Where I am with all this

The events of the past several months, and especially those of the past two weeks, have made me requestion the relevance and usefulness of my work. This despite the fact that I believe my work to be relevant and useful, but I also believe it to be part of a long game, and when it seems that the world is quickly becoming an uncontrollable bush fire it’s hard to focus on anything but the immediate emergency facing us.

I can’t remember if I’ve told this story here before, but I have a friend who used to be a volunteer firefighter in her mountain village. She told me this and I saw photos of her in uniform, but for the first couple of years we knew each other I never witnessed her in action. Then one day I was over at her house on a sunny morning in the summer. We were talking about life and work over multiple cups of strong black tea, when I saw a fire truck driving into the village on the road up the hill from her house. “They’re coming for you,” I joked, and just then an ear-splitting siren went off. I snapped my head in the direction of the siren, and when I turned back to her a second later she had already disappeared. In no more than 20 seconds after the siren went off she had rushed upstairs, changed into her gear, run back down, put her boots on and was out the door, without a word to anyone. She was back after a few hours, panting, her face a flushed reddish purple. There had been a fire in the village dump, caused by something that had been leaking fuel which ignited in the hot temperatures. It spread to the nearby woods, burning slowly but every so often exploding into shots of flames two stories high. They got everything under control. My friend was exhausted and dizzy and even after taking a long, cold shower she felt like throwing up or passing out or both. I left to go home so she could rest.

This is what I feel things in the world are like now, except that these bush fires are happening every single day and there is no respite in sight. Not saying that the world has ever been a summertime picnic by a shady creek, but these days it feels like it’s just way, way too much. How do you go on with your life when the fire alarm never shuts off? I’ve read several essays in just the past week talking about activism fatigue, how long we can keep up the opposition, how to practice “self-care” so our lives are not completely engulfed by horror, fear, anger, and anxiety. That’s not only unsustainable, but it will surely lead to complete burn-out and, worse, desensitization to each new outrageous action taken by the new US administration. We are already talking about this and it hasn’t even been two weeks.

My mother, who has always been and will always be one of the wise ones among us, has committed herself to carrying out one act of resistance per week, but it’s been working out to be more like one a day. She’s signed petitions, written letters, made donations to the ACLU, Planned Parenthood and Standing Rock among others. She’s also started knitting hats and scarves for Sylvia’s Place, an emergency shelter for LGBTQ youth in New York City. (If you’re on Ravelry, there’s some information on this center in the Charity Knitting group’s thread “2017 Currently Accepting Donations.”) She’s staying informed and doing what she can.

I’ve taken inspiration from my mother and have started doing the same. I wrote up a list of things I can practically do and am keeping a log every day of what I’ve done. It doesn’t feel like much, but it’s better than the alternative of doing nothing. It’s mostly small things, donations and letters, as well as some charity knitting which will at least help a handful of people stay warm (but to be honest it’s mostly just helping me to deal with stress). Trying to channel my outrage into useful action.

I will continue to focus on this, finding daily ways to blast my fire extinguisher instead of just watching things burn, and at the same time I will work to stay focused on my part of the long game. Because those two things together are what prompt me to get out of bed every morning instead of staying curled up in a fetal position under the covers, and those two things are second only to my family and friends in giving me a sense of purpose and confirming my belief that we are better than this.

Stress knitting

I’ve been doing a lot of this lately:


Knitting and watching Democracy Now! And knitting while watching Rachel Maddow, The Daily Show, Stephen Colbert, Samantha Bee, and John Oliver, retreating into a little cocoon of worsted weight wool and lefty politics. I stayed up all night watching the election returns on November 8-9, which for me here in France meant staying awake until 9:30 a.m. on November 9 and then sleeping for most of the rest of the day while my mother-in-law, who was visiting that week, was busy cooking comfort foods in bulk. I woke up to a pot of chili and three big trays of croquetas in the fridge. Later on we were discussing the election and Alvaro started to say “Do you think that Franc–” and then stopped and we burst out laughing (the way you laugh when you’re utterly horrified) because he almost said Franco when he meant to say Trump. Brains go where they go for good reasons sometimes.

It was at 2 a.m. GMT +1 on November 9th (8 p.m. EST on November 8th) that I began knitting a hat for a friend’s November 10th birthday. Until then I’d been sitting in bed in the dark with my knees hugged to my chest watching a live stream of the election on my laptop, wearing headphones so I wouldn’t wake up Alvaro. I guess I needed something to occupy my twitching hands while I watched it all go down. I knit through the rest of the early hours of that day, through Trump’s acceptance speech, until I started making mistakes because my fingers were going numb along with the rest of me. When I woke up I started knitting again, and wound up finishing the hat in less than 24 hours. Then I immediately began working on another hat in the same pattern for another friend, and when I was done with that I knit a baby sweater — for no one in particular, but I know quite a few people who are having babies these days so I thought I’d make one in advance, since I generally have a hard time getting my act together to deliver new baby presents on time. Plus there was something comforting and hopeful about knitting something for a future human being. Welcome to the world, kiddo, sorry it’s doomed but at least you’ll be warm. Now I’m knitting a hat for Alvaro (see above photo) because I’d promised him one this winter, and it’s officially cold here now so I needed to get moving on it.

Along with all the horrifying stories told on the news and by comedians who these days make more sense than many, I’ve also been hearing things from people I know and care about. My mother’s friend went to see Wanda Sykes in Boston and watched Sykes get drowned out by audience booing when she called Trump a racist; said friend reportedly went home and straight to the liquor cabinet. A friend of mine who is a black woman told me that her cousin had recently moved to western Massachussetts, and a few days after the election people in his new town started receiving KKK recruitment flyers.

Meanwhile, I’m in France. Here we are also in the midst of election season and we are also in danger of electing a head of state in the image of Trump. Plenty of people here are saying it can’t happen in France, that France is not the U.S., but that is exactly what people in the U.S. said after Brexit. The town I live in is nestled snuggly in a right-leaning region of the country, a region that sees itself as kind of French, but mostly as an entity of its own, idealogically different from those suspicious metropoles that are home to dangerous leftists with dangerous leftist ideas. We went to our town’s Bastille Day celebration, which was held two days after a murderous nutcase plowed a truck through crowds of people at the Bastille Day celebrations in Nice. Our town’s right-wing mayor gave a very long speech on the threat that the “islamistes” pose to Frenchness. It didn’t seem like most people were really paying attention, as they were too busy tucking into their plates of sausage and fries, but there was some occasional shushing of the picnic chatter from the people who were listening to what the mayor had to say. When he finished talking the band played the Marseillaise, and the party went on.

