Yesterday, I decided to try puff pastry again. Some history of my experience with puff pastry is in order. This history can be summed up by one word: disaster. Disaster on several fronts, actually: disaster in the making of the pastry, which was caused by another, unrelated personal life disaster that interrupted the process at a crucial moment.

Having spent six hours on croissants that turned out rather bricklike, I was forever traumatized and resigned to eating the sort of pastry that comes in a box stuffed full of partially hydrogenated oils (but is still, oddly enough, vegan.)

But yesterday, I rustled up a nice big batch of courage and decided to give it another go. I used the recipe for croissants on the King Arthur Flour website, since they have never steered me wrong before, and substituted a pound (yes, a pound of Earth Balance for the pound of butter called for. Also, since I only had bread flour and no all-purpose, I used two cups of bread flour and two cups of pastry flour to come to some sort of nice mid-level gluten content.

The process takes all day. I don't mean actively all day, but you do have to pay brief attention to the dough every fifteen minutes to half-hour, so you can't really go anywhere. You're making 729 individual layers of flour and butter, after all. It's a bit time-consuming.

After each turn, I put the dough back into the refrigerator with increasing levels of anxiety, acutely aware that each successive handling was more time down the drain if the pastry failed to, well, puff. Finally, I completed the last turn. I rolled the pastry out. I shaped it into croissants that lacked somewhat in the beauty department, though I got better as I rolled more. (For a visual, the first batch looked rather like Cylon raiders, the second more like the round crescent that gives the croissant its name.)

As they baked, I stopped myself from peeking into the oven, terrified that they would be the rock-hard cowering siblings of my first attempt. Fifteen minutes at 425, and I turned the oven down to 350 as instructed, still without peeking. Another ten minutes, and I opened it to find...beautiful, puffy, melt-in-your-mouth croissants. I said, "Eee!" out loud, because I am that much of a dork, and set them on a rack to cool while I cooked the rest. Then I put them in a basket to bring to work, and everyone ate them and loved them, and it was good. The end.

Epilogue: Next week on my "bring baked goods to Friday bussing shifts" extravaganza, I am planning either mini cinnamon buns (ooooh) or mini doughnuts (if my pan arrives). Either way, I am excited.

As a few members of my fanbase (ha!) have pointed out, I have been rather negligent with regards to LJ updates lately. Rather than ramble through the standard litany of excuses, I will tell you about a miracle that just occurred in my mouth. It is called anadama bread. (Last Saturday, a miracle occurred called pain à l'ancienne, but we will either get into that later or not get into that at all except to say that it was beautiful, crusty, creamy, and soon became dipped in oil and eaten.)

You may have noticed a theme to these miracles. Namely, that they are bread. What you may not know is that they are bread from an astonishing book called The Bread Baker's Apprentice, which I have been carrying with me to bust out and read everywhere despite the fact that it weighs about two hundred pounds. If you are at all interested in bread, you need to buy it.

But back to the miracle of Today. Today, I slept in. I meandered into the kitchen. I mixed up enough experimental batter for two blueberry-maple-spelt muffins because I wanted them but didn't want to bother with trying to find a recipe. (They turned out delicious.) And then I turned to the project of the day: taking the cup of cornmeal and half-cup of water I'd begun soaking the day before, and turning them into bread.

I'd started with this recipe because I wanted a nice, enriched sandwich bread that didn't have eggs or butter in it so I didn't have to work around substitutions. The one in the book, which uses shortening and molasses, fit the bill perfectly. And I was intrigued by the possible flavor combinations you could get out of cornmeal and molasses, both of which figure heavily into the wonderful mouthfeel of cornbread.

Mostly, though, I liked the story of the name: "A Rockport, Massachusetts man...was upset with his wife not only for leaving him, but also for leaving behind only a pot of cornmeal mush and some molasses. The angry husband tossed the mush and molasses together with some yeast and flour and muttered, 'Anna, damn 'er!' This was later amended by the more genteel local Yankees, as they retold the story, to anadama."

Really, how could I not make this bread?

