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You were playing in the snow, you were banging on the doors
Thanksgiving: the substantial amount of cooking was a success. There may be photographs. Sadly, not a lot of these photographs seem to include people, so you may have to take it on faith that ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schreibergasse and Peter were there, but my ungodchild remains sweet and his father a good conversationalist (and handy with sharp objects and a pile of zucchini), so I was glad of them. At least two of the dishes named in the previous entry were enough of a success that I would make them again, especially if I have vegans to cook for; I probably wouldn't treat the mushrooms and leeks as a shepherd's pie next time, but would put them in an actual pastry crust that wouldn't drown out quite so much of the (Marsala, tarragon, crème fraiche and lemon) sauce. The coleslaw came out addictively enough that I am contemplating, for the first time in my life, eating a Reuben tomorrow. The stuffed zucchini were tasty, but probably outclassed.
My mother was solely responsible for the pumpkin pie, which this year was shockingly edible and is in consequence now gone. Usually it's just sort of there; it is traditional, but not coveted in the same manner as the pecan bourbon pie my brother brings from a college friend's bakery in Connecticut or the apple pie I make with cardamom, ginger, and a lot of true cinnamon. She doesn't remember making any changes to the recipe, but its half-life was noticeably short. Next year, or possibly as soon as I can look dessert in the eye again, I want to make this.
It has taken me this long to post about Thanksgiving because I am going through another period when I don't want to write anything down. My written output is already so diminished from what I consider healthy levels that it would be melodramatic to say it scares me, but it's really not a good sign. I used to make up assignments in elementary school so that my parents would let me use the computer to write. (I learned to type when I was eight, first on the machines my father built from scratch and later on a toaster Mac, on which I also learned to play Tetris. My handwriting was a thing of eldritch horror. It is now a kind of lanky print which I had complimented a couple of years ago. Puritan work ethic, eat your heart out—I started working on my handwriting in middle school. It still unravels into Enigma-grade scrawl if I have to take notes too quickly.) Almost nothing I think now gets written down, unless it's part of an ongoing conversation or intended for a post. I keep toying with the idea of taking a day and posting whatever goes through my head whenever it does, except that's more or less the point of short-form social media like Twitter or Facebook, which I am still mostly managing to avoid along with Google+ and the internet's apparent need to know my full legal name, my birthdate, my spatiotemporal location, and what articles I want other people to know I'm reading. I may still try it, just to see what happens; I can't help feeling it will result in a lot of thumbnail film or book reviews, since the chance of me saying anything thoughtful about myself at this point feels like a lost cause, aside from the whole issue of whether I would want to say it in public if I did.
I am just tired of being a blank space.
schreibergasse and Peter were there, but my ungodchild remains sweet and his father a good conversationalist (and handy with sharp objects and a pile of zucchini), so I was glad of them. At least two of the dishes named in the previous entry were enough of a success that I would make them again, especially if I have vegans to cook for; I probably wouldn't treat the mushrooms and leeks as a shepherd's pie next time, but would put them in an actual pastry crust that wouldn't drown out quite so much of the (Marsala, tarragon, crème fraiche and lemon) sauce. The coleslaw came out addictively enough that I am contemplating, for the first time in my life, eating a Reuben tomorrow. The stuffed zucchini were tasty, but probably outclassed.My mother was solely responsible for the pumpkin pie, which this year was shockingly edible and is in consequence now gone. Usually it's just sort of there; it is traditional, but not coveted in the same manner as the pecan bourbon pie my brother brings from a college friend's bakery in Connecticut or the apple pie I make with cardamom, ginger, and a lot of true cinnamon. She doesn't remember making any changes to the recipe, but its half-life was noticeably short. Next year, or possibly as soon as I can look dessert in the eye again, I want to make this.
It has taken me this long to post about Thanksgiving because I am going through another period when I don't want to write anything down. My written output is already so diminished from what I consider healthy levels that it would be melodramatic to say it scares me, but it's really not a good sign. I used to make up assignments in elementary school so that my parents would let me use the computer to write. (I learned to type when I was eight, first on the machines my father built from scratch and later on a toaster Mac, on which I also learned to play Tetris. My handwriting was a thing of eldritch horror. It is now a kind of lanky print which I had complimented a couple of years ago. Puritan work ethic, eat your heart out—I started working on my handwriting in middle school. It still unravels into Enigma-grade scrawl if I have to take notes too quickly.) Almost nothing I think now gets written down, unless it's part of an ongoing conversation or intended for a post. I keep toying with the idea of taking a day and posting whatever goes through my head whenever it does, except that's more or less the point of short-form social media like Twitter or Facebook, which I am still mostly managing to avoid along with Google+ and the internet's apparent need to know my full legal name, my birthdate, my spatiotemporal location, and what articles I want other people to know I'm reading. I may still try it, just to see what happens; I can't help feeling it will result in a lot of thumbnail film or book reviews, since the chance of me saying anything thoughtful about myself at this point feels like a lost cause, aside from the whole issue of whether I would want to say it in public if I did.
I am just tired of being a blank space.
no subject
[20 minutes later]
Okay, I've been thinking about this while walking Molly. I know this feeling, by analogy if not the actual feeling you're describing. I think I'm less afraid of not-writing, as there have been times when I didn't write, and they weren't bad times, but I am afraid of not-feeling: of looking at things and having no reaction, of my mind being a so-what blank.
I have an inkling, though, that perhaps sometimes these times can be preludes or necessary staging periods before we discover or grow into or experiment with some other way of experiencing the world--or (maybe) in your case, way of writing or expressing yourself.
Other times, yeah, the blankness or the silence is an illness itself, though, so, yeah: worth fighting. Though, even when fighting it, I have a sense that sometimes an oblique attack is best.
Anyway, those musings aside, I think a day of Sovay observations would be wonderful to read. I like your mind and your perceptions.
Also: that dessert you want to make looks AMAZING.
Also... there was one more "also" but it was blown out of my head by the sight of that dessert.
Oh! I remembered! How's the new Kate Bush album?
no subject
Thank you. I don't know that I could do a post every hour, because that wouldn't leave me much time for work or reading or anything else that might, you know, turn into data for a post, but I could at least try for something rather than foreclosing even the thought.
Other times, yeah, the blankness or the silence is an illness itself, though, so, yeah: worth fighting. Though, even when fighting it, I have a sense that sometimes an oblique attack is best.
I don't think this is a gathering of resources. It feels too much like being shut down.
Anyway, those musings aside, I think a day of Sovay observations would be wonderful to read. I like your mind and your perceptions.
Thank you. I just don't feel there's a lot in here anymore, or if there is, I'm not even allowing myself to notice.
Also... there was one more "also" but it was blown out of my head by the sight of that dessert.
I don't know how much of it I would be able to eat, but I think it would be incredibly entertaining to make and I'm fairly certain my family could make it disappear.
Oh! I remembered! How's the new Kate Bush album?
I don't know! I only have the one track! It's terrific!
no subject
I just don't feel there's a lot in here anymore.
That's the effects of the evil spell you're under speaking. The spell that makes you believe you are empty: "my conversation's spiritless or else I've naught to say."
Any way you can fight that certainty of emptiness (which is the deception of the spell, but sure feels real, I know) is good. Enumerate the types of lint between your toes if need be, or keep a chart of how long the bus brakes squeal when it pulls into a stop. Anything.
no subject
Right, well; I'm trying.