I call these the peanut butter sandwich years.
These are the years in which peanut butter is a staple in one’s diet. It’s about convenience. Taste. And funds.
It’s also partly about reconnecting to one’s youth. About not wanting to fully embrace adulthood. Maybe it’s Peter Pan syndrome.
These are the years of living in little houses, in little cities by the water, in attics transformed into bedrooms. And the squeaky floors. And loud radiators. And furry friends living in your kitchen cabinets. That all go along with it.
These are the years of driving your grandmother’s car. Of being thankful you even have a car to get you from place to place. So that you can take that spontaneous road trip for the weekend. So that you can have a space to sit and cry at the end of a really long day. So that you can roll the windows down and have a dance party on your way to work in the summer.
These are the years of attempting to give up one’s vices. It’s about taking control. A healthy life change. And funds.
(And also attempting to not be a caffeine addict.)
These are the years of getting all dressed up to go out with your girlfriends on a Saturday night, even when you have to work early on Sunday. These are the years of having to work on Sundays.
And so it goes that these are the years.
Of.
Creating recipes with the 4 or 5 ingredients mustered from the fridge since you can’t go to the grocery store (These are the years of working in a grocery store.).
Imaginary shopping online at places like Pottery Barn and Anthropologie, while actually acquiring items via Craigslist and Goodwill… and your parents.
Sitting in eccentric coffee shops drinking chai lattes while listening to folksy musicians sing songs about love and war and what’s wrong with people today.
Trying to live simply. Or. Simply trying to figure out life. As if life truly is a thing to be figured out. Or. Perhaps. Being obsessed with this quest of trying to figure it all out, all the while knowing that it’s somewhat futile. That maybe it doesn’t actually work this way.
Teaching kids.
And realizing that you’re probably learning far more from them than they from you.
These are the years of falling in love again and again. Of trusting and giving and opening up without hesitation. Of picking up the pieces of a broken heart time after time. But never giving up. And never giving up hope.
These are the years of late night conversations about the very state of our existence. About men and women and relationships. About negotiating growing up. All while sipping wine from mismatched glasses. Standing in the kitchen. Lying on the living room floor. Sitting on porch steps.
These are the years of writing and remembering. Of mental pictures and embracing moments as fully and honestly as one possibly can. Doing what you want. When you want. And feeling good about it (or at the very least, trying as best you can).
These are the years of watching others around you get promoted. And engaged. Have their dream weddings. And babies. And reminding yourself that you too will get all of these things. One day.
These are the years of knowing that nothing is permanent. That life is a gift. And you’re pretty lucky to be so hyper aware. Even if at times, it all feels like too much.
That we’re all just in the midst.
And it’s confusing. Terrifying. Hilarious. Exhilarating.
These are the years of adventure.
These are the peanut butter sandwich years.
Of that I am completely certain.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
the safety of objects
Lately I've been giving a bit of thought to the objects we acquire over time. It is seemingly inevitable that with every birthday celebrated, life experiences embraced, and relationships cultivated, we are bound to acquire, well, stuff.
With every dorm room and apartment and house we seek to make a home. With every Christmas, wedding, baby shower, graduation and promotion. Every trip, move, spontaneous adventure, or regimented routine. With each broken heart. Every success. Every need to acknowledge the profound moments of our human existence no matter how minute or grandiose.
We collect, acquire, receive, inherit, and purchase the necessary objects of our lives.
There will inevitably be furniture and appliances. There will be light fixtures and mismatched dishware. Stacks of books beneath picture frames of familiar loving faces. There will be tapestries and wall hangings of Monet and Picasso prints. There will be instruments and grandmother's knick knacks and shaggy carpets (ideal for standing upon barefoot at the end of a long day).
Recently I spoke with a friend about the rediscovery of acquired things. How certain items find their relevance or importance over time, as if we know they'll accumulate pertinance after a while. And we come back to these things at the right moment in our lives. When we're finally ready to receive them. Other pieces find their way to us with more precise timing, not needing so long to marinate in our possession before we're ready. Years ago my friend had received a book of poetry as a gift. At the time is seemed, not unfit, just not as well received as she's found the gift to be recently. When quoting a poem from the book just weeks ago, we both acknowledged its relevance and truth and expert timing...now. She (and I too, it seems) needed that poetry at this juncture in her life. At this moment, that exact collection and combination of words held more resonance than ever before. And it got me thinking about all the things I've gathered throughout my life. Each item a living, breathing artifact of all I am, all I believe in or stand for, and perhaps how others perceive me.
My parents recently moved, which means, not so much an of obtaining things, but a purge there of. There's something about packing up all that stuff that makes one choose to divide their life in threes: keep, donate, and trash. Needless to say, I had dibs on a number of those 'donate' and 'trash' items. And while I admit I came home with a car full of new acquisitions, there was only one thing I really wanted. My mom's Kitchenaid Mixer. A cream colored wonder with its fair share of nicks and scrapes. The beater attachment is worn and chipped. The color has faded over time and the lock sometimes sticks. This is not the most glamorous kitchen accessory one has ever seen. But this is an object my mother has had for nearly 30 years. This is the physical manifestation of nearly 30 years of my mother's culinary creations.
