Through a Glass, Darkly

I saw this letter from Digital History on another blog. Jourdon Anderson, an ex- Tennessee slave, declines his former master’s invitation to return as a laborer on his plantation, 1865. I am posting it because Jourdon Anderson was the epitome of a Southern gentleman, and in being so, showed Colonel Anderson for exactly what he was.

Dayton, Ohio, August 7, 1865

To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee

Sir: I got your letter and was glad to find you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Col. Martin’s to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again and see Miss mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville hospital, but one of the neighbors told me Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here; I get $25 a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy (the folks here call her Mrs. Anderson), and the children, Milly, Jane and Grundy, go to school and are learning well; the teacher says grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday- School, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated; sometimes we overhear others saying, “The colored people were slaves” down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks, but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Col. Anderson. Many darkies would have been proud, as I used to was, to call you master. Now, if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free- papers in 1864 from the Provost- Marshal- General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you are sincerely disposed to treat us justly and kindly- - and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty- two years and Mandy twenty years. At $25 a month for me, and $2 a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to $11,680. Add to this the interest for the time our wages has been kept back and deduct what you paid for our clothing and three doctor’s visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams Express, in care of V. Winters, esq, Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night, but in Tennessee there was never any pay day for the Negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up and both good- looking girls. You know how it was with Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve and die if it comes to that than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood, the great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits. <>P.S. — Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

From your old servant,

Jourdon Anderson

Source: Cincinnati Commercial, reprinted in New York Tribune, August 22, 1865.

(That might be the greatest P.S. of all time.)

We have fire drills and tornado drills, but what do you call it when there’s an actual fire or an actual tornado? When I was in high school, someone set some kind of fire in a bathroom (the details have become somewhat fuzzy), and what we called it was, “Everyone get out of the building and then stand in the rain for hours and then come back into the building and shiver for the rest of the day because the radiators can’t be turned on.” (Huh, seems like some of THOSE details aren’t exactly fuzzy.)

Today, a tornado touched down near my school, and as we emphasized that, no, it was not a drill, I learned that what we actually call it is “tornado lockdown.” I was actually kind of impressed with this phrase. It sounds so official and makes the idea of everyone crouching by the wall in the tornado position seem so much less silly.

Of course, it didn’t seem silly at all when the tornado siren started going off. I don’t have a lot of tornado experience - we get tornadoes here, but certainly not like other parts of the country. I remember there being a pretty serious tornado warning when I was in elementary school and that we spent a couple of hours crouching by the wall, but I don’t remember hearing the tornado siren. In fact, I am not sure I have ever heard a tornado siren. It was surreal when it went off, because it’s something I have read about but never actually experienced. And I was okay when it went off the first time, but when it started going off the second time, I actually got a little bit scared. We spent an hour in tornado lockdown. I am very thankful that everything turned out okay, and that no one was hurt, but I would be lying if I said that hour in the tornado position didn’t take a toll on all of us. Not to mention the extra hour we all stayed at school because the buses couldn’t run until everything was safe.

That’s where Mike comes in. Let’s start with yesterday, when he drove me to my class so I wouldn’t have to walk in the rain, came home, made chili for dinner (he claims this is not a soup), and came back and picked me up. Today he drove me to class again (because I was going to be late late late without his help, thanks to the extra hour at school), picked me up after class, and let me cry on the way home. This is why he’s my hero - saving me from a downpour, holding my hand as I cry in the dark. It was a long day, and I am more than a little bit overwhelmed. Let’s all hope for a more normal day tomorrow. (Please.)

I do not, myself, like icebreaker sorts of things. It brings out the middle schooler in me, the part that doesn’t like joining things, the part that is still afraid that people will point and laugh, the part that struggles with sincerity. When, in my college classes, we have to do icebreakers, it is hard for me to resist rolling my eyes. It’s not that I think I’m too cool for icebreakers. It’s that I think I’m not quite cool enough, that no one will be interested enough in me to want to break the ice. That people will think it’s silly if I participate too much. So I hang back and try not to let myself seem too invested. (Also, I don’t like silly games that have no point other than breaking the ice. Let’s come up with an actual way to break the ice for a change.)

I like to watch the students when they do icebreaker activities, to see how their personalities come out. This one hangs in the corner, acting much like I always feel. That one dives in fearlessly, asking questions of all his classmates. This one goofs off, that one works steadily. I don’t have kids (or particularly maternal instincts), but from time to time I am unexpectedly moved to see them discovering who they are, taking risks when they would rather hang back, eschewing a sense of safety in order to get involved. I want to take them aside and tell them that it doesn’t do any good to keep worrying about what people think, and that they should jump into these activities with as much abandon as a child joyously jumping into a puddle. But I know they have to figure those things out themselves, so instead I simply say, “Are you finished? Then have a seat.”

Once upon a time, Mike and Kari bought a house. Here is what the kitchen looked like.

(That’s three layers of linoleum. And the scary carpet.)

There were crazy light fixtures and half the room was carpeted and the cabinets had weird yellow slats on the doors and the fireplace was hideously ugly. And ugly wallpaper. There were so many awful things I can’t remember them all.

This is what it looked like for most of the summer.

How did we get through that? I don’t know. Margaritas, mostly.

And, FINALLY, here is what it looks like now!

Yes, I know we need a cover for our vent.

Yes, I know we need some crown molding for the fireplace. You people are so demanding. Can’t we rest on our laurels for a while?

Obviously there are a few details we need to finish, and we need to work on window treatments and hang pictures, but I wanted to let you see how far we have come.

One last word about the kitchen - here is a picture of our tile. I mopped last night, so I feel confident showing it to you. Our friend Randy at Rekoncile Design did the floor, and he did a spectacular job.

The kitchen transformation can also be viewed here.

Apparently whenever you get a prescription filled now, there is a description of what the medicine looks like. I got an antibiotic, and on the sticker that CVS printed, it says, “This is a PINK, OVAL-shaped TABLET imprinted with G on the front and 3060 on the back.” Is this some kind of law, or just a CVS thing? It makes me laugh. Whose job is it to write those descriptions? How do those people feel when they go home at night? Are they tempted to describe the medicines using more exciting colors? Because I would say that these pills are a rose/fuschia combination.