To some people, those like the mayor and Marine Le Pen are dog whistle blowers; to others they are white noise. But either way, they are producing noise and it says: raise the barricades.

Meanwhile, I’m knitting. Through the noise and through my stress. I’ve also signed up as an online volunteer in a network created by some progressive friends of a friend in New York. They quickly assembled after Trump’s win in order to mobilize volunteer support for NGOs and community organizations which, instead of working to further human rights for all US citizens and residents, are now scrambling to protect the gains they’ve already made. I wish I could do more, but not being physically present in the US makes things difficult. I’m open to suggestions if anyone reading this has any.






Changing focus on the subject here a little today. I’ve started an art practice-based PhD program, officially as of last week, and this week I’ve been trying to be a little more deliberate in how I organize my work (meaning research work and wage work). I was so high coming off last week, then took the weekend off and woke up bright and early on Monday, ready to get to work. I both expected furiously productive hours spent producing things of great value, and also knew that it would not happen like that. Monday, yesterday, and the early part of this morning were spent largely on smashing my cranium in order to fit into the narrow entryway of a dense bit of reading that I feel is absolutely essential to me understanding everything. This was not really working.

This morning, when I realized it was not working, I got up and took a shower because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re stuck, and while showering I thought about something someone had mentioned in one of the session last week, about oblique strategies. (Stay with me.) You can read more about those here, but in short it’s a method for creative work that uses a card deck with random and sometimes mysterious phrases on them that are supposed to get you to think laterally. You shuffle the deck, pick a card, and have to do or think about what’s on the card. It sounds like a tech company workplace strategy, but it’s made specifically for people doing the things I do and so, whatever, I thought I’d give it a try because I found an online version.

I wrote a bunch of them on cards and cut the deck, which bestowed upon me the following words of wisdom: “the most important thing is the thing most easily forgotten.”

Deep. What does it all mean? For me the answer (I thought) came pretty quickly — storytelling. I got interested in the things I write about here because I was first interested in how people tell their life stories, what they emphasize, what they leave out, and why, and how they define their place in the world. That brought me to think about how we see career success, which got me thinking about skills that I had and did not have, and how those skills are deemed useful or not in the world I live in. I was thinking about this, but at the same time I was still thinking about storytelling, which led me to read Walter Benjamin’s essay “The Storyteller.” This was when I was doing my master’s, and that essay was hugely influential in how I constructed my way of doing research at the time (which I won’t go into now, but I’ll probably write about it another time).

Back to pondering the thing most easily forgotten. I got up and pulled out my research archive from when I did my master’s and started flipping through it. In a plastic sheath somewhere in the middle of the binder there was nothing but a single orange notecard on which I’d written a quote that is now something I recognize as one of those inspirational quotes people put in Pintrest images. It read:

“I have woven a parachute out of everything broken.” — William Stafford

I know why I wrote down that quote and why it wound up being included in my archive. I identified with it because I felt like that is something I had done (or started doing) in my master’s research. Maybe it’s a little corny, but I don’t really care. However, I realized that although I knew William Stafford was a poet, I had never actually read anything by him. So I did what we all do, read Wikipedia, and then looked for his poems online. I picked the first one that came up, which was “Accountability.” I liked it, and I heard obvious echos of my research interests in it, and so there you go. But then I started thinking about back when I was doing my master’s, what doing my research felt like then. I had been out of school for nearly a decade, those years spent working behind a computer doing not very interesting things, and then suddenly there I was becoming a student again, and an art student no less! Party time! I was working on the side of course, but only part time and with fairly little responsibility (my old boss would not be happy to read that) and therefore I could afford to devote most of my mental energy to my research. And how did it feel? It felt like … I’m only coming up with an image here so let me just describe a mental gif for you, of me leaping into somewhere with my fist raised and a da-da-daaaa! orchestral sound in the background and then immediately leaping from there to somewhere else (da-da-daaaa!). I was on a mission, a mission sent from God, as my Dad says, a line that he stole from the Blues Brothers movie. Only not from God, from the universe really, though I suppose some people’s conception of their higher power is the universe, or math. I had no fear. The degree wasn’t important to me per se, but the space to think was. Did that sound obnoxious? Apologies if it did, but it’s the truth. We had no grades, only qualitative evaulations, and it was a not-quite-independent study program that was encouraging and open to students doing their thing their way (so long as there were explanations to back it up).

And so I had fun. I read and did plenty of things that wound up having nothing to do with what I was doing, but that left me open to finding other things that opened up new ideas for me. What I definitely didn’t do was make the process a labor of pain.

Not to say that my research now is a labor of pain — just that I feel as though I’m struggling to push myself ahead like a donkey cart in the mud, and in that simile I’m not sure if I’m the donkey, the cart, or the person doing the pushing from behind.

Thinking about this, and then going back to “Accountability,” I thought about how I’d used “The Storyteller” as a lens through which to look at my research, to organize it. I’ve done the same with a Henry David Thoreau essay (“Walking”) in a little side research project on walking in my area. With both of those texts, I read them as though they contained a codified message telling me how to structure my research, how to create my methodology, what were possible missing elements that I needed to consider, etc. Or else I just took them literally and did what they said to do, or what they said not to do. That’s what I think I’m going to do with “Accountability,” examine it for suggestions at least for what to do with the rest of the time I’ve blocked out today to do my research.

Going back to my oblique strategies directive, I’ve realized that the most important thing that is most easily forgotten is to have fun when I’m doing my research. (By have fun I mean be excited about it and experiment, don’t feel like I need to slog all the time.) I think I do better work that way, and most of all I enjoy the time I spend working, which is the point.

Live blog: finishing the Roses sweater

I started knitting my first sweater back in March, a sweater pattern whose very name indicated that it would take three hours to make, and here we are approaching mid September and it’s still not done. I can’t blame this state of affairs on the pattern’s dishonesty; I’m a pretty slow knitter to begin with, so there’s that, but more importantly I stalled on the project when it came to sewing it together. I waited until a visit to my parents in June for the blocking and stitching, but that was really just procrastination because I already know how to block things, and I could have looked up sweater sewing tutorials online, though I did prefer the idea of asking my mom to show me. On that visit I managed to get the sides sewn up, but one attempt to attach the raglan sleeves failed miserably. Good job actually that I had decided to opt for a mom tutorial rather than YouTube, because as helpful as YouTube tutorials are, they cannot actually fix your project for you when you make a massive mistake.