This recipe requires two days. On day one, you start soaking coarse-ground cornmeal in water to soften it slightly. On day two, you mix in some flour and yeast for a sponge, leave that sit for a while, mix some more flour and knead, leave that proof for a while, form the dough into a 1.5 pound loaf, leave that proof for a while, and finally bake it. It's not a short process. I mixed the sponge, cleaned up a bit, and took a shower. Then I mixed in the rest of the flour, and started kneading. Here was where things got a little ugly. Kneading dough full of coarse-ground cornmeal is sort of like kneading sandpaper. It was hardly noticeable at first, but after about five minutes, my hands started to burn. After the full ten minutes, there was that slight ache you get from kneading underneath a raging rebellion from the heels of my hands. The dough was pretty, though, and passed the windowpane test, and tasted good, so I figured we were good to go. I did the whole proof-wait-loaf part, and went for a run while it rose the second time.

(Aside: I have recently purchased both a wonderful pair of gloves at deep discount and a fuel/hydration belt. This combination of things makes running in the Wisconsin winter quite pleasant. Except when you get lost and run the wrong way for like three miles and end up somewhere no one speaks English and have to ask in your extremely bad Spanish, "Donde esta....Capital?" and everyone stares at you like you're a crazy person, which you probably look like with your belt and your stupid non-winter-appropriate gloves.)

Got home, stuck the loaf in the oven, flipped it around after 20 minutes, baked another 20, and took it out.

It smelled wonderful: dark and complex and sweet, and even though you're supposed to wait an hour before cutting it, I couldn't wait. I sliced off one end and took a big bite.

Miraculous. Really, truly, miraculous bread. The sort of bread that inspires poets and religion. It's chewy, and sweet, with that nutty taste you get in very good cornbread and a slight crunch from the corn. It's going to make wonderful toast and sandwiches; I'm rather excited about both.

I will allow myself a moment of contentedness, here, warm in my chair under my down comforter with Rhea curled in a tight ball of fur on my lap. But only a moment, for tomorrow, I am planning croissants!

I haven't cooked in a while. I mean, I've thrown things in a pan or boiled water for pasta with various toppings, or made toast. But I haven't felt that urge to really make food that isn't bread for about three weeks.

In the spirit of this not-cooking, today I made kitchen sink chili--everything you have in a pot with some beans and cumin--and it was awesome.

South of the Border (With Canada) Chili

serves 2-4 (depending on: whether you also bake cornbread, how many boys are involved, and how much you sneak out of the pot while it's simmering.)

1 small yellow onion, diced
3 stalks celery, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 anaheim peppers, chopped
1 tsp walnut oil
1 15-oz can pinto beans
1 15-oz can unseasoned diced tomatoes
1/2 cup refried beans
1 cup water (or stock, if your pantry's in better shape than mine)
1-2 Tbsp cumin
1 tsp chili powder (or to taste--mine's really hot)
1 tsp chipotle
2 tsp cinnamon
2 Tbsp dark chocolate chips

Note: I find that when I use canned beans, I don't need to add salt, since the only pintos I can find come pre-salted. If you're using unsalted beans, or making beans from scratch (look at you, getting all fancy!), you may want to add salt to taste.

1. Saute onion, celery, garlic, and peppers with oil in the bottom of a large pan until onions are translucent (about 5-7 minutes.)

2. Add the rest of the ingredients, adjusting spices to taste. Bring to a boil, then simmer for 20+ minutes (the longer the better), adding water or stock as necessary to prevent sticking. Serve immediately.

Between Pop Deluxe and Brocach, I'm now working an average of four days a week. Since my shifts at Brocach don't start until 4:30 or later, I'm basically working two days a week. It's really nice. I've figured out how to make ends meet and have lots of free time to explore things I didn't have time for before.

It turns out that you can really only waste about six hours a day at the gym, watching TV, or staring into space. Even factoring in a luxurious eight hours of sleep every night, this still leaves ten hours basically unaccounted-for.

So, as is my tendency, I've pitched myself headfirst into a new, intentionally time-consuming hobby: bread-baking.

I've spent the last week reading everything I can find on yeast, flours, kneading, creating sponges and starters and batters. I've baked spelt bread, started a sourdough, made three kinds of biscuits (one yeast-risen), mastered English muffins and bagels, played around with adding whole grains, seeds, and nuts to basic lean loaves, and attempted yeast-risen pancakes only to find that they were too fluffy for my tastes--I like the sturdier spelt/whole wheat ones that have been a staple breakfast for the last six months or so. I have plans to take a crack at puff pastry that will hopefully not be interrupted at an inopportune moment like the last time I tried. Thin-crust pizza, dinner rolls, and fresh-corn cornbread have made their way onto the vague to-do list collecting at the back of my mind as I dust the shop for the trillionth time. Though they're not bread in the strictest sense, I've been meaning to try corn tortillas. And injera, once I'm sure I can afford teff. And veganized cheese puffs. And stuffed pancakes. And spicy peppercorn crackers.