Mike got some cough syrup from the doctor, and his is even better. The label says, “This is a GOLD LIQUID.” Now, I am not positive, but it appears to me that Mike’s doctor prescribed him Felix Felicis. I am linking that for those of you who aren’t Harry Potter nerds. Felix Felicis, you guys! Liquid luck! I am really jealous, because all the doctor gave me was PINK, OVAL-shaped TABLETS. No magic. No luck. What gives, doctors? I was sick, too! I work with teenagers and need all the luck I can find!

(School starts next week. Please send any extra luck my way.)

(The downside to his Felix Felicis is that every night since he has started taking it I have fallen asleep with “Felix Felicis” by Harry and the Potters in my head. “All these ideas seem so reasonable once I’ve had something to drink.”)

Mike and I had two tall bookcases that we used to store DVDs, but when we moved here, we decided that we wanted something else to store our DVDs. This means that our DVDs are still in boxes. Which means that we have been watching the same movies over and over. One day we will find the perfect thing to store our DVDs. How do you store your DVDs? Any advice? (Please keep in mind that we have over 200 movies. It’s kind of out of control.)

When we decided to get rid of the bookcases, I asked one of my teacher friends if she wanted them for her classroom. She said she did, so last night Mike and I loaded them (along with a coffeetable for another teacher) into the back of my grandpa’s truck. Which was parked on the street in front of our house. And then we watched some Olympics, read some books, went to bed. I took some cough syrup and promptly fell asleep. And then I woke up at 11:00 to Mike’s eyes boring into the side of my head . . . and the sound of pouring rain.

Sure, sensible people would have taken care of this sort of thing beforehand. Sensible people would have checked the weather or preemptively backed the truck into the carport. But that’s not the kind of people we are, so I pulled on a sweatshirt, backed the other two cars out of the driveway, and had Mike back the truck in safely. I hope our neighbors were entertained. My pajamas legs were soaked.

Afterwards, we looked at the radar, and the little patch where it was raining was the only place in a five-state area where there was any rain at all. Perhaps the key to fighting drought is to load your possessions into the back of a pickup truck, assume it’s not going to rain because it never does, and wait for it to start pouring.

Last Wednesday I went to the Farmers’ Market and bought lots of tomatoes. But this week I had to go back to work rather than purchasing tasty vegetables. Last night, Mike asked what time it opens on Wednesdays (7:00) to see if it would be possible for one of us to go. But we decided just to wait until Saturday. Great plan, since apparently Barack Obama showed up at the Farmers’ Market this morning.

(Let’s talk for a minute about the voicemail I just left Melissa, challenging her to get Barack to show up at a yard sale. Because that’s the kind of friend I am.)

I mean, sure, even if we had decided to go, it would have been before 9:30 By 9:30, I was already deep into a meeting. But I can still complain about it, right? Why not last week, Barack? I was there! I was buying tomatoes and supporting local farmers! Why not Saturday, Barack? I’ll be there then!

For the record, I sometimes play a little game at the Farmers’ Market called, “How many people are wearing Obama t-shirts?” In the parking lot, I play another game called, “How many Obama bumper stickers do I see?” Your spot, sir, was well-chosen.

Political figures I have met: John Edwards (who is not very tall) and Elizabeth Dole (who looked different than I expected). I met John Edwards at the Greensboro Public Library not long after he announced his first presidential candidacy. I tried to hide behind a pole, but I ended up shaking his hand on the local news. I met Elizabeth Dole when I was hanging out with THE KING. Apparently they are friends.

My cold (for which I finally went to the doctor today, and, hooray, it’s a sinus infection!) (um, sorry people I have been around - I really thought I was getting better), Mike’s cold, the last few things that didn’t get done in our house because of the cold, the fact that I haven’t been able to run because of the cold, and the expected end-of-summer blues have really got me down the past week or so.

I struggle with contentment at the best of times. I think I make trouble for myself sometimes, finding things to be upset about. I lived for a long time in a state of righteous indignation, and it’s hard not to revert to that. Especially in situations where righteous indignation is appropriate, or at least would be understood. I have been in some situations lately where righteous indignation was called for, and I certainly talked Mike’s ear off about my feelings, but I managed not to run it past as many people as I normally do. I managed to shake it off a little better than normal. I don’t know if I was too sick/blue to deal with it or if I have turned a bit of a corner in that area. I hope it was the latter. I know that there were some things I chose not to talk about, that I chose to let go. And it felt good. It’s not a decision I am very familiar with, to be honest.

Tomorrow it is back to the routine, back to school. I have been there for the past few days, getting things together. I have been dreading it. I am nervous about starting the school year (something I have never done before) and taking two classes. Being off has made me long to be independently wealthy so that I could stay home all the time, running and cooking and traveling and writing and keeping the house clean (well, if I was independently wealthy, perhaps I could hire someone else to clean the house for me. If we’re going to dream, we might as well dream big), just like I did this summer. But being back at school has been good, too. I missed my school friends, and there are already plans to go out together, to see movies, to do lunch. I have some new projects this year at school that are both exciting and intimidating. I don’t want to go back, not really. But I also know I wasn’t made to lounge around all the time, and I (hope I) am up for the new challenges I will face this year.

Mike caught my cold. Except that his version is some kind of bronchial infection, complete with a fever of 103. And much being pathetic and watching the Olympics. I have provided him with homemade soup, macaroni and tomatoes (tomatoes I canned with my own hands, people), toast, and tea. And still, he keeps telling me that he needs a bell.

Being at the beach with my family made me reminisce about the many times we have stayed in that house. Early in my teenage years, I went to the beach house with one friend and then spent the next week with another friend. What I remember from those trips is an overwhelming sense of my own awkwardness, that these girls were so advanced compared to me. They knew things about the way that the world works (that is, boys and hair and clothes) that I had not yet been able to figure out. They were my age, but emotionally, they were way ahead of where I was.

Of course, the idea that the people around me know the rules and I don’t is something that I worry about all the time, even now. I touched on that earlier this week in a conversation I had with Melissa (though I can’t remember if I specifically mentioned the beach in the conversation or if I was just thinking about it at the time), talking about how other people are always so much cooler than I am. Still. “When do I get to be cool?” I asked her. (You can see why I fit in so well at a middle school. Hey, at least I am cooler than they are.) (Well, sadly, not all of them.)