Mom managed to undo the wrongs I had done, and luckily because it was just about sewing on the sleeves the mistake could be removed without permanent damage to the rest of the sweater. So she did that, and then I think we watched The Daily Show, and since then (late June) I haven’t managed to summon the courage to try again.



Live blog is closed, thanks for reading! I’ll be back soon with exciting updates on my other projects.

7:56 p.m. Finished!


6:51 p.m. I am back, plate of grapes and cheese at my side, sweater in my lap, about to continue the saga of weaving in ends + Richard’s battle with Hooli over intellectual property rights.

6:04 p.m. Alvaro asked if I wanted to accompany him to the grocery store, and I’ve decided that this would be a good idea because I’ve been at this for five hours now and need a break, plus I can pick out my snacks of preference for the home stretch.

5:45 p.m. Still weaving in ends. Now watching an episode of Silicon Valley to keep me company while I weave away.

5:14 p.m. Newsflash: weaving in ends is very tedious.

4:30 p.m. Sleeve #2 done.


Commence weaving in loose ends.

3:55 p.m. Issue resolved.

3:40 p.m. Never mind about the walk. I am starting to doubt my abilities to finish this before nightfall. Just realized in pinning the front side of the second sleeve that I misaligned the pinning on the back side so now nothing’s lining up. Not sure how I managed to do that. Shall commence unpinning now and will pull out the stitching on the back side of sleeve #2.

3:29 p.m. The second sleeve is finished down to the armpit seam. Moving a little bit slowly maybe, because it’s a beautiful day outside and I have a nice view of the mountains from my desk so I keep stopping to look out the window. I’ve decided to go for a walk after I finish seaming.

2:48 p.m. Finished the first sleeve!


2:11 p.m. I have reached the first armpit with no incident of note, and the seams line up. This calls for a lunch break.

1:35 p.m. Well, I made it up to my first pin:


I think I’ll take a break now to ponder the meaning of it all.

Last Sunday I went rock climbing for the first time. It was at an indoor climbing gym, a fact which did nothing to lower the terror level in my parents when I told them about it.

I have a tendency to get a little dizzy at certain heights, but I wouldn’t say that I have a full-on fear, and I was thus completely caught off guard by the near hysteria I felt when I turned around halfway up the wall and saw how far away the ground was, how far away Alvaro was, holding the other end of the rope that was keeping me from certain death. When I would look down to check on my footing and saw that he was looking the other way for a second to relieve the strain in his neck from looking up all the time, I would bug out and yell down to him to keep his eyes on me (please!), even though I knew logically that I was not going to fall because I was roped in with a secure knot, and he could feel the tension in the cord and knew without having to look up whether he needed to pull it tighter. Plus, there were five-year-olds climbing the same wall as me. Still, I felt like I was hanging in an empty void, and had to battle with my inner voices that told me I was going to fall. It took me the entire four-hour session to even start to trust that I was not going to fall, and if I did I would be suspended by a cord, and so therefore I could reach out for a hand hold without fear. Every time I got to the top of a route I couldn’t believe it, that the voices had been wrong. The adrenaline rush for me came from this.

I’ve been going on and on about this to whoever will listen, and all listeners have nodded a bit but at some point have teased me for taking a Sunday afternoon at a rock climbing gym as such a profound personal experience. I’m telling you, though, it was. And I give you full permission to mock me for thinking that sewing up these sleeves is starting to feel like the same sort of experience.

1:17 p.m. I’m going with the following video:

I like how she’s making a sweater with the same ugly yarn that I’m using for sweater #2.

So here we go.

1:06 p.m. This video is not at all helpful. I scanned through to the end and realized that it’s just diagramming how the pieces go together, which even to me seems pretty obvious. I need stitch instruction, not diagrams lady! Also, confirmed, I should have sewed the sleeves before the sides.

1:00 p.m. I’m only 2:57 through this video and already I’m pretty sure that I went about this the wrong way from the get go (ie, sewed up the sides first). GAHHHH!

12:49 p.m. I know that I will definitely not be watching the video tutorial whose blurb reads: “So you’ve just finished your knitted sweater — now what? Now comes the fun part: You get to do the finishing!” Or maybe that’s sarcastic, in which case I like the tutorial maker’s sense of humor, so I probably will watch the video.

An archive of yarn scraps + re-learning crochet

In late November 2013, I decided to learn how to crochet because it was cold and blustery and getting dark at 5 p.m., and I was getting bored in the evenings. One night I thought, enough is enough, and began brainstorming ways to amuse myself that wouldn’t annoy the neighbors or my living companions. You might say, well, read a damn book, but I spend most of my days reading on screen or in print, and there comes a point in the day when your eyes start to cross and your brain reaches maximum capacity, and you just need to do something with your hands. I also wanted to find an activity that I could do around other people, so as not to be anti-social, and something that entailed learning a new skill. Crochet it was.

By spring 2014 I had already switched to knitting because knitting patterns are more abundant and because knitting takes up 1/3 of the yarn that crochet does, and I do have a craft budget after all.

Now, after nearly three years of making things with yarn, mostly knitting, I’ve found myself with loads of little odds and ends from finished projects — balls of yarn too small to make much of anything, but too big to chuck into my gardening bag to use for tomato ties. I’ve been hanging on to it all with the idea of someday making a big, crazy blanket with it. Friends, that day has arrived! And I’m back to crochet for it.

My chosen pattern is the humble granny square, which is one of the few crochet patterns I like the looks of. And my grandmother made granny squares so I’m considering this an hommage to her. (I’m realizing now that I talk a lot about the grandmas on this blog. For future reference, Kay = mom’s mom, chemist and conspiracy theorist, and Roses = dad’s mom, superstar athlete and binge reader of Harlequin romances.) Grandma Kay was a granny square making machine. She made big blankets, lap blankets, baby blankets, drink coasters, and dozens of doorstops made out of bricks covered in stitched-together granny squares that are now a thing in our family, scattered throughout the homes of her children and grandchildren.

