy Andries de Groot. As an avid bedtime cookbook reader, I find food books to be the easiest way for me to forget everything else and calm my mind - other than the times when I think, "Oh, I need to remember to try that!" Bee Wilson's book was a fascinating history of how we arrived at the conventions and tools we use today at the dinner table. The Seven Culinary Wonders was also in that vein, but looking at the history of the food itself and how it's been developed through different continents and cultures -- things like tomatoes and rice -- and it came with recipes (bonus!). Colwin's and de Groot's memoir-ish books were more for the eater in me. Colwin was so relatable and I hope to read more of her again soon, while de Groot was purely a trip to another time and place -- the 1970s and an inn in the French alps that served food you'll likely never find there again.

When I gave the author a second chance: A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh. I was disappointed in Brideshead Revisited when I read it many years ago, but A Handful of Dust caught my eye in my digital library. I loved it. Loved it! The characters were despicable but so well developed, the dialogue was smart and often times hilarious. I'm not sure if I'll give Brideshead a second shot, but at least I have a better opinion now of Waugh.

The books to help you appreciate the present moment: What If This Were Enough?: Essays by Heather Havrilesky. We are all inextricably linked, she reminds us, and our survival depends on our ability to be compassionate with one another. And Intimations: Six Essays by Zadie Smith. I didn't think I'd want to read about this year right now, but the way Smith writes about it in these essays -- the pandemic, racism, being creative -- feels original and comforting and poignant.

Maybe a better read for a different kind of year: Weather by Jenny Offill. I loved the style of her writing in this, and I really did love this book, but thinking about climate change and emotional affairs was just too much on top of everything else going on in the world. 

The book that firmed up my feelings on Michael Chabon: The Mysteries of Pittsburgh. I believe that Chabon is a gifted writer, but everything I've read by him, including this, just hasn't done it for me.

The most moving (illustrated) memoir: Belonging: A German Reckons with History and Home by Nora Krug. Gorgeous collages comprised of photographs, letters, and finds from the flea market build this scrapbook of Krug's German family history, on both sides. She expresses such tenderness and perspective as she unpacks upsetting details and the feelings of homesickness without a sense of home. 

The two books I'd recommend to pretty much anyone: Why Fish Don't Exist: A Story of Loss, Love, and the Hidden Order of Life by Lulu Miller; Breath: The New Science of a Lost Art by James Nestor. These are both nonfiction. Lulu Miller is best known for her radio and podcast work, but here she has written a beautifully complicated biography of David Starr Jordan that is interwoven with her own life. And ever since reading Nestor's book, I've been so much more aware of the importance of my own breath and how much power it holds -- obviously breathing keeps me alive, but the ways in which we breathe are also important. Between COVID and the murder of George Floyd, breath has already been our minds. Both of these books have made me view the world differently. You should read them.

Good memoirs for perspective: The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom; The Fixed Stars by Molly Wizenberg. Broom grew up in New Orleans East, and her memoir is a poignant portrait of place -- and devastating inequality -- as she maps her family tree and the house and neighborhood they called home. As for The Fixed Stars, I have read (and cooked) all things Wizenberg, and while this is nothing at all like her food memoirs, this was her way to process the changes in identity, love, and sexuality she's experienced in the last several years.

The heartbreaker (that also has an excellent movie adaptation): The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas. You know where this story is going to go before you even get too far into it, because it's the story we've heard so often of police violence against Black people. The young narrator's voice was so moving and strong.

The book I finally got around to: The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. I felt like I learned so much about the Congo and the politics there in the 1960s, and Kingsolver's writing made it come to life, as I knew it would. These characters were so well developed and memorable, and the foreshadowing and themes made it rich.

If you can get it from your library: Can't Even: How Millennials Became the Burnout Generation by Anne Helen Petersen. I don't want to have this book on my shelf because it would be a more frequent reminder of the things I already know. The way this country is set up leads to systemic burnout for not just my generation, but for the large majority of us. There are all sorts of reasons for this and it's going to take a long time to fix. Petersen didn't provide ideas for fixing it, but she did provide really good commentary and historical context. 

Reading now: Circe by Madeline Miller. 

Happy reading, y'all!