One of the defining moments (for me, anyway) of my friendship with Melissa was a moment when we were decidedly uncool. We were basically in charge of a retreat and had decided to do something nice for all the girls who were there, so we went to the store to buy the stuff to bake brownies. When we got back, we realized that the place we were staying had no pans and nowhere to bake the brownies, so we had to go back and buy microwave brownies. This is the type of thing that makes me feel deeply incompetent, and Melissa and I bonded over our shared feelings of incompetence compared to the people around us, who undoubtedly would have bought the right brownies in the first place. Because they know how the world works. I did not know it at the time, but now it seems as if that drive back to the store down those winding roads in the dark changed something for me. I realized that other people feel the same way I do, even if (like Melissa) they seem more competent than I could ever hope to be.

This is the way that the world works for me: I screw things up. A lot. At least I have pretty awesome people who screw things up along with me.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

I hate to post poems or song lyrics without any commentary. But I really like this poem. Enjoy.

Look what I did today!

I went to my grandma’s house and canned 24 pints of tomatoes! Want to hear about it?

After I read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, one of my goals for this summer was to learn how to can things. (One of my other goals was to read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, so at least one of my goals was accomplished.) A few years ago, Grandma taught me how to make tomato juice, but we use a lot of canned tomatoes, and I thought it would be useful to learn how to can them myself, using local tomatoes. Plus, quality Grandma time. Win-win-win.

This morning I went to Food Lion to buy lids for the jars. I love doing things like that. It makes me feel like I am part of the cool club that knows how to can things. Except for the part where I had to ask where they were. They weren’t with the jam making things, which I think is kind of weird. That’s weird, right? Please agree with me. Also, while I was there, I managed to make the bagboy uncomfortable. He has been the same bagboy the past two times I have been there! Also, he has had a little difficulty with the concept of me bringing my own bags. I said, “You are here every time I come here.” He just looked at me. I considered telling him that I was stalking him, but I kind of don’t want to go to jail. So I just left. I thought that would be best.

(Other than the Super G Mart, there are two regular grocery store options really close to our house: Food Lion and Harris Teeter. When we moved in, Mike said he didn’t want to shop at Food Lion because the service is not as good. But I asked him to try it, and we have actually had pretty good service there overall. We haven’t had to wait like we have at other Food Lions. I think it is our grocery store. Also, I bought some Pirate’s Booty for Alisa for $2.29. That is a good price for Booty. It costs like $5.00 at Harris Teeter. Which brings me to the point of this aside: as I told Alisa, I know Harris Teeter is nicer. But every time I shop there, the food tastes like guilt. Plus, soon this bagboy and I will have worked out our canvas bag issues, and everything will be grand! Either that or he will be so creeped out by me that he will quit. Whichever. I’m not picky.)

Back to the story! From Food Lion, I traveled to the Farmer’s Market, where I made a man from Dodge Lodge Farm very happy by buying a peck of tomatoes. My grandma had some, and my Uncle Buddy had some, but Grandma said we needed a few more, so she told me to get a peck. Or 1/4 bushel. Which is around 13 pounds. The guy who was helping the Dodge Lodge Farmer said, “You should come back every week and buy 13 pounds of tomatoes!” Mr. Dodge Lodge Farm said, “She does come here all the time.” Which is true. And awesome. I’m a regular! (For the record, 13 pounds of fresh tomatoes every week is my idea of what heaven will be like.) Also, I made another vendor jealous. She wanted to know how Mr. Dodge Lodge Farm was able to get this large sale. I did not mean to cause strife at the Farmer’s Market. But I do like being fought over.

I also bought two yellow tomatoes because I could not pass them up. Scott, do I need to take a picture of them for you?

And then I went to Grandma’s house, and she taught me how to can tomatoes! Which you can look up on the internet, so I am not going to tell you about them. Suffice it to say that I was having the best day ever, what with the massive amounts of tomatoes and the domesticity and the productivity and the hanging out at Grandma’s house! And we were going to have dinner with Brian and Sarah! But the plumber was late and we didn’t get to have dinner with Brian and Sarah. So it is no longer the best day ever, just a really good day up until about 5:30.

Hey, um, let’s look at that picture again.

What’s going on there? Are those . . . new countertops I see? Is that a yellow wall back there? What is going on?! Well, consider this a tiny preview. We are still working on things. But I thought maybe this picture might tide you over for now.

This morning, Mike was in the front yard and someone pulled up. He introduced himself and said that he was the son-in-law of the woman who lived here for a long time. He and Mike made some small talk about the house and some of the improvements we have done. At the end of the conversation, he said that if we had any questions about the house, we could feel free to let him know and he would be glad to help us out if he could.

How long before we can ask the following questions:

1. What is UP with the wallpaper?
2. What was UP with the brick/paneling combination in the sunroom?
3. Seriously, what is UP with the kitchen/den combo and the godawful carpet?
4. Can someone please explain the light fixture that looked like a UFO?
5. Why would anyone cover perfectly nice hardwood floors in some boring beige carpet?
6. Why would anyone pair boring beige carpet with cream colored walls and trim?
7. How old, exactly, was the fixture on the fan in the sunroom?
8. Who painted the cabinets white? With yellow accents? And why?
9. Please explain the pink sponge painting in the middle bedroom.
10. Baby blue for a master bedroom? Really?
11. And, finally, why does the sunroom have eight doors that lead nowhere? WHAT IS UP WITH THE INVISIBLE DECK?

Those are . . . just off the top of my head. I am betting I could come up with more. Oh, wait! One more!

12. How come we have so many light switches that don’t do ANYTHING?

My favorite part is that the guy saw the cabinets on the outside of the house and said, “Wow, you weren’t kidding about redoing the kitchen. You must be loaded.” It was probably not in the best of taste for him to say that, but Mike said he seemed like a nice guy, a good old boy who didn’t mean it in an offensive way. So he said the only thing he could possibly say. “Well. We don’t have kids.”

Today is a sick day. I woke up in the middle of the night with a really sore throat. My throat is feeling better now, but I have had a headache all day, even after taking Advil. Mike, however, painted (most of) our kitchen a nice cheerful yellow. (Kitchen update: We still have to scrape and sand the parts of the kitchen where there was wallpaper, and we have to touch up the fireplace where it got some cement on it. The floor needs to be sealed and the countertops will hopefully be installed this week.) And that reminds me of some advice I have been wanting to give my single readers, because all summer long, Mike has been on top of things. He organized the move, he took care of the mortgage paperwork, he stayed on the phone with the people who were building our cabinets, he has talked to lawyers and realtors and contractors and he is awesome. I was basically dead weight, is what I am telling you. I did some painting and some unpacking and some taking down of wallpaper. He was the one with the vision. I was the one with the lists. He was the one with the positivity that everything was going to come together. I was the one who, at times, just wanted to curl up in the fetal position and escape from the massive amount of work to be done. He was the one with endless energy. Sometimes I was a little bit lazy. He kept us organized and sane. And he stayed on top of meals. And you know how important meals are to me. My contribution was basically staying on top of the laundry. Which is important when you are painting, because suddenly all the rags you own are covered in paint.