By the end of this obsession (which, based on length of interest in previous obsessions, should happen either in about two months or when I die), my goal is not only to be able to make bread, but to be able to create bread, to understand it from the inside out.

And of course to have wicked strong forearms from all the kneading. Onward and upward, yo.

I GOT IN.

(Just as I'd convinced myself I didn't need to check obsessively every morning at 7:05 when they updated the website.)

This is a truly fantastic turn of events in what's otherwise been a bit of a rough start to the year.

I got in! And the lady said I had an "exceptionally strong application!" Aww. *basks*

High of thirty-seven degrees today. Above zero.

Which is merciful, because I'm hungover as hell this morning and not looking forward to the walk to work in about an hour. Why do I accept proffered PBRs? Why?

--

Since I've joined a gym, I've added quite a bit of strength training to my usual running.

Plus, running for more than an hour or so on a treadmill is kill-me-now boring, and I try to avoid it whenever possible, opting to stay in general maintenance shape and doing a lot of mile intervals and whatnot.

Yesterday, I took the weights on a chest fly up five pounds. Finished the set, put the weights back on the rack, and felt that great vibration you get in your whole upper body when you've pushed it juuuuust past where it wants to go.

Now, of course, it just feels like my pecs are out for murder, but they'll recover.

Strength work is really cool, though. It might be obvious to the point of idiotic to say that it makes me feel strong, but it does. It makes me focus on each individual muscle in my body, the way it interacts with tendons and ligaments and joints and other muscles, the way the whole system balances, the way my left biceps are slightly stronger than my right (I think from carrying huge stacks of books on my left hip for years), the way my right leg works harder if I let my left slack off. I even like how my hands cramp in warning if I start to get dehydrated while lifting, or the way I want to die two reps from the end of every single set of triceps dips, but do those last two anyway. And afterwards, when I've done so many squats and lunges that going up the three stairs to the locker room feels like climbing Everest, it's all worth it.

I realize I haven't posted here in a while.

This is because my life has been truly, stunningly boring.

My job bores the living shit out of me, though the occasional interesting customer makes up for that. I'm tired of having every mistake I make (and mistakes are rare) turn into an issue of whether or not my boss can trust me. I'm still learning. I've only worked there since the middle of October. Mistake does not equal breach of trust! Plus, I'm over that passive-aggressive shit, so I've decided not to respond to it, complain about it, worry about it, or bring it home with me. That's a big part of what made Borders such a traumatic experience. I don't need Borders 2.0.

I'm too poor to cook interesting things. I'm mostly too poor to go out and do the sorts of things that lead to stories on down the line. I haven't met anyone interesting, or done anything interesting, or fought anyone interesting. My life's in a holding pattern, which will (hopefully) break once I (hopefully) get into grad school.

On the plus side, I've managed to stay mostly out of the gossip mill at Brocach, and still really enjoy working there.

All right. Time to get up, make some spelt toast (omg spelt bread is SO GOOD and also the easiest thing of all time), eat a banana and a clementine, go to work, rinse, repeat ad nauseum.

Hope you all are having a better time of it, in your various winter hideaways.

Over the last few months, I've been working on becoming a better vegan. It's been a slow transformation, hindered by the ready availability of non-vegan cookies, a visit home to a rigidly omnivorous household, and Cafe Soleil croissants.

The first two, I mostly managed.

It's funny, though. The longer I've been living without animal products, the less I want them. I haven't craved eggs or butter for over a month. The only times that I craved them before that, I've come to realize, were times when I had been eating mostly raw vegetables without enough fat. When my dad made tomato sauce with italian sausage during my visit, it smelled absolutely delicious. But adding peppercorns, rosemary, garlic, oregano, thyme, and basil to regular tomato sauce? Smelled just as good when I tried it at home.

Even cheese has mostly lost its sultry charm. Yes, I still have to hustle past Fromagination on the square, but recently I managed to buy a gift certificate there without even tasting any cheese. (To make myself feel better, I bought spicy Moroccan crackers that were absolutely divine, and which I must attempt at home.) I do wish I had something that would melt properly atop soups during this rather brutal winter we've got going, but I've found avocados do quite well at creating the right mouthfeel. This is because both cheese and avocados consist primarily of fat, but we'll leave that be for now.