This project isn’t exactly going to be breaking new ground in design, but that’s not the point. I’m excited about it, because in addition to serving as an excuse to procrastinate on the stitching together of two nearly finished sweaters, this blanket is a refresher course for everything I forgot how to do in crochet (pretty much everything). With seven different stitches to learn/re-learn, it’s a complete package.

I picked a starburst design that looks like the one Grandma Kay always used, the tutorial for which can be found here. Warning: this video tutorial moves extremely quickly. If you’re new or just getting back to this like me, you’ll probably have to pause and go back several times while working through your first few squares. That said, it’s a great tutorial with easy-to-understand instructions and clear shots of the stitches.

Nevertheless, despite following Miss simplydaisy of YouTube’s excellent instructions, my first square turned out like this because that’s how learning works:


My fault, my stitches were messy and I was off on the counting right from the start; as a result, when I finished the circle portion and moved on to the square, nothing lined up and I wound up having to squeeze several stitches into the same loop in order for it to finish up in a square shape. In the end, wonky as it is, it’s a quadrilateral, so close enough for jazz as they say.

Square number two came out better, still has a few little mistakes, but it’s an improvement:


The blue yarn in both squares is left over from a tobacco pouch I made for my friend Lucas, and the red is from a Steve Zissou hat that I made for Alvaro last winter. I hadn’t meant for it to be a Zissou hat, that’s just how it turned out. Alvaro loved it so I pretended it was on purpose.

In addition to the crochet re-skilling and the grandma hommage, reminiscing over scraps is the third reason why I’m into this project — it’ll be a record of all the things I’ve knitted for myself and the people I love. Sort of like the college graduation quilt my mother made me, a kaleidoscope of triangles cut from my old Little League and summer job uniforms, Beatles t-shirts, high school graduation robe, the red velvet dress I wore in the role of Mrs. Claus in my first grade Christmas play Wake Up Santa!, the rainbow bed sheets I had in elementary school, the t-shirt I got at my first ever stadium concert (Diana Ross, I was ten years old, and she called me up solo to dance with her on stage, and the only dance move I knew was the Roger Rabbit so that’s what I busted out, and Ms. Ross, bless her, was just like well, okay! and started doing the Roger Rabbit right along with me)… I love this quilt because it’s a record of my childhood, and also a symbol of intense motherly love because my mother had been secretly stashing away all of the above with the idea of one day learning how to quilt so that she could make me a t-shirt quilt when I graduated from college. Pause on that for a moment, and digest it, and consider the foresight it demanded. I think Mom’s t-shirt quilt far surpasses my granny squares in nostalgic poignancy (I cried when she gave it to me), but I’m using it as a reference for this record of the hats and scarves and gloves and little bags and socks and sweaters that I’ve squinted at, sworn at, hunched over, sweated over, and finally finished and worn proudly or offered as a present to the special people in my life.


So I had this weird dream

So I had this weird dream the night before last, maybe not any weirder than my usual dreams, but this one in particular had some very strange imagery going on. I was at my parents’ house in their bathroom looking for a spare toothbrush (which happens, because I forget mine), and in walked my dad sporting his usual haircut (bald, shaven) with the addition of a single bean plant sprouting from the back of his head like an antenna. I tried to ignore it because I didn’t want to make him feel awkward, but finally I said, “Dad, you’ve got a bean plant sprouting from the back of your head.” He turned around. “Really? Where?” At that point Alvaro came in and also noticed the bean sprout, and together we managed to dislodge it, which was not gory as you might imagine. It just kind of came out.

That image has stayed with me and yesterday I tried drawing it, but my people drawing skills pretty much stopped at around the eighth grade. Then this evening I did what people do nowadays and started looking around for images to photoshop. I chose the following photo for my dad, because he’s heard from several people that he looks just like Patrick Stewart (“must be the hairline,” he says):


And then I started looking around for bean sprout photos, such as this one:


And then I came across this:


And with this I felt no need to go any further. FYI the article that went along with the photo explains:

People in Beijing have found new usage for bean sprouts, a healthy vegetable packed with plenty of vitamins and proteins. Dubbed #Sproutcore, people have started wearing bean sprouts in their hair. The trend is reportedly popular amongst people of all ages, ranging from young children, men, and, according to bloggers, grandmothers too.

This still left me with the question of: what does it all mean? Until just a few minutes ago I wasn’t sure, but then I got an email + photos from my dad showing the solar panels they just got installed on their roof (front and back). He’s been very keen on this initiative for several years and is excited that it’s finally happened. My dad is not a crunchy vegan earth father who spends his nights reading permaculture manuals. He’s retired military and Republican (economically, not socially, he’ll point out, and he’s very clear that he’s hell no not voting for Trump). But be careful of your stereotypes: he is also fuel efficient, adamant about buying eggs from the farm down the road because they leave their chickens to frolic in the fields, believes in climate change, and now solar panels. So maybe the bean sprout in the dream symbolizes the sprouting of green ideas? Or is that too easy an interpretation?

Leave me alone in my tree house


I’ve got an idea for a tree house. It’s going to take a while to complete it, but I have a while because I’ve decided to grow the tree from seed. That decision came about because I’ve built two tree houses in recent years, both of them in a bit of a deadline rush, feeling stressed to perform and produce. Therefore, I figure that if I set about to build a tree house in a tree that is at the time of this writing (August 9, 2016, early morning) only 15.4 inches high, no one for the next thirty years is going to ask me if I’m done with the tree house yet, and thus I will be free to go about the planning and building of it as leisurely as I please.

I will baptize this tree house the “Leave Me Alone Tree House.” I know already that this is not going to be a very popular name. I feel as though I should be relentlessly big on collaborating, being social, forming alliances and collectives instead of working by myself, removing my name from the authorship of a project, etc. But I do plenty of all of that already, and so in this project I am giving myself two prerogatives that I don’t generally allow in my work: I want to build this tree house all by myself, and I want you to leave me alone in it.

I have memories of needing to be left alone stretching back to the very beginning of my memories, and so we can only assume that this need accompanied me into the world the moment I was born. As a toddler I dabbled in being left alone in my everyday life – for instance, by building mini abodes of boxes and bed sheets inspired by medieval castles, like the one David Macaulay drew in his book Castle, where the outer and inner gates don’t line up and so the enemy is forced to run around inside the castle walls directly in the cross hairs of the royal archers. I always built my castles inside closets, which provided an extra layer of protection because my mother first had to guess which closet to search before getting down to the work of unearthing me from beneath my multilayered construction if she wanted to have a talk. My brother had the much simpler tactic of spontaneously falling asleep whenever he wanted to be alone, but I’ve been a fairly difficult sleeper my whole life so that never worked for me. Small-scale construction projects and hiding generally did.