So, single readers, here is some serious advice. If you, like me, get overwhelmed at large projects, marry someone like Mike, who has those gifts that I do not. And then make him lots of pie to keep him cheerful. And make sure he has clean socks. You guys will be the perfect team!

But you can’t have him. You have to get your own Mike. I still have some things around the house that I need this Mike to do.

Dear House,

Hi! It’s been nice to get to know you the past few weeks. I hope you are happy with everything we have been doing. We’ve been trying to update your look. I think the makeover shows always use phrases like “update your look.” You will find out soon enough that I don’t really know anything about updating any look. But I hope you like your new cabinets and your new tile floor.

Here’s what I don’t understand, House. We’ve been doing all these nice things for you. So why have you made my brown belt disappear? Where is my brown belt? I know I had it when we moved in. But I can’t find it anywhere. Where have you hidden it? And when are you going to return it?

We can be friends, or we can be enemies. But either way, I want my belt.

I will retaliate if necessary,
Kari

—

Dear Jewelry Store That Must Not Be Named,

Do you know how many times we have been to you, jewelry store? To pick up my engagement ring that broke back in May? Five. Five times. Do I have my ring yet, jewelry store? I do not. You told me today that my ring should be in on Monday. Jewelry store, if my ring is not in on Monday, I may lose my mind and start screaming in front of all the pretty sparkly things. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to upset the pretty sparkly things. I just want my ring back, jewelry store. And I want it to look like it did when Mike gave it to me. Almost ten years ago. Is that so much to ask?

Ten years? That makes me feel kind of old,
Kari

—

Dear Family Members Who Have Fed Us and Done Our Laundry This Week,

Thank you. You saved our lives. And saved us from having to eat out again. And from having smelly clothes.

Want to help us unpack the kitchen . . . why are you walking away?
-Kari

—

Dear Big Bunny,

I know you have been in your cage for weeks and weeks now. I know. But we didn’t have a safe place in the house for you to jump around. And we’re sorry about the noise. It’s been noisy. You are a total trooper. We are going to let you jump around for a solid week to make up for it. (We know you will not actually jump around. You will probably sit in front of the TV and watch the swimming. Admit it.)

Also, we thought you would like that cabbage. Sorry it gave you so much gas.

You were kind of stinky,
Mama

PS: Have you seen my brown belt?

I am sorry, I do not have anything interesting to tell you today. I am too busy hanging out with delicious babies. Well, just one delicious baby. My cousin and his wife are here with their delicious baby in particular.

(We should have used the flash. But don’t worry, we will have the opportunity to try again.)

Today’s post is from Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, and is about something I’ve been pondering this summer, too: the balance between work and life. Like Amelia, I find that I am more productive when I have more to do. The first part of this summer was a little bit unproductive for me for that very reason, but I like to think that the second half of the summer was better, what with the painting, wallpaper stripping, and general mayhem of the house. This is the end of Amelia’s blog tour - the other posts are listed at the bottom!

—

I am often asked how I am able to juggle being a full-time writer, a full-time student, and a full-time human being with a social life. The truth is, that’s what I’ve always done—what I don’t know how to handle is too much free time. I always write more when I’m overscheduled and would swear I have no time at all than I ever do when I’m on vacation and have plenty of free hours. I wrote 300,000 word high-fantasy trilogy over my last two years of college, during which time I also went on exchange to Texas, directed two plays, edited Wyvernhail and Persistence of Memory (coming out this winter) for publication, applied to graduate school, studied for and took a major state exam for teacher licensure, and moved in with my significant other. (By the way, I’m now a college graduate, BA in English and Psychology, magna cum laude, and certified to teach English in Massachusetts to grades 5-8 and 8-12.)

So far this summer, since all that has been over? I think I’ve written four chapters, total, since June 1. I haven’t had enough to do to motivate me to fill every possible moment with something either useful or fun (or both). For NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), in November- one of the busiest months of the year for me- I’m capable of writing 50,000 words in a month, but I think if someone told me I had eternity to write and nothing else I needed to get done, I would never write another word, since I would always know I still had plenty of time.

Thankfully, in the next month, I have the next book to edit, a trip to Alaska to see a good friend who is also the heart of my writing group, and a trip to Maryland to see family, so I should have some anti-time in which to get some good work done.

—

You can find the rest of Amelia’s blog tour at the following sites:

July 22nd: Bildungsroman
July 24th: Cheryl Rainfield
July 25th: BookLoons
July 28th: Mrs. Magoo Reads
July 30th: Teen Book Review
July 31st: Making Stuff Up for a Living
August 4th: Bookwyrm Chrysalis
August 5th: The Reading Zone

One time, Mike and I were on an evening walk and we crashed Emily’s house. Because we live in her neighborhood and we can do that. Also, our house was probably a disaster at that point. (Who am I kidding, our house is a disaster at THIS point.) So we were running away to where people had things other than boxes to decorate their homes. We were sitting in this room and we discussed the question of whether they should have gas logs installed. And I didn’t really want to say anything, because I knew the commenters on that post were all, “Gas logs are of the devil!” But Mike and I really like having gas logs. I like being able to flip a switch and have a fire, especially on a cold winter Saturday morning. Now that our fireplace is in the kitchen, we will probably use it in a really different way, but I am still happy not to have to build a fire in order to get the benefits of a fire. I am a philistine. And happy to be so, if I get fire on demand. This is, I believe, very similar to my use of a plastic tree at Christmas. You can extol the virtues of a real tree, and I hear you. I understand what you are saying. But it still seems like too much work. My plastic tree can go up the day after Thanksgiving and stay there until New Year’s Day. My fake fire comes on when I feel a chill. I am okay with these choices.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you, then, that we basically scorn grilling on charcoal. Philistines that we are, when the topic of charcoal grilling comes up, we have been known to say things like, “We would like to eat dinner at a reasonable hour, not four hours from now.” But, at the beach house, there is only one grill, and it is charcoal. And three nights in a row, we forced Mike to wrestle with charcoal, lighter fluid, and . . . whatever else it is you need. I have only ever used a gas grill. I am the wrong person to ask. After those experiences, how does he feel about charcoal? He is resoundingly not in favor of it. As you can see in this picture. And also you can see how he looks at me when he cannot understand why I am taking his picture.