Anyway, what I'm saying is that I think I'm ready to be fully vegan + croissants.

Because those croissants have literally saved my life, and the once or twice a month I can afford them just isn't worth much moral anguish.

This year, it was almost 48 hours before my mom made me feel like such a total failure that I had to go hide in the bathroom and cry.

Next year, I'm shooting for 72.

Ah, family. At least I have lots of wine and cookies.

It's a new year. Huh.

I'm alive. I'm healthy. I've been spending the day (week, month, year) not-thinking about things to the point where I'm almost fully okay again. Where I can look the myself of a year ago in the face and think, Honey, ain't no man worth that. And mean it. And not wonder.

This time last year, I was drunk as hell and miserable and angry. (This was the pre-following HALT phase--no drinking while Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired.) I was about to leave the now-defunct Ram Head in search of pizza to stave off the hangover I knew I deserved. And I was pretending as hard as I've ever pretended, making myself make it okay. Fuck, that was an awful night.

Tonight, I'm pleasantly full, just a little tipsy, wistful. I ate a spicy tofu and vegetable soup for dinner, wearing my red cocktail dress and a vintage gold necklace my mom found at an antique store and gave me for Christmas. I drank a beer and then my parents and I drove all over creation in search of champagne, which I still don't like, but which I had two glasses of anyway. We watched It's a Wonderful Life and said all the lines along with the characters and laughed.

And you know what's funny? It's the best new years I've had in a long time. I mean, it wasn't breathtaking. It was me sitting on a couch with my parents. But I wasn't with friends who weren't friends anymore, I wasn't alone, waiting to have my heart broken, I wasn't trying so hard to fit into the wrong part of the puzzle. It was just me, and them, and a glass of champagne, and a movie about knowing that no matter what, no man is a failure who has friends

You make it worthwhile. Every day. I wish you health and hope and happiness in this coming year.

It's beautiful outside, crisp and snowing, the streets quiet like they never are. Coming home from Russell and Alana's tonight, I couldn't stop grinning, and started thinking back over the Christmases I've had these last few years.

Last year, Christmas was a pitiful thing with people who were no longer family. The year before, it was an event with a sheen of happiness that shattered every time I thought about the obvious: that I was about to lose all of it. Three years ago, it was a rushed thing at a truck stop between relatives, presents exchanged over hash browns and bacon. Four years ago, I was convinced I had made the biggest mistake of my life in moving to Madison in the first place, a conviction solidified by the visit home.

It's been a long while since I've really celebrated.

This year. This year I did. This year, I had things to celebrate, and people with whom I could simply talk and laugh and sit, silent and full. Their love fills the room. It's a joy to be around. It never makes you feel excluded or lonely, only part of something greater.

And I thought, walking back, that sometimes you have to face the cold awhile to find the places that make you think, home.

Merry Christmas!

I just found out that come January, I'm losing about half my hours.

I tried to explain to my manager in a calm, patient, and even tone of voice that this means that I'll probably be evicted from my apartment around mid-March.

Obviously, this will not happen, because I will find some way to make things work. Because I always find some way to make things work. Because I'll eat fucking 6-for-$1 Ramen and stop getting a glass of scotch on Wednesdays and cancel my gym membership and probably lose text messaging on my phone, Netflix, and the general ideas of breakfast and dinner. Because I won't buy my sister the pair of earrings I know she'd love or Justin's stunningly perfect Christmas present. I won't go see Sherlock Holmes in theaters. I mean, I've been living such a luxurious life that cutting expenses should be pretty simple, right?

I asked for health insurance for Christmas from my parents, so maybe I'll at least be able to stay on my birth control, but who the fuck knows. I should call Planned Parenthood and get that sorted.

I'm just so tired.

But tonight was a good night, among good people, and tomorrow will be a good day among good people as well. And I shouldn't be raining on your Christmases (though Wisconsin seems pretty determined to rain for the next good while). You are all awesome people. And in ten minutes, central time, Merry Christmas!

ETA: I forgot, in my stress, to mention that something wonderful also happened today. Something breathtakingly wonderful. That's all I have to say about it until I see how it plays out, but it means I can breathe, and smile, and hope that somehow things will be all right.