Later on, in elementary school, I amused myself by drawing detailed architectural plans for my future house, and each new and progressively more outlandish plan had two common denominators with the ones that preceded it: a spiral staircase leading to a tower, and a small atelier detached from the rest of the house in which to practice my various artistic pursuits. Both of these building features say one thing: Leave me alone.

My desire to be left alone on occasion doesn’t mean I’m a misanthrope. Despite what you may be thinking right now as you read this, I am a very social person. My default attitude toward the rest of the human species is a feeling of like or love, depending on the person, with very few exceptions. I love my family and friends in particular. In fact, I might even invite you to the Leave Me Alone Tree House if you ask, although I’m wary that bending the rules this early on could lead very quickly to that private space becoming the headquarters for my friends. Henry David Thoreau’s cabin at Walden Pond, for example, ostensibly built so that he could get away from people, was actually a bit of a social hub. (As a side note, Walden was published 162 years ago today. Happy birthday Walden!) In addition to only being about two miles outside of Concord, Mass., Thoreau also had plenty of friends over on a regular basis, reportedly dozens at a time. I’ve never been able to figure that one out, because this is what the cabin (in its reconstructed version) looks like on the inside:


It seems cozy and the winters in Concord do get cold, but it seems like that would be a bit cramped for two dozen people by anyone’s definition. I may consider building a second tree house to accommodate my social circle. But then again, everyone’s probably still going to want into the LMATH because people are like cats in that respect: they always want to get into spaces that clearly say Do Not Enter, like your cat who scratches at the bathroom door while you pee.

Part of my wish to be alone sometimes is because one of my favorite pastimes is to sit or walk quietly with nothing but my thoughts as company, and this can be difficult to do when you’re with other people. It is also seemingly a pastime that is not universally appreciated: a University of Virginia study published in 2014 in the journal Science reported that many of its subjects preferred to self-administer an electric shock rather than be left alone with their thoughts.[1] During a 15-minute period of alone time with nothing to occupy them but their minds, 12 out of 18 male subjects and 6 out of 24 female subjects opted to give themselves mild shocks with the push of a button that had been made available for that purpose. The boredom had gotten to them, and they looked for stimulation anywhere they could get it. I was surprised when I read this. Did these subjects not realize the value of boredom, the value of sitting down on a riverbank and listening for “the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience” (says Walter Benjamin)?

Thought — to call it by a prouder name than it deserved — had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until — you know the little tug — the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one’s line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out. Alas, laid on the grass, how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating. … But however small it was, it had, nevertheless, the myterious property of its kind — put back into the mind, it became at once very exciting, and important; and as it darted and sank, and flashed hither and thither, sent up such a wash and tumult of ideas that it was impossible to sit still.[2]

This is how my thinking will go, alone, in my tree house.

I will of course have neighbors in my tree house, and that’s fine. I don’t believe that the peace that comes from voluntary isolation demands an isolation that is physically far-removed from others. It could just be a door with a lock, like Virginia Woolf said. Or not even that: for instance, I am at this moment alone in my apartment, closed off from the world by a door with a weak lock that could easily be picked. On the other side of our apartments’ adjoining wall there is my neighbor. He’s playing FIFA World Cup for Playstation; I can hear the announcer. And yet, I feel quite isolated. Sometimes I think and write at the dining room table while my husband is noodling around with a project or talking to his sister on the phone. Sometimes I’ll even think and write in full view of a television, and I still somehow manage to feel isolated. I’m not someone who needs to have all my ducks in a row in order to think and write, so my plans for the LMATH should not be read as a complaint that I can’t get anything done with all these people around, nor as an excuse for waiting for the perfect moment to get down to thinking and writing. I can think and write just about anywhere, zone out into my private world no matter where I am. My desire to build a tree house and be left alone in it comes from a lifetime of thinking and writing in the midst of it all and occasionally looking up to see what’s going on and being surprised that I am not in fact in my story world, but rather in my real world. I like my real world quite a lot, but passing from one to the other is jarring, and sometimes annoying. In those moments I feel like a toddler asleep in her car seat who wakes up to find that she’s suddenly at grandma’s house 300 miles away; she likes grandma’s house, but is irritated at having been moved without her consent. Since I can’t inhabit my story world, the next best thing I can do is to inhabit a tree.

One of my favorite books is Italo Calvino’s The Baron in the Trees. In it, a twelve-year-old boy named Cosimo Piovasco di Rondo bolts from the family lunch table in the garden and climbs up a tree, declaring with prepubescent anger that he would never again set foot on the ground as long as he lived. He keeps this promise, living out the rest of his days hopping like a squirrel from branch to branch, navigating from one tree to the next all throughout the forests of Italy’s Ligurian Coast. He had plenty of company despite his lifestyle choice. Throughout the book, he runs with a band of child thieves, fights pirates, has love affairs, helps his ground dwelling neighbors with their farming, pens a treatise on political theory (which he never manages to get published, but not for lack of trying), and later on gets involved in local government. Calvino calls a person like this a “solitary who does not avoid people.”

Personally, I don’t care to go to Cosimo’s extreme lengths, though I admire the stubbornness and ingenuity he shows in constructing his alternative existence. For me, though, it would be enough to just have my Leave Me Alone Tree House, secluded in a shady grove of fig trees – fig, because that’s my favorite tree – and have that be my own personal space that I could retreat to as needed.

To date, the LMATH’s blueprints are mere outlines – really more of a wish list than an actual blueprint at this point. I know with certainty, however, that it will feature a rope ladder, trap door, zip line (to where? I haven’t yet decided), a bookshelf in the Cosimo style (“sheltered as best he could from the rain and nibbling mouths”[3]), and a solar powered hot plate so I can heat water for tea and coffee.

1. Fariss Samarrai, “Doing Something is Better Than Doing Nothing for Most People, Study Shows,” UVAToday, 3 July 2014, https://news.virginia.edu/content/doing-something-better-doing-nothing-most-people-study-shows.

2. Walter Benjamin, “The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov,” http://ada.evergreen.edu/~arunc/texts/frankfurt/storyteller.pdf.

