You're Welcome.

Dear body, I've been getting incredible hankerings for vegetables as of late. You may have noticed you're digesting an increased amount of spinach, avocado, zucchini, bell pepper, peas, and heirloom tomatoes (as well as a healthy dose of crumbled goat cheese). You're so very welcome. Sincerely, me. 

Ahoy

Tonight, a tribute to my family. Our Saturday night tradition of fish n' chips, 35 miles removed. None of Papala's homemade fries, no tartar sauce, and no family sitting on barstools at the island, but plenty of nostalgia for home.  

Reclaiming Territory

After three weeks of school putting me in a slump, I have felt a revival these past fews days. Maybe it has been the clean snow blanketing my eyes and mind from the dirt and dead. Perhaps a full eight hours of sleep every night has been doing me good. More likely, however, is the fact that I have been acknowledging the longings of my soul. Starting each morning with a mug of tea and a bowl of oatmeal, fresh berries and nuts. Taking walks to one of my favorite views, overlooking Portage Bay and gazing upon the backside of Capital Hill, featuring houseboats, beautiful homes, evergreens and the top of the Space Needle. Getting my relational and aesthetic fix, taking late-night strolls in pristine whiteness and going on outings with warm and gentle-spirited friends. Reasserting myself in the kitchen, making dinners chock full of vegetables, and counteracting my goodness by baking decadent double chocolate banana bread (which let's be real is more like cake). Taking charge of my creative impulses and painting ceramics. Escaping to Paris via film. Balance for this self-admitting academic perfectionist can be a struggle, but it is absolutely necessary.

Sigh.

I am so sick of reading day and night. Tragically, we've only just headed into week three of the quarter. Woe is me. Having skipped out tonight on the insanity that is The Bachelor, opting instead to read about existentialism and postwar Europe (which let me tell you is equally disturbing), it's now 10:30 and I really haven't given myself a break. Naturally one of the first things that comes to mind is, "I'm going to make rice pudding." Let me give you a little visual. Me in my red and white pj pants of a deer and winter flower pattern, mismatched with a yellow University of Washington hooded sweatshirt. I've got my left knee bent with my foot propped up against my inner right thigh. Imagine a flamingo, if you will. Anne Hathaway is running all over Manhattan in couture and swinging on lampposts in Paris on my laptop screen. And here I am in my kitchen ladeling milk into a saucepan of arborio rice. My day will come, right?

Enchanted

"Oh no. Chelsea, your place is closed!" A sudden crank of the head to behold a vacated storefront. Momentary disappointment in what would be an altogether delightful and upbeat trip to Pike Place Market with friends. Behold the cartoon lightbulb that pops above my head. "Wait a second, no, no, I called them two hours ago to ask if they take debit." False alarm! My eyes recognize the sign suspended from concrete rafters. Piroshky Piroshky. A few steps closer and the faint whisper of sweetness and spice grow more aromatic. Resultantly, my stomach has also grown a little bit hungrier. Halt. 


Rows among rows of dough speckled with edible treasures entice me, while the warmth of hot ovens and the scent of sweet bread, cinnamon, and cardamon gently lure me into this tiny space that practically pushes me and the hoard of eager customers up against the glass case. There are so many choices, and being of an indecisive nature I learn to go with gut and tradition. "One rhubarb piroshky please." It's still warm. I gently pull it out of the paper bag, revealing a light dusting of powdered sugar, which is now all over my fingers. Starting to eat it rather quickly, I recall my favorite books and slow it down. I was charmed by little girls living in New York City during the first decade of the 20th century. They were poor, yet enchanted by the simple pleasure of making the delicious tang of a dill pickle last as long as they could while bartering for deals for Mama on market day. I too must make my little pie oozing with custard and soft rhubarb last for as long as I can. 


There are shouting vendors all along the way, each claiming to have the most flavorful Pink Ladies, the freshest salmon, or the best organic goat cheese. Cobblestones are uneven beneath my feet, and aged lampposts line the way. Whether I am in 21st century Seattle or early 20th century Brooklyn I cannot be quite sure. My mind has run away with fanciful illusions of an age more golden than this; a time when joy in simplicity was key to happiness and necessity was the mother of invention. I need not wish to have been there, because my imagination can take me there at any time. 

Square One

Two weeks later, and back to square one. It's a bleak midwinter's day, but I feel cheery nonetheless. The sidewalks are abustle with students donning brand new cold weather accessories and armed with Starbucks. Walking home from class I find myself relishing in the warmth of my rust, long, belted peacoat, hands in pockets, and inhaling the cigarette smoke trailing behind the woman walking in front of me. Whether it's the excitement in the fresh start a new quarter brings or the stimulants doing the talking, everyone seems to be light of foot and merry. I am determined to make this mood last throughout the quarter. Burrowed beneath my polka-dot down comforter, hands wrapped around a mug of Earl Grey, in my bed nestled between three walls and a low ceiling amid soft lighting, I am cozy and content.