Luckily, his grilling skills are so advanced that everything was excellent, despite the tussle with charcoal. Added bonus: There was an excellent place for him to rest up after all that hard work.

When Mike and I went to New York, we had the kind of vacation where you run around and see things all day long. And also you stop in Starbucks a lot to get cold beverages and check your email. This vacation, though, was the kind my family is really good at: the lay around and do nothing kind. I read five books. Mike didn’t wear shoes for five days. We ate a lot of food, lounged in the hammock, played Settlers of Catan, and I even managed to get a little sun. (You wouldn’t be able to tell, but I can.) My family has spent a lot of vacations in that beach house. Myrtle Beach may be too touristy for some people, but that house is one of my favorite places, and we honestly didn’t really leave. Except to go buy more food. Things my family is good at: lounging and eating. There really ought to be Olympics in those things.

We came home with some excitement and trepidation, for, you see, our kitchen floor and cabinets were to be installed while we were gone. And, lo, we arrived at the house and I ran past the kitchen to the bathroom (as I do after long trips), blocking my view so I didn’t get a sneak peek. After relieving my bladder, I went to see what had transpired in our kitchen while we were lounging. And. Oh, my. Such a difference. The flooring is about 75% done, and the cabinets are in. We need our hardware to be installed on the cabinets (they had to consult us before doing anything, which is nice except for the fact that I haven’t got an opinion on things like that, so they should have just done whatever is standard instead of opening up the possibility that I might screw things up) and people are coming to measure for our countertop TOMORROW. And we will probably paint this weekend. I know what you are going to say, and, yes we will have some pictures for you soon. I caved and took some “before” pics of that room at least. So you will be able to marvel at the transformation. Which is what I need to get back to doing right now. Oh, my goodness.

I am taking classes at UNCG again this fall, and the bill needed to be paid by August 1st. And so, on July 31st, Mike logged into my account to pay so that I can continue to take classes so that I can keep my job so that we can continue to eat. Simple enough, right?

We couldn’t find the button to pay, so, clever people that we are, we did a little search and found the area we needed and tried to pay. But our payment was rejected. I called the cashier’s office and the woman I spoke to said, oh, they have been trying to get that taken down from the website (well, it is down, unless you know how to search for it) and she informed me that you can no longer pay your bill with a credit card at UNCG. Unless you want to pay a 2.75% service fee. (In fact, you cannot pay with a credit card at all if you actually go to the cashier’s office. But that is another story.) (And, yes, it said that on the actual bill I got, but it didn’t say it in the emailed bill I got, which was what I paid attention to.)

Now, 2.75% is one thing when it’s, say, the tax on the food that I buy at the grocery store. UNCG tuition and fees are considerably more than what I spend at the grocery store, though. This 2.75% is, therefore, also more than a couple of dollars. On my bill, for example, we would have paid approximately $45 at that rate. Apparently the costs of processing credit card payments have become so great that UNCG has outsourced its credit card processing. Maybe that is so, maybe the costs of credit card processing are too much, but I can’t help but feel that UNCG has taken a step backward. If students must register online and can take classes online, surely they ought to be able to pay online in the standard way. That is, with a credit card. (You can pay online with a “web check.” Which just seems silly. Plus, it would have been nice to get the credit card points.)

I hope this, along with the requirement that students are insured, makes the university the money it has been losing on credit card bills. As for me, I would prefer that they take my athletics fee or the fee for the Rec Center (that I use only a handful of times per semester) or even perhaps the registration fee and apply it to credit card processing so that I can pay online with a credit card without a fee and without a hassle.

I played poker with some friends from church last night. Our husbands play poker together from time to time, and we decided that girls can play poker, too. I know how to play poker, but I had some good hands early on, when we were being more conservative, and by the time we were getting more serious, well, I was tied for being the first one out. I said that when I went all in, I was going to stand up and pace, just like they do on TV. Unfortunately, no one really knew what I was talking about.

Next time, I’m wearing a visor. And some sunglasses. (As if that would help.)

If you thought the Beast (as Caro named it) was going to die a sad, unloved existence, well, you were wrong. We had planned on giving it to Habitat, but it turns out that they didn’t want it. I can’t imagine why. Not wanting to throw the Beast away, we turned to Craigslist. We are not big Craigslist people, mostly because we don’t have the time for it. It always seems like one of those things you have to stay on top of, and I have enough internet things to stay on top of already. But Mike decided to try listing the Beast, and in about ten minutes, he had an email about it. The next morning, someone came to pick it up. And lo, the Beast has left us forever. I can’t believe how fast it went. Or that anyone wanted the Beast at all. It takes all kinds in this world.

In the Beast’s place, we have this shiny new stove. I used it to bake a cake for my friend, and everything worked out just fine.

I know what you are going to ask. Why is that picture so crooked? I have no idea why I can’t do any better than that. I tried five times and then gave up.

I know what else you want to ask! Why, if we bought a new stove, didn’t we get a flat top? Why the coils? Well, we had a flat top range in our last house, and, to be frank, we hated it. I mean, it cooked okay (but just okay, I thought, because it wasn’t completely even), but we could never get it clean. And we cook a lot. So it was kind of a pain to either be cleaning it or leaving it dirty all the time. We wanted to do a gas range, but we didn’t want a gas oven (I read a lot of Sylvia Plath earlier this year, okay?) and so we decided that what would make us happiest was just to go old school and get the coils. So far so good.

And, um, hey! Check out our lack of flooring and cabinets! I don’t need those things to bake cakes, though. I scoff at flooring and cabinets. Especially countertops. I love not really having anywhere to work in the kitchen. I thrive on it, really. It’s the danger and excitement of taking something out of the oven and not really having somewhere to put it that I love the most. (Apparently, I also scorn planning ahead.)