Cleaning house. Got Leadbelly cranked and light streaming in the windows, reflected in all directions by the snow.

Realized yesterday that you can fall out of love. I didn't know that before. It was a bad feeling and a good feeling all mixed up together and I sat staring at my Christmas tree lit up in its corner for a while, trying to sort it out.

I guess it's freeing.

I have a cute beret. It makes me feel very metropolitan.

Soon, now, my apartment will shine like a new day's promise.

--

The morning raises ghosts from the lake.
They gain the shores to curl back
formless. Beyond, the whitewashed trees
with slender branches shivering
in wait for the swell of spring.
And here they creak and sing
under the weight of winter
and do not fear their becoming.

It's been a long few days. On Tuesday after work, I stopped to help a woman dig her car out on Wilson and slipped when the car caught and jerked forward, smashing my kneecap into the concrete. I spent all night freaking out about possibly having fractured my kneecap, because I have no insurance and having to deal with that would make it impossible for me to do anything except pay medical bills for the next ten years. Obviously, I hadn't fractured my kneecap, and after some ice and Ibuprofen I could stand and move around. This did not put me in the best mood to get notice that we weren't opening the shop on Wednesday. I mean, it's nice not to have to work, but it's nicer to get paid.

Also, my GRE scores have ended up god-knows-where because of some royal fuckup on someone's part that I am too tired to try and figure out.

Also, boys are fucking idiots.

With all of this in mind, I set out for work this morning in a less-than-stellar mood. I bought coffee from Espresso Royale, which I had forgotten not to do, and which was bad enough to put me in a worse mood. The vegan morning bread revived the next fifteen minutes, but the following hour was spent in complete boredom as NO ONE walked into the store.

Then, a man came through the door, carrying a large box. "Hi," I said, trying to see a uniform. "Is that for us?"

"Yeah," he said. Then, looking at me, "Who are you?"

I paused for a moment, taken aback. Who was I? Clearly, I was the person working at Pop Deluxe. "Who are you?"

He set down the box, and stood up. "I'm John," he said.

This opened up a whole new can of awkward, given that John is our owner and someone I had never met before. I apologized for my terseness and helped him carry the boxes into the basement (which, incidentally, made my knee hurt like hell again.)

Then, people started coming in. And I started selling things. And pretty soon, it was time to go home.

I walked slowly, picking my way across the solid ice down Wilson and over the big intersection outside Machinery Row. I talked a little to myself. I told myself that the GRE scores only matter for financial aid, and not for admission. So worst-case scenario, if I'm admitted but have no scores, I can defer a year and apply for the aid then. Or I can just pay in full for the first year. I told myself that I'm not a useless human who just happens to be talented at making people feel good about themselves by matching them to things they want. I reminded myself that I had a peanut-sweet potato stew idea brewing that I could try out when I got home.

Of course, I ran into Justin.

He was pulling into his garage as I walked up the street, so I gave a little wave and kept walking. He got out of his car and called my name, and because sometimes I want to believe that someone gives a shit about me, I turned around.

We had a short, pleasant conversation, which I concluded by being a complete ass. Because it's hard to explain to someone that you're in pain and pissed after a long day and worried that your carefully-constructed dreams aren't so dreamy and tired of shivering outside and angry because the only reason that you're shivering outside is that you're not welcome to come inside. Or maybe it's not hard. Maybe I should have just said that. Instead, I said something purposely hurtful, even cruel, and walked away.

I texted him a few minutes later to apologize, but you can't apologize via text, not really. Even so, he was nice about it. So now I just feel like a bitch who needs a long hot shower and another ice pack for her knee and to remember to take deeper breaths before speaking.

Breathe. In, and out.

I got a lousy score on the GRE writing section.

Me. A lousy score.

On WRITING. Seriously?

Fuck.

ETA: I know I wrote a better pair of essays than that. In fact, the essay part of the test was the only part I was confident about right up to the end. And of course straight As in English and writing classes for the last sixteen years of my life count for nothing. (Well, they'll count for something. But still. It's frustrating, mostly because there's no one who can explain to me why they scored the way they did. Just a number.)

I'm going to take a moment to breathe now, until I'm less upset.

Earlier, I sat in my sunlit living room, wrapping presents and curling ribbon and humming to myself. Rhea lay curled near my feet, looking up every so often as the ribbon caught the light.

I am very lonely.