3. “But he would continuously change them around, according to his studies and tastes of the moment, for he considered his books as rather like birds and it saddened him to see them caged or still.” Italo Calvino, The Baron in the Trees.

A knitting project that is possibly doomed to failure + two finished projects that I like

I started a new knitting project yesterday after finishing up the last bits on a pair of gloves (photos of that and another recent project at the bottom of this post). Never mind that I still haven’t finished my retro sweater — though it is almost done. I finished knitting all the pieces and blocked them (for non-knitters, that’s when you soak and then lay out your your project to dry flat, stretched with pins so as to “iron” everything out and make it hang more nicely). I’ve sewn up the side seams. All that’s left is to sew on the sleeves, and that’s where I’m stalling because my one attempt failed miserably and I haven’t yet mustered up the courage to have another go. I will get it done before fall weather hits but for now I’m owning my procrasination by starting in on another sweater.

The yarn for it comes from my mother in law, who started knitting a sweater for my niece and got as far as completing the entire front and back but froze when she got to the sleeves. She showed it to me when we were visiting in June/July and explained that she couldn’t for the life of her remember how to do sleeves so she’d decided to abandon it. “You’re not using a pattern?” I asked. I was impressed. No, she said, just winging it. I said, you know there are loads of video tutorials on YouTube, that’s how I’ve learned most of my knitting, but she waved me off. She’s a woman who can’t be bothered with online tutorials, and I have to say that I both like that in her and am also kind of frustrated by it — because she was so close, does she realize how easy it would have been to finish her almost-finished sweater just by watching a ten minute video explanation?

Her solution to the matter was to hand off the partially finished sweater and the rest of the yarn to me. I resisted at first, both because I really wanted to try to convince her to soldier through it, and … also because I think the yarn is kind of ugly. It’s fine for a little girl, but I’m turning it into an adult-sized sweater and I already having some misgivings about that course of action. This is an overhead shot of me frogging it (non-knitters: frogging is unraveling yarn from something that’s been knit so as to reuse the yarn):


(She had also begun a gigantic scarf with it, which is what I’m undoing here.)

So what do we think about the yarn? I of course couldn’t ask her to verify my theory that the real reason she backed off from finishing anything with it was because this yarn is too ugly to live. I don’t like straight garter stitch in general, and I especially don’t like it here because I think it only increases the early 90s vibe of the yarn, and I for one am wholeheartedly against the apparent resurgence of 90s fashion that I’ve been seeing around town. My mother said the exact same thing about the 70s when I started wearing bell bottoms and polyester and platforms in the 90s, so this is perhaps just one of life’s milestone that I must tick off, hating on a younger generation’s clothing choices, but I stand by my statement.

Anyway. I’ve started knitting this sweater and I think the yarn looks slighty better in stockinette stitch, but you decide:


I also think the pattern I’m using is pretty horrendous, but honestly I don’t know what pattern could possibly make this yarn look like it was not initially destined for a five-year-old girl. I just went with a pattern that I estimated would use about the quantity of yarn I had on hand (truth be told, I have no idea what yardage I’m working with here, so it’s just a guess based on volume) and called for the appropriate needle size. We’ll see how this goes.

I’ve asked myself a couple of times why I’m using this yarn to make something for myself, rather than making a sweater for my niece like my mother in law had planned. My response is that I’m wary of arriving for our next visit at the end of the year with a completed sweater that could run the risk of making my mother in law feel like she’s being shown up. She and I have a very good relationship. I really enjoy her company and I think she enjoys mine. She’s not a particularly touchy feely person, and yet the last time she visited she gave me a spontaneous bear hug one day, and I took that to mean that she officially likes me. Still, I feel like completing the sweater that she abandoned is entering into trecherous waters and could be taken the wrong way. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

I also briefly considered making a sweater for the other little girl in my life, but she currently lives in Alabama and therefore I doubt she would have much use for woolens.

The other reason that I’m making this sweater for myself is that I am in a sort of patch of me-centered making. I’m still fairly new to knitting, having only really gotten deep into it about two and a half years ago. It took me a full year or more to start making things for myself; prior to that I was all about random gifts of mittens and hats to my friends. It felt a little greedy to spend hours upon hours making something for myself — am I worth it? I suppose I’m over that now, especially since I’ve realized that I can make actual clothing, not just accessories, and that’s exciting, isn’t it, when you first realize that? I’m trying to keep my me-centeredness in check, though, because half the fun of knowing how to do this stuff is sharing it with other people.

* * *

Other knitting of late:


Above: The pattern is Spiralini Hat, which you can find as a free download on Ravelry.



Above: the gloves I finished yesterday. The pattern is called Cafe au Lait Mitts, also a free Ravelry download.


The record player stays

Ever since Alvaro’s and my trip back to my hometown in June, my friend-since-middle-school Jane (she of the jelly bean tights) and I have been exchanging emails with links to articles on “minimalism.” It’s the continuation of a conversation we had about Marie Kondo over a bottle of wine and chips and hummus on my parents’ deck one evening. That conversation started because I was talking about how each time I’m back home to visit and occasionally during our weekly Skype calls, my father brings up the record player in the basement.

The record player is a circa 1960s console that looks something like this:


and it has been sitting in my parents’ basement since 2003. I picked it up on a spontaneous road trip to Schenectady that I took with my college roommate the summer before our senior year. We got ice cream and sunburned by the lake before aimlessly walking around town. We discovered a yard sale and stopped to browse, of course, because we liked yard sales, and amid all the random household stuff spread out on the lawn there was a pile of records. Neither of us owned a record player but we decided to stock up for the day that we would. When I mentioned our lack of record player to the guy who took our crumpled dollar bills, he gestured over to the piece of furniture upon which we’d found the records, the furniture that I had thought was a chest of drawers or something, and informed us that it was a record player and that we could take it away for free. For free! We ran off to find my car and were delighted to discover that the record player was just the right size to be squeezed into the back seat. When we thanked the man and got ready to haul our treasure away, he added that there was a second record player, the same size only in white, inside the garage, and it was also free for the taking. Magin and I looked at each other, then at the man, and said, “we’ll be back.” We drove all the way back to Syracuse, left the first record player on our front porch, and then drove all the way back to Schenectady to pick up the second. I should mention also that we lived on a fourth floor walk-up with narrow stairs and no landings, but nevertheless managed to haul our new toys up to their new home.