We went and updated our library cards this week. We still had our old ones from when we used to live here, but the librarian shredded those and now we have shiny new ones to match our shiny new address. I remembered a few books that I had been wanting to read (this was quite an accomplishment, because I tend to walk in a library or bookstore and go totally blank, as if I have never heard of any books ever), so I went ahead and checked them out, and when we got home, I transported a bunch of books from my “to read” list into my library account so that I can look them up when I am at the library. Yay for technology! (I do wish they had email notification, though.)

I felt a little bit lost as I wandered the stacks, being on the “patron” side of the public library, not having access to all the new stuff right away. I like what I do now, but I miss knowing all the new books. I keep tossing around the idea that I should get a subscription to Library Journal just so I can read the reviews (and the articles, but I love the reviews). I love book reviews. They may be one of my vices. I am addicted to them. And there are other book review sources, but Library Journal is the Bible of book reviews as far as I am concerned.

Oddly enough, the day after we went to the library, I ended up back at my old library, visiting my old book club and the people I used to work with. They all asked me if I miss them, and I do. I was comfortable there, and happy, and of course I miss the people and the excitement (libraries can be exciting places, too) and knowing what was going on. I got home that night and cried a little bit about it (there are also big boxes full of our new cabinets in our living room, we have no floors in our kitchen, and our air conditioner was rattling, so I had lots of reasons for crying . . . can you say DISASTER ZONE?). I am happy with the road I chose. In fact, I think I have experienced more contentment and rest in the past month than I can remember in a long time. But it is okay to miss some things about my old life, too, and I feel blessed to be able to say that I do.

KARI: Have you seen that Feist Sesame Street video?

MIKE: No.

KARI: Oh, let me show it to you, it’s really cute.

MIKE: Okay.

KARI: Do you like Feist?

MIKE: Eh, she’s okay. Not really.

KARI: Here it is.

MIKE: *grins uncontrollably*

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I posted the video even though I am approximately the one billionth person to post it. That kind of cuteness needs to be spread around.

Alisa and I have had several conversations about the Super G Mart, and how we keep meaning to go. And then Mike called me from the Super G Mart, saying, “I am at this international food market on Market Street, and it is amazing!” I asked him if it was the Super G Mart, and he said he thought it was. He took me there on Sunday after church, and truly, it is amazing. There are great prices on the very fresh-looking produce (Big Bunny is thrilled at how cheap the cilantro is, because cilantro is her favorite) and meat, there is interesting international food (including international food with labels we cannot read), and there is international food we were already purchasing at other places, but that is cheaper and closer to our house than some of those other places. We are still trying to stick to local produce, so we didn’t get any of that right now, though I am sure we will at some point. We can’t always buy all of our produce from the Farmer’s Market, but in the summer, we might as well live it up. (As you can tell from how crazy we went on Saturday.) We got lots of beans, some Spanish olive oil (my mom brought home olive oil from Greece when she went on our trip and we can never be satisfied by store brand olive oil again), and some delicious olives, all for excellent prices.

And since our cabinets have been pulled out and we have no flooring in our kitchen, buying items to put in our pantry is exactly what we need to be doing, thanks for asking.

The electricians have been here getting things ready for our new kitchen. We also asked them to install new ceiling fans in our library room and our bedroom. Installing a fan in our bedroom is what’s called “saving our marriage.” Mike can’t have the air conditioner very low at night because it gives him a sore throat, but I sleep so much better when things are cool. In fact, we have decided that I basically never slept better than those winter months where our heat was broken. In the summer, this means I have to have a fan.

Our electrician is an old friend of my parents, someone who has known me since I was born. We asked him about installing overhead lights, and then went out and bought ceiling fans. “You bought fans?” he said. “Well, I don’t blame you.”

I looked at him sheepishly and said, “What can I say, I’m my father’s daughter.”

“Yes,” he said, “that’s exactly what Ray would have done.”

—

Today we went a little crazy at the Farmer’s Market. Ready?

2 green peppers for a total of $1.50
1 jalapeno for free
1 bag of pita bread for $2.00
2 sweet onions for $1.75
1 bag of green beans for $1.25
2 (big) bags of basil for a total of $5.00 (we’re making a lot of pesto and freezing it for winter)
2 summer pattypan squash for $2.00
2 German Johnson tomatoes (looooove) for $2.90
Total: $16.40

(My intention was not to tell you about the Farmer’s Market every week, for the record. Just when we bought something different or unusual. This week’s unusual offering is the pattypan squash.)

(Also, in fairness to Melissa, this week’s article in the Scenes of Summer series was about yard sales. She was not, however, featured.)

Somehow or another, some of our pictures didn’t make it online, and we didn’t realize it until yesterday afternoon. So I want to point out a few things, like this sign at Prospect Park:

Mike, in that way that he does, nudged me so I would notice the sign. Because he likes to get me riled up about things. BUT WHAT IF I WANT TO BRING MY BARBECUE INTO THE PARK? WHAT THEN, PROSPECT PARK? GO AHEAD, TRY AND STOP ME! YOU WILL RIP THIS PULLED PORK OUT OF MY COLD DEAD HANDS! (I actually do think this sign is a little odd. I would think it would be “barbecuing.” Which is what other similar signs said. But this is further evidence that the word “grilling” is superior, because there is no confusion.)

Also, because I like this picture, here I am at Prospect Park:

Okay, now I will resume the regularly scheduled recap! On Thursday we went in search of New York City’s best burgers. Mike’s list, obviously. We decided to try The Burger Joint, and we were not disappointed. From there, we hiked up to the Met to purchase Alisa’s half birthday present: the William stapler. Alisa’s half birthday is close to my birthday, and somehow or another we got started exchanging presents for half birthdays as well as regular birthdays. I knew I wanted her present to come from New York, and she loves hippos. Yay, William! (I gave her the stapler already, so it’s okay for me to post this.)

From there, we headed over to the American Museum of Natural History (Mike’s list). I am going to be honest – I was not completely jazzed about going to the museum until I realized that this is where they have the dinosaurs. (I have clearly never seen A Night at the Museum.) I have a freakish love of dinosaurs. In fact, I was a little overly excited. As you can tell in the pictures.

When I was very small, my mother made me a stuffed stegosaurus for Christmas. His name was Diney. I loved him very much and slept with him for years and years. He hasn’t fallen apart, but he’s pretty threadbare (or, as I like to say, real). This picture is for my mom.

Mike and I had a bit of a disagreement about the dinosaurs. I said that I like to imagine that they were purple. And he did not think that was the smartest thing I had ever said. His argument is that if they were purple, they would have stood out and been easily killed. Well, they’re all extinct, aren’t they? Game, set, match. Besides, as the AMNH will tell you, no one really knows what color they were.