I understand this now, and don't fight it like I used to, exhausting myself to tears by nightfall.

But now and again, usually in the middle of something mundane, like laundry or washing dishes or making my bed, I will suddenly feel like I'm standing at the edge of something I can't control.

I watched an episode of House the other day where a man was abusing cough syrup to deaden his brilliant mind, so he could be simple and happy with his simple and happy wife. I understood where he was coming from. I would never go there, but I understood. In the same way, I understand that my loneliness is not because of who other people are, because they have been mostly kind and generous. Those who haven't been (kind and generous, that is) perhaps just aren't made that way. I don't expect much, but of course I keep burning that candle of hope.

This, now, is because of who I am.

Basically: I think too much. My relationships, my jobs, my interests almost inevitably fall victim to a level of analysis they're not designed to withstand. I have begun to learn how to shut this process off. I have begun to be able to enjoy a stupid conversation at the bar without trying to catalog the various shades of personal and political meta-discourse and how they're related to the level of acquaintanceship, the number and gender of other people in the vicinity, and the potential for either party to take offense at the subject. It's work, though.

And so I give thanks for days like yesterday, spent in total frivolity trying on dresses for a wedding I'm unlikely ever to have. Or today, spent wrapping gifts for a family that becomes more distant each year, but who I still love. Or even for Christmas itself, on which day for the first time I will probably have no one. I am lonely, yes, but I am still able to eat, and smile, and find joy in things. It's good enough. It's good.

I'm applying to grad school.

This has still not quite caught up with me.

It will probably catch up with me sometime just before March 1, when I learn whether I've gotten into the UW (the only school I'm applying to this go-round) or whether I have to scramble around to apply to other places before April 15.

I want the sun to come out.

My left middle toe is sore from being pulled when I stepped in a hole while trail running yesterday.

I am uninsured, which my father called to yell at me about on Saturday.

I do not know what to do with Rhea for the week when I go home. (Any volunteers to look after a cuddly but somehow also extremely self-righteous cat?)

The downstairs front door is getting harder to open and I'm totally sure that I'm going to be stuck outside after a run someday when it's negative a million degrees outside.

I don't want to go to work.

Anyone want to road-trip to Chicago sometime this winter?

Today I walked six miles, during the course of which I:

-picked up transcripts
-picked up birth control
-dropped off transcripts at the new home of Educational Policy Studies, which is a ghetto little building off Regent
-bought a butterscotch latte from Indie, love of loves
-bought three kinds of pasta, including my favorites, strozzapreti, and jordan almonds (best vegan junk food ever!) from Fraboni's
-set up a recommendation file at the English department
-scored an awesome little black (J. Crew!) dress and a couple of sweaters at the Goodwill
-listened to "Darkness on the Edge of Town" twice in its entirety, among a ton of other Springsteen

Then, because I am a glutton for punishment sometimes, I went for an 7.5 mile run, which I completed for the first time in under 1:10.

Then, I made dinner, which included doing that thing where I chop a habanero for peanut sauce and then blow my nose and spend the next five minutes pacing around the apartment thinking It will stop burning it will stop burning it will stop burning and considering doing rash things like chopping my nose off or inhaling milk. The moral of this story is that while I can score high enough on my GREs to be considered really damn smart, I am something less than a genius.

Then, I read the rest of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Right to the very end, I was intrigued but not sure whether I liked it. Having finished it, I'm still in that same boat. It makes me very uncomfortable, not just because the violence portrayed is almost entirely directed against women, but because so much of the book seemed really...out there. I'm sure I'll think about it more and decide.

Now, it's past my bedtime. I think I'm going to drink a glass of my delicious delicious cabernet, and then go to sleep.

On Tuesday, I left work at 2 pm to take the GRE.

Doing this involves schlepping all the way out to the West Transfer Point, walking to the test center, hand-copying a paragraph that says you aren't going to tell anyone anything about the test ever in life so help you God and if you do they will magically know and HUNT YOU WITH THE EYE OF SAURON. I mean, that was the gist of it.

Then, you are supposed to hand them a piece of identification that tells them you're you, receive in exchange a little pamphlet of scrap paper and two pencils, and go bust a move.

This was where things went wrong.

I arrived at the test center with my vitamin water and my granola bar. I ate my granola bar and drank half my vitamin water. I went into the room to begin the test.

"This ID is expired," said the woman sitting behind the desk.