We considered this to be the find of the century. With shaking hands we plugged in one of the record players and selected our first album. And it still worked! The speakers were shot so the sound was scratchy and muted, but we liked it that way because it sounded like the background music to a scene in a period film. It took up a quarter of the living room but we didn’t care. It was charming and retro.

When I finished college, I took the lacquered fake wood record player back to my parents’ house. Magin left the white one in Syracuse, which at the time I thought was insane. My dad, on the other hand, thought that I was the insane one. “You know you can buy those things for 30 dollars, right?” he said. That only confirmed to me that this had been a find, because this one was free. When I moved to New York City in the fall, the record player stayed in my parents’ basement, because my New York apartments were even smaller than my college apartment was. Three years later I moved to Switzerland, and later on to France, and the record player has remained in the basement because to date there has been no affordable way to move such a heavy lump of furniture overseas. Thus, for the past 13 years, I have had the same conversation on Skype with my father on a bi-monthly basis, and face to face when I’m home visiting, which goes something like this:

Him: “So… you know that record player in the basement?”

Me: “Yes…”

Him: “You know that you’re never going to use it again. What do you say we give it to the Salvation Army?”

I answer with vows that I will use it again, some day, and in the meantime don’t you dare throw it away the way you threw away all my childhood stuffed animals who had been my best friends from ages four to seven (to which my mother interjects that they were moldy), and then I wax poetic on that beautiful day in Schenectady and all the good memories soaked into the very molecules of the record player’s plywood frame, etc. In recent years this conversation has gotten much shorter: Dad asks when he can get rid of the record player. I say “never.”

On this last visit I was dealt a surprise ace card when Dad brought up the record player, pointing out that it’s not even wired for French outlets. I turned to Alvaro, who is an electrician. “Do you think you could rewire it?” I asked. “Of course,” he said, unwittingly stepping into a decade-long family argument. “That’s easy, it would take me all of ten minutes.” Ha! I turned to my Dad, who threw up his hands in defeat.

All of this came up in my conversation with Jane, because apparently the KonMari thing is about only keeping things that “spark joy,” and this record player, despite being located 3,000 miles away from where I actually live, certainly sparks joy for me. But then we got to talking about all the things wrong with KonMari, including the reality that many people of our generation can get away with capsule wardrobes and pared-down book collections because we secretly have all the rest of our crap stored in our parents’ basements. Jane later sent me a link to an article on Slate that claimed the anti-stuff (and pro-experience) thing was inherently sexist. I can’t say that I buy that; just because the stereotypical domain of women is the home vs the open road for men, I can’t equate calls to pare down our worldly affairs with an attack on womanhood.

Still, despite not agreeing that experiences > stuff is sexist, the idea of radical minimalism is not to my liking, and has bothered me for reasons that I’m now starting to pinpoint after reading the latest article Jane sent my way. In “The Oppressive Gospel of ‘Minimalism,'” (New York Times, 26 July 2016), Kyle Chayka writes that today’s minimalism “comes with an inherent pressure to conform to its precepts. Whiteness, in a literal sense, is good. Mess, heterogeneity, is bad — the opposite impulse of artistic minimalism. It is anxiety-inducing in a manner indistinguishable from other forms of consumerism, not revolutionary at all. Do I own the right things? Have I jettisoned enough of the wrong ones?” Minimalism, he continues, “is now conflated with self-optimization,” and its proponents “present it as a logical end to lifestyle, culture and even morality: If we attain only the right things, the perfect things, and forsake all else, then we will be free from the tyranny of our desires. But time often proves aesthetic permanence, as well as moral high ground, to be illusory.” He continues:

Writing in The Atlantic in March, Arielle Bernstein described minimalism’s ban on clutter as a “privilege” that runs counter to the value ascribed to an abundance of objects by those who have suffered from a lack of them — less-empowered people like refugees or immigrants. The movement, such as it is, is led in large part by a group of men who gleefully ditch their possessions as if to disavow the advantages by which they obtained them. But it takes a lot to be minimalist: social capital, a safety net and access to the internet. The technology we call minimalist might fit in our pockets, but it depends on a vast infrastructure of grim, air-conditioned server farms and even grimmer Chinese factories.

Arielle Bernstein, in the article linked to above, furthermore points out that “in order to feel comfortable throwing out all your old socks and handbags, you have to feel pretty confident that you can easily get new ones. Embracing a minimalist lifestyle is an act of trust.” She relates her assertions to her own family history, of immigrant grandparents fleeing Poland just prior to the Holocaust, grandparents who would later go on to become great accumulators of stuff. Her story reminded me of my own grandparents, who grew up during the Great Depression and who also went on to become great accumulators of stuff. In the house where my mother grew up, there were enough canned and dry foods stocked to last their family of seven for a year should a nuclear third world war come to pass. That is not an exaggeration: four refrigerators, one old-school stand-alone freezer (at the bottom of which was undoubtedly a freezer burned collection of hamburger patties from 1959), and an entire basement room with floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall shelves stocked with home-canned produce. This was not done as a direct response to the Cold War, but rather out of pure practicality, because you never know what tomorrow might bring. When my grandparents moved to my hometown from the West Coast in 2002, my mother discovered in one of the moving boxes a single lightbulb that had been painstakingly wrapped in several layers of newspaper. When my grandmother died in 2011 and my grandfather moved into an assisted-living home, among the discoveries in cleaning out their house was an entire cabinet in the garage filled with discount chocolate bars coated in white film and a kitchen drawer containing travelers checks printed with the date “Month ____ Day ____ , 19____.” In short, my Greatest Generation grandparents did not throw anything away, ever.

Now, what do we do? Thread-bare socks? Trash. A dull dress that I only wore once and had only bought because it was on sale and I hadn’t done laundry in three weeks? Into the donation bin. Items of nostalgia? Who needs them if you have a functioning limbic system?

A few years ago I embarked on an attempt to streamline my wardrobe. It’s never really been out of control, but I decided one day that it could be better. It could be the ideal wardrobe in which everything would be worn regularly yet still remain in pristine condition, in which everything coordinated with everything else so as to minimize choices in the morning, and which would contain all of the so-called essentials. Following wardrobe purge instructions on some blog, I pulled everything in my closet, laid it out on the living room floor, and spent the better part of a Saturday afternoon regarding each item with a critical eye (hours of life spent that I can never get back). When I had separated out everything that was ill-fitting, or that I was tired of wearing all the time, or that had any tears, or tiny stains that only I knew existed, I was left with relatively very little. Per the blog that was guiding me, I should have gotten rid of everything that was less than my ideal, but then what would I do? With so little clothing left that sparked joy, a massive shopping trip would be in order. Despite the fact that I quite simply couldn’t afford to do that, the idea of purging my clothing and then turning around and buying all new stuff seemed absurd. I picked out a few items for donation, set aside some others for minor repairs, and hung the rest back up in my closet.