(So we should just use our imaginations.)

Thursday was so hot, you guys. By the time we got to the meteorites, I was basically done with everything.

My legs were shaking and I probably hadn’t had quite enough water. So we went back to our hotel to recover before going to Otto, Mario Batali’s pizza place (Kari’s list). A few years ago, I read Heat, and this restaurant was opened during the time that book talks about, so I thought I’d like to see it. Plus, Smitten Kitchen said it was the best pizza she’d ever had. And we all know that I trust her judgment. The thing about Otto . . . well, Mike kept saying, “I don’t understand this place.” The atmosphere is weird – it’s really loud. And there were people of all ages there. But it also felt upscale, though the prices were very reasonable. The food, though, was really awesome. Seriously good stuff. The olive oil gelato? Lives up to the hype. Oh. My. Gosh. I would go there again, just for that. The pizza I had was great, too, and the cheese was wonderful, and Mike’s spaghetti alla carbonara was very tasty. But the gelato . . . so good.

Friday was our last full day in New York. First we went down to Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village. This is from both our lists, because as a good Simon & Garfunkel fan, I wanted to see Bleecker Street, and Mike wanted to see the Village. Also, he had a black and white cookie. For Scott.

We walked around, had some pizza, and didn’t quite make it to Magnolia’s. Then we headed up to The Strand (Kari’s list). I got a tote bag, one with stripes that does not appear to be on their site. Lucky magazine recommended this one, but I don’t think I’m a toile kind of girl. (I asked Mike, “Am I stripes or toile?” and he was emphatic that I’m stripes. Sorry, toile.) Then we did another thing from my list, which was that we made our pilgrimage to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Mike wanted to see it, too, actually, but just because of the architecture. I wanted to see it because it was Madeleine L’Engle’s church, and for a while she was writer-in-residence there. It was amazing, and it must be quite an experience to attend a service there. I would like to do that sometime.

And then, for dinner, we went to Serendipity 3. I know, it’s kind of a hassle, and it’s such a touristy thing, but the food was pretty good (I had the black bean burger), and the frozen hot chocolate really was delicious. And now I can cross it off my list.

After getting cleaned up, we went back out to the theater to see Avenue Q (Mike’s list). Interestingly, he enjoyed this one more, but I’d have to say that I enjoyed Spring Awakening more. It was funny, though, and I am glad we saw it.

Saturday morning we did another touristy thing and went to BB King’s to see the Beatles tribute band Strawberry Fields. And you know what? I had a lot of fun. It was silly, but the music was good. They were really serious about it – I have a t-shirt that someone gave me that has a picture of the Beatles and says Vox: Sound of the Longhairs. I noticed that the guys were even using Vox speakers. And of course they dressed up, changing costumes throughout the show to represent the different eras of Beatles music. We had a silly fun time, and left very full and singing Beatles songs.

And that was the end! The end of our time in Manhattan. It was a fun, full week of things we had been wanting to do, and it was so fun to share all of it with Mike. Next time we go, we are going to be Brooklynites, because there are tons of Brooklyn things that we want to do. We also enjoyed our time on Long Island very much (look, I have learned: ON Long Island), and I deeply regret that I didn’t get a picture of Mike with Mary Ann, his second mom, who couldn’t have been more welcoming or friendly. The only time I had ever met her was the weekend of our wedding, so it was nice to spend time with her and hear her stories and eat her meatballs (DELICIOUS). And we ate cannolli and we grilled out (I had her saying “grilling” by the end of the weekend) and we had pizza from Mike’s favorite Holbrook place.

Our last morning in Manhattan, Mike and I saw a newscast that was talking about whether couples can spend too much time together. We looked at each other kind of shifty eyed and then decided to watch the report, which said the usual things about communication and making sure each person has the down time that he or she needs. We have spent an unprecedented amount of time together this summer, and I was a little nervous about it, but we have each had our outlets, so I’d have to say that overall? It’s been awesome. And our vacation was a great example of that.

When Mike and I decided to go to New York for our vacation-slash-anniversary, we made lists of the things we wanted to do. I have been to New York more than Mike has, so I had done some of the things that he wanted to do. And, as expected, many of the things on my lists came from books. But we managed to come up with some ideas, and Mike made a great spreadsheet for us. And then he had to take his computer in to be fixed. And we didn’t have a copy of the spreadsheet. So we had to recreate it from memory. We forgot a few things. But we did our best.

Our first night in New York, Mike and I took the subway out to Brooklyn to attend the free New York Philharmonic concert at Prospect Park. The people at our hotel acted as if we were going to the moon. Brooklyn, did you say? I am not exactly sure how you would get there from here. So we figured it out on our own, thankyouverymuch. We had dinner at Dizzy’s, which was the first place we found to eat. Since we weren’t coming from our house, we didn’t have a blanket. Note to self: At outdoor concerts, offer to share your blanket with poor souls who forgot theirs. We still had a lovely time: the music was beautiful, and it was our anniversary eve and the city obliged with fireworks for us at the end of the concert. It did feel a bit like everyone knew each other and we had happened upon a giant get-together we hadn’t actually been invited to, but it managed to have Mike scheming ways for us to move to Brooklyn. He clearly forgot that we just bought a house. That still needs some work. Either that or he was trying to push me over the edge. We were able to vote for our choice for the encore by texting, so Mike explained texting to the wonderful Brooklyn grandmothers sitting behind us. The best part of the whole thing is that one of the Brooklyn grandmothers behind us got “discovered” that night. Someone from some kind of modeling agency said they wanted her for an ad. They told us they were legit as if it was going to make some kind of difference to her, so apparently they thought we were related. We gave our permission and then blatantly eavesdropped on the conversation. It was hilarious to hear the ladies talk about it after the modeling agency person had left: the newly discovered grandma promised not to forget her friends after she became famous. She said she’d text them.

On our actual anniversary, we hiked up to Central Park so that I could finally see the zoo (Kari’s list). On the way, we passed the library (Kari’s list) so that I could visit the lions, walked through the set-up for the All-Star parade, and saw the Plaza.