Oh, I thought. Shit. It had expired on my birthday, something I'd completely forgotten since no one else in the world cares.

"Well," I said, "I've got a student ID that also shows me."

"We don't accept student IDs," she said. "Only government-issued documents."

I did not think this the time to begin an argument about the fact that the state of Wisconsin, which issued my student ID, is the government. "You can't take them together, even?" I asked. I started shuffling around in my bag, pulled out a pay stub, a phone bill, and the bill from my last dentist appointment. (Why I had all these things and not a valid ID, I cannot begin to explain.)

"No," she said. She handed me a card with a toll-free number at the top. "You can call customer service, though, and see if they'll make an exception."

"Thank you," I said, and stepped outside the office to call.

The man on the other end answered each one of my increasingly desperate questions with a "Yeah...so you see, I can't do that." He could not: reschedule my test without charging me another $150, allow me to test with the ID I had on me, refund me any of my money, or stab himself in the face with a spork. The last one was actually just something I fantasized about asking, but it came pretty near the surface. I hung up the phone and walked back into the office.

"What's the latest you can start my test?" I asked.

"Five," said the woman. It was a quarter to four.

"Okay. Hold my seat. I'm going home to get my passport."

I called everyone I knew who had a car. Most were at work. Some didn't answer. One, I hadn't called in such a long time his number was no longer in service. Finally, nearly in tears, I picked up the phone, scrolled down the list, took a deep, deep breath, and called Justin.

He picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hi," I said. "Are you at work?"

His hesitant "No" conveyed a degree of understandable wariness.

I explained the situation as quickly as possible. He repeated after me, "So you need me to drive out there, drive back here, then drive out there again, then drive back?"

"I will owe you a lot of food," I said.

As it turned out, the reason he was at home in the first place was that he was waiting for Left for Dead II to show up via UPS, which required a signature. I assured him that UPS drivers are understanding and generous people who will leave a package if you write them a note.

He took a breath, during the course of which I watched $150, half a week's pay, waver in the balance.

"Okay," he said. "Give me a minute for the note."

I hung up the phone, nearly crying with relief, and sat down to wait. True to his word, he arrived twenty minutes later, drove me home and back again, and got me there by five.

I took the test. They say it's going to take you four hours. I don't know how it could possibly take four hours, unless you're actually reading all the tutorials on "How to use a mouse" and "How to scroll up and down." I finished it in two and a half, including a ten minute break. At the end, I clicked to say that I wanted to see my scores.

Verbal: 750
Math: 660

Me: "Yay!" (Possibly, though I will deny it until the end of time, aloud in the test room.)

I gathered my things, bought a big bar of chocolate and a bottle of wine, and got on the bus to ride home, grinning the whole way. Because, you know, there's nothing like a good Tuesday disaster to make the rest of your week look mighty fine.

Today, after having walked past JTaylor's on the square hundreds of times, stopping each time to stare into the window and wonder about the things inside, I went up to the door, took a deep breath, and rang the buzzer.

A man came up behind me. "Is it open?" he asked.

"Maybe," I said, pointing at the sign, which tells you that the hours are irregular, whimsical, and that you basically have to get lucky to get in.

We waited there for a moment, peering in. Finally, a small man emerged from behind a tall stack of nautical equipment and opened the door for us. "Hello," he said.

I asked him if there was anywhere he wanted me to set my things. "Anywhere up front," he said. "The door's locked."

I set my bag and lunchbox down, and took off my hat, and unwound my scarf. Then, I stood and stretched my neck back and saw the moose.

It stared down from above the door, antlers at least six feet wide, eyes huge and smooth like obsidian. It said, I belong here.

And I thought, I belong here too.

The man who had come in with me engaged the owner in talk about fly fishing books and materials and maps. After a brief moment to ask me if I needed help, ("No," I whispered in awe), they departed to a corner full of old papers and I was free to wander.

I stood for a moment to take it all in. I don't think I can describe in words how the place looked. I will try.