I can only begin to estimate the number of chocolate chip cookies batches, banana birthday cakes, or gingerbread house molds that came from this appliance. Homemade Foccacia or my Aunt Laurie's rolls. Grandma's banana bread. Frosting for the infamous graham cracker cookies that could surprisingly fill the freezer. Countless evenings sitting at the counter watching my mother dig through a box of recipes to find the perfect creation. Most of the time there were no detailed descriptions or well marked names of dishes, as to be sure of what she was preparing. She could decipher with only a few measurements of 4 or 5 ingredients scribbled onto the back of a 3x5 index card.
I suppose you could say I christened the mixer as my own by making a loaf of my Grandmother's Banana Bread (minus the walnuts). And I think my roommates can attest that it was in fact delicious. All I know is that this object has successfully made the transition into my kitchen, and my life, when I was ready to receive it. And now for perhaps another 30 years it will continue preparing countless recipes scribbled on the backs of 3 x 5 index cards if for nothing more than to add to the quality and beauty of my life. Every time I use it I'll think of my mom and the memories attached to every recipe she prepared with that mixer.
So here's to the acquisition of objects. Or rather, here's to the realization that in collecting these things, we're really just holding onto the sentiments and memories or reflections of other people we've attached to them. It's not really about stuff at all. It's about the history these things have accumulated. It's about a physical manifestation of all we've done and felt in a lifetime. And I'm reminded of a quote from "The Safety of Objects:"
"When you start collecting things, you start thinking you care about stuff. And when they're gone; when they break or someone steals them, you feel like a part of you is gone, too. When you have things and suddenly you don't, it feels like you disappeared. Nothing should make you feel that way... Except when you lose a person"
With every dorm room and apartment and house we seek to make a home. With every Christmas, wedding, baby shower, graduation and promotion. Every trip, move, spontaneous adventure, or regimented routine. With each broken heart. Every success. Every need to acknowledge the profound moments of our human existence no matter how minute or grandiose.
We collect, acquire, receive, inherit, and purchase the necessary objects of our lives.
There will inevitably be furniture and appliances. There will be light fixtures and mismatched dishware. Stacks of books beneath picture frames of familiar loving faces. There will be tapestries and wall hangings of Monet and Picasso prints. There will be instruments and grandmother's knick knacks and shaggy carpets (ideal for standing upon barefoot at the end of a long day).
Recently I spoke with a friend about the rediscovery of acquired things. How certain items find their relevance or importance over time, as if we know they'll accumulate pertinance after a while. And we come back to these things at the right moment in our lives. When we're finally ready to receive them. Other pieces find their way to us with more precise timing, not needing so long to marinate in our possession before we're ready. Years ago my friend had received a book of poetry as a gift. At the time is seemed, not unfit, just not as well received as she's found the gift to be recently. When quoting a poem from the book just weeks ago, we both acknowledged its relevance and truth and expert timing...now. She (and I too, it seems) needed that poetry at this juncture in her life. At this moment, that exact collection and combination of words held more resonance than ever before. And it got me thinking about all the things I've gathered throughout my life. Each item a living, breathing artifact of all I am, all I believe in or stand for, and perhaps how others perceive me.
My parents recently moved, which means, not so much an of obtaining things, but a purge there of. There's something about packing up all that stuff that makes one choose to divide their life in threes: keep, donate, and trash. Needless to say, I had dibs on a number of those 'donate' and 'trash' items. And while I admit I came home with a car full of new acquisitions, there was only one thing I really wanted. My mom's Kitchenaid Mixer. A cream colored wonder with its fair share of nicks and scrapes. The beater attachment is worn and chipped. The color has faded over time and the lock sometimes sticks. This is not the most glamorous kitchen accessory one has ever seen. But this is an object my mother has had for nearly 30 years. This is the physical manifestation of nearly 30 years of my mother's culinary creations.
I can only begin to estimate the number of chocolate chip cookies batches, banana birthday cakes, or gingerbread house molds that came from this appliance. Homemade Foccacia or my Aunt Laurie's rolls. Grandma's banana bread. Frosting for the infamous graham cracker cookies that could surprisingly fill the freezer. Countless evenings sitting at the counter watching my mother dig through a box of recipes to find the perfect creation. Most of the time there were no detailed descriptions or well marked names of dishes, as to be sure of what she was preparing. She could decipher with only a few measurements of 4 or 5 ingredients scribbled onto the back of a 3x5 index card.
I suppose you could say I christened the mixer as my own by making a loaf of my Grandmother's Banana Bread (minus the walnuts). And I think my roommates can attest that it was in fact delicious. All I know is that this object has successfully made the transition into my kitchen, and my life, when I was ready to receive it. And now for perhaps another 30 years it will continue preparing countless recipes scribbled on the backs of 3 x 5 index cards if for nothing more than to add to the quality and beauty of my life. Every time I use it I'll think of my mom and the memories attached to every recipe she prepared with that mixer.
So here's to the acquisition of objects. Or rather, here's to the realization that in collecting these things, we're really just holding onto the sentiments and memories or reflections of other people we've attached to them. It's not really about stuff at all. It's about the history these things have accumulated. It's about a physical manifestation of all we've done and felt in a lifetime. And I'm reminded of a quote from "The Safety of Objects:"
"When you start collecting things, you start thinking you care about stuff. And when they're gone; when they break or someone steals them, you feel like a part of you is gone, too. When you have things and suddenly you don't, it feels like you disappeared. Nothing should make you feel that way... Except when you lose a person"
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