So, this is how I feel about my stuff: I could, for example, go the route of donating my entire book collection to the library and then go out and buy an e-reader, or else I could decide to stop surfing used book stores and buying a first edition of The Little Prince just because it’s a first edition, and perhaps maybe just read the books I already own, half of which I’ve never even cracked open. I think the second option makes more sense. If I take the hard-line on my book collection just because it takes up physical space, but then go out and buy some techy apparatus filled with minerals mined in the Congo river basin and assembled in a Chinese factory, how is that being minimal? Or should I just get rid of all my books and vow to never read again, except on the computer that I already own, which is also filled with minerals mined in the Congo river basin and assembled in a Chinese factory?


In researching the thrift propaganda that came out of the Allied countries during World War II, I’ve come across many posters like the above with its motto “Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do,” which is often followed by the PS “Or do without.” That’s kind of where I am these days, and that’s what I think is missing from all the books and blog posts and manifestos for streamlining our collective crap. They skip over the fact that people who are dealing with decades of accumulation are not newborn babes with a fresh start in life. We have literal baggage to deal with, and the quest for the perfectly curated wardrobe and the spartan living room with its single e-reader posed on a reclaimed wood coffee table next to a succulent fails to take into consideration that arriving at Point B from Point A involves sending truckloads of our pre-minimalist life into landfills, where someone else has to deal with it. And we then wash our hands of our past filled with stuff and post a triumphant photo of our capsule wardrobe to Instagram.

That’s not the kind of life I want. I like my books, my grandmothers’ tea cups, my flea market typewriter that I never really use. As people who also make stuff, Alvaro and I have a side room filled with things for making clothes, furniture, lamps, and random stuff we find in the street that one day we’ll repurpose and reuse (we swear!). I prefer to hang on to my photo albums from high school and college, though I rarely look at them, because they’re part of my past. When I decide that I no longer care for a particular item of clothing, I set it aside to refashion it into something else, or maybe I just store it away out of sight, figuring (rightly, usually) that in two years I’ll rediscover why I once liked it.

In the end, I’m all for cleaning house, but I think this x-treme purge thing is just the latest incarnation of an ancient desire for purity, for detox, for re-invention into an aestheticized version of one’s self, sweeping all deritus under the rug and proclaiming ourselves clean.


Pas Contente

We had an exciting day yesterday. Among the incidents of note was the mud wasp nest we found in one of the bookshelves in the living room:


We’ve had a bit of a wasp issue this summer and can’t really figure out the source. We even climbed up on the roof of our building to see if there was a nest above our living room window (we live on the top floor) but there was nothing, and so we haven’t been able to do anything to rectify the problem and have just had to deal with the half dozen wasps that meander into our apartment on a daily basis. Last night we were sitting at the table eating dinner, minding our own business, when Alvaro remarked that he thought there was a wasp stuck behind one of the paintings on the wall next to us. “I’ve been hearing buzzing from around there all evening,” he said, and I agreed. He got up and listened around the paintings, then moved toward the bookshelf and declared it was coming from there. “What do we do??” He stepped away (insect phobia). Just shove the books toward the back of the shelf, I said, it’ll either get smashed or fly out. He wasn’t keen to do it, so I did it myself, and out flew a wasp. It flew straight out the window and I felt quite accomplished, until Alvaro cried “Holy shit, there’s a nest!” A nest, what are you talking about, I said, and moved the horizontal books to one side to see, and yes, there was a nest. It looked like all but two larvae had already hatched so we scraped everything off into a trash bag while screaming and hopping from one foot to the other. That was the end of dinner. Life lesson learned: we need to dust/move our books around more often.

Another exciting thing was that I had a spectacularly messy bread failure yesterday. I haven’t been doing much sourdough lately because it’s been too damn hot to bake anything, and also I’ve been a bit of a lazy baker so when I’ve felt like bread I’ve been doing Irish soda bread (which is a quick bread, no yeast). The day before yesterday I suddenly felt motivated to prep the starter for baking, and then yesterday morning made the dough. I recently saw a video of a guy shaping dough no thicker than pancake batter — really — into perfect loaves, and even though I’m really bad at shaping wet dough I decided f it, I’m going all the way this time. I mixed my wet dough, gave it a few turns throughout the morning, and then let it rise for the rest of the day. The other half of my big bread plans was to cook it in this beauty:


… one of the random cookery items that had been stocked at my parents’ place since I moved overseas ten years ago. I thought this copper baking dish would work as a stand-in for a lidded cast iron pot, which bread blogs all over the internet swear to be the closest in-home approximation to a proper bread oven. I’ve looked for a cast iron pot but they don’t seem to be a thing here, so when I unearthed the above from the cobwebs in my parents’ basement during a visit last month I decided to bring it back with me and try using it for bread.

Only yesterday I didn’t get that far, because once I’d decided that the dough had fermented enough, I turned it out onto a floured counter and it immediately spread out and just kept going, a bubbling, liquidy mass of something that in no way resembled bread dough. I’m still pretty happy with my emotional response to this: instead of yelling and swearing at it, I stared down at the dough in mild disbelief (mild, because somewhere not so deep down I knew that this would happen) and laughed, and called Alvaro in to see my mess before I scraped the whole thing back into the bowl. I added more flour, kneaded it a bit, and let it rise for a few more hours before putting it in the fridge for the night.

This morning I baked it in the copper pot, but I won’t bother with a photo because it was nothing to write home about. It’s flat, with a dull colored crust, and I just had a piece of it and am not crazy about the high level of sourness. It’s fine, edible, but my copper pot is not magic after all so I won’t be trying that again. But what’s that self-helpy thing they say? Perfect is the enemy of good enough. And I’ve decided that this bread is good enough to bring along for sharing at the outdoor concert we’re going to with some friends tonight. These guys:

I’m anticipating a fair amount of leftover bread, but it’s fine, as I’ve come to accept my role as human garbage disposal of my sketchy kitchen concoctions.