Also, we got a little lost in the park, but finally, we got to see the penguins. The penguins, you guys! I am not sure I have ever actually seen penguins before. They were adorable with their rock-hopping and their swimming. Mike took about one billion photos of them, which you can see on our Flickr page. We also saw some polar bears, the Delacorte clock (Kari’s list), and then headed back to the hotel so that Mike could have a nap before going to dinner. Dinner was at Sangria 46, a tapas restaurant (yes, yes, go ahead and make your jokes about how we went to a topless restaurant for our anniversary). We had early reservations before the show, so we had the restaurant all to ourselves. We ate at weird times all week long. But it was nice to pretend that Mike had reserved the entire restaurant for us for our anniversary. Like Benny and Jack in Circle of Friends.

We had bacon wrapped shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, lamb, and vegetables. I insisted on some vegetables. Oh, and sangria. Of course. It was all really great. It was also very close to a restaurant my aunt used to take me, Joe Allen. We did not make it back to Joe Allen to see if the burgers were as good as I remembered.

We saw Spring Awakening (Mike’s list: Broadway show; Kari’s list: Spring Awakening), which I had heard a lot about, and I enjoyed it, though it felt a little overwrought, like some young adult novels feel. One thing I had heard was that it was good for people who work with teenagers, and I would agree with that, because it captured that feeling of being a teenager, of having the world in front of you and being very confused about it all, and of running up against authority. It’s good to be reminded of what teens are going through. I think my expectations were a little bit too high at the time, but now I look back and think, “That was pretty awesome.” I would like to get the soundtrack at some point.

Wednesday we only had one thing on our agenda: LETTERMAN. (This is not actually true, because first we went to Ground Zero – Mike’s list - so we could see what things look like down there, and then we began our love affair with Pret a Manger. But it sounds good to be that passionate, right? LETTERMAN! WOOO! The thing is, usually we are too old and tired to stay up that late anymore. Our Letterman fandom is actually more in the past.) The week before we left, we got the call that we had scored the tickets.

This was something that Mike had always wanted to do (and thus, Mike’s list), and it was really fun to see all the energy that Dave had during commercial breaks. I will have to say that it wasn’t Dave’s best show ever (the next night seemed a little bit more loose), but it was still very cool to actually be there. Dave! Paul! Biiiiiiiiiff! (And Mike was happy to catch a glimpse of Stephanie.) We were in the balcony on the side and thus never actually on camera. I just checked the TiVoed episode to see. You will just have to believe that we were there without any actual evidence. Sorry.

Between the time we had to show up to pick up our tickets and the time that we actually had to be there for the taping, we went to Lindy’s so that Mike could have some cheesecake (Mike’s list: He’s a big Guys and Dolls fan, and he wanted some Mindy’s/Lindy’s). That night, we ate at the restaurant across the street from our hotel, The Crooked Knife. Mike had shepherd’s pie for the first time, so I suppose you could say that was from his list. His life list. There was a man at the next table who was obviously a regular there, and he told us that he works for the Miss America pageant (or maybe a different one, but it was one of the big ones) and asked me how I keep my hair so healthy looking. He said he wished all of his girls had hair like mine. If he was pulling my leg, I just don’t care. Between him and the Brooklyn grandmothers (who called me “gorgeous”), New York was good for my self esteem. But, anyway. The Crooked Knife. We liked the food here, and we really liked the walk home. Why couldn’t everything be across the street?

Next up: dinosaurs, cathedrals, puppets, and The Beatles!

Here is a special Wednesday edition of Farmer’s Market Finds! They are open on Wednesdays during the summer. And, hoo boy, the Farmer’s Market is in its prime right now. Look at all the colors. My mom would be so proud. (She loves food with color.)

(Also, look at our old countertops there. Because those suckers are on their way out.)

I didn’t actually go to the Farmer’s Market this morning. Mike went by himself. When I go by myself, I come back with three things. When he goes alone, he comes back with a veritable feast. Here are our totals: three tomatoes, two bunches of basil (of course), and two yellow zucchini for $6.25. Two peaches for $.95. One ear of corn (I don’t like corn) for $.50. One head of cabbage for $.65. And he splurged on a red pepper for $2.00. Total for today: $10.35.

(I went by my school yesterday to do some things, and a few people were like, “Hey, I saw you in the paper. Did you get your basil like you wanted?” Heeeee.)

Mike and I are on Long Island today. (I wrote “in Long Island” and Mike, the Long Islander, corrected me. I am from the South. I don’t know how to speak here.) We had a great week in Manhattan, which I will tell you about later. It involved a lot of food. And making decisions about food. And planning where we would eat our next meals. We take food very seriously. Which is okay, because we walked approximately 3,000 miles while we were in Manhattan. I wore flip flops one day. When we got back to our hotel, the bottoms of my feet were black. That is a true (and gross) story. I stuck to the Chucks after that. Even when I was wearing shorts. I did not, however, allow Mike to take any pictures of the Chucks/shorts combo. That I know of. I have not yet reviewed the pictures. If there are any, you will not get to see them. Sorry. It was not my best look. I don’t need to be made to look any shorter than I already am.

For the weekend, we went to Long Island, where Mike grew up. We stayed at his “second Mom’s” house and I got to see where he grew up and meet some of his old friends. We get to see where I grew up all the time, since my mom still lives there. We are surrounded by people who know my growing up stories. But Mike doesn’t really have that, and I think both of us miss it sometimes.

When Mike graduated, our pastor said something to his sister about the courage that it takes to reinvent yourself, and how he admires Mike for that. I thought about that this weekend, how different Mike’s life is now than it was twenty years ago when his family left Long Island, ten years ago when we were meeting, five years ago when he was starting to plan to go back to school. But he’s also the same person who lived on Long Island, walked to the grocery store for candy bars, ate pizza at Mamma Lombardi’s. We reinvent ourselves, but the past is still there, too, part of who we are. I enjoyed being introduced to the Long Island part of Mike. Even if everyone made fun of the fact that I say “grilling” instead of “barbecuing.” (Barbecue is a noun, okay? It is a specific food.)

Dear Jeff,

Mike and I observed you purchasing burgers for your office Thursday at The Burger Joint, home of New York City’s best burgers (according to some polls, and also according to us). Jeff, had you been to The Burger Joint before? Because one or two things you said made it sound like you had, but you seemed to be very confused about the protocol. I don’t know how to say this nicely, Jeff, but you were pissing off everyone who worked there. Did you really think it was necessary to ask for a receipt seven times? I am a little bit concerned for you, Jeff. Have you ever watched the show The Office? Because