--

Imagine this: You are standing in an empty room. Insert around the edges shelves constructed haphazardly from bits of wood and glass, and a central glass display case lit from within. Then a ceiling of russet pressed tin, a hardwood floor scarred and pitted by time, covered at intervals by threadbare rag rugs. There is a particular smell, not unpleasant, of wood and leather, of rusted metal and old glue. Something organic persists underneath, like the daw-laden scent of the morning. It is silent but for the murmur of the men's voices and the rustle of paper. You are acutely aware that you must approach this environment with respect, as a guest. You stand with your back to the entrance, unsure of how to enter. Each shelf, each case, has sprouted from another as if by accident, and it is only by following their lines back to the walls that you can identify their origins. A tiny shelf abuts a larger one which sits next to a mirror which turns out to be part of a tremendous armoire, buried under mounted animals and duck decoys and vials and vaguely medical devices. To your right, a ten-foot statue of Anubis, standing guard over an antique display case packed with everything from pistol cufflinks to clip-on earrings that look like baseballs to silk gloves. Beyond the case, again, two silver Ionic pillars, a podium asking all visitors please to sign in, several anvils, an assortment of wooden tools. Hanging near the ceiling: a row of mercury thermometers, many from now-defunct service stations specializing in fuel and greases, all of which agree that the temperature at that height is about 72.

You walk closer. In among the tools is a tiny calendar from a grocery store that existed on East Washington Avenue. It is February, 1952. "Turn this over and meet a friend of ours!" it says. You turn it over and find a mirror on the other side and laugh out loud.

"You doing all right over there?" asks the owner.

"I'm just enjoying myself," you shout back in the general direction of his voice.

And you are. You've found a shelf of compasses, some broken, some unsure of which direction is north, some as true as the day they were made. And a lighter, manufactured in Paris, France, in 1942. Still in its snakeskin case. You wander back further. Old pills and remedies. Some jars--a jar full of snakes! You withdraw your hand and proceed with a little more caution. An old leatherbound copy of Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad. Mediocre condition, valueless, and all the more precious because of it. A robot, made so early in the manufacture of plastics that there are giant seams down each of its appendages. A tie clip from Chicago, 1933.

You press further into the store. You've begun to feel comfortable there, like it accepts you. You touch the edge of a surveyor's transit, watching the bubble inside the level tremble. You crouch to look at scrimshaw, and then look up to see, floating near the ceiling, a huge, three-level galleon, rigging still but itching for a wind.

The shopkeeper has finished his dealing with the other customer. He asks you if you see anything you like.

You can't answer that. You like everything. You love everything. You want to explain to him how you love humans and love artifacts and especially love other humans who love artifacts. You think that no matter how you say this you will sound sort of crazy. So you tell him you're looking for Christmas presents and start a three-hour conversation that covers: old photographs, cycling, travel, social networking, the Smithsonian, treating artifacts as both things of beauty and objects of scientific study, social justice, alternative education, the Edible Schoolyard model of alternative education in particular, race relations in Washington DC as opposed to Madison and the UP, the importance of communication within the family, healthcare, homelessness, and the absolute refusal of many nonprofits to do anything but fail to profit.

"Wow," he says when you finish up and are rewinding your scarf and tugging your hat over your ears. "We covered a lot of territory."

You grin and say yes, yes you did, and that you'll be back Saturday to look at those photos he said he had in the basement and that you could pick through. You step out into the cold and can't stop grinning, because, as you explain to your friend later, it was a little like meeting God.

Because if there are people like this, who try to keep the world from imploding by loving little bits of it, by thinking about the other bits and how they fit together, by coming from a position of unconditionality, then I think we might make it. We might make it.

They call that: faith.

I read an article this evening on the Obamas' marriage. It was rather enlightening on several levels. First, I realized that there is no worth in a relationship that does not involve challenge and continual growth. Second, I realized that I have not yet met anyone who challenges me enough (without just pissing me off) that I could even sort of imagine spending the rest of my life with him. Third, I realized that I'm not sure whether that person exists.

I have friends who challenge me, who force me to grow and develop. And I've had men that I've loved, who have really allowed me to define who I am, who I am willing to be. But I've never had both at the same time.

George and I went down to Brocach this evening, and we told Russell that we're both tired of being single and want him to find us boyfriends. Somewhere underneath the joking, though, I started to wonder whether that's what I really want, or whether I'm going to fare better on my own. Whether I'm never going to find someone who appeals to me on the holy triumvirate of levels: physical, intellectual, and emotional.

This idea used to depress me. It used to send me into days of deep anger and something even close to despair. Now, though? It barely touches me.

Maybe that's why they call it "finding yourself." Huh. Guess I'm found.

Hi, world. I'm Carmen. Who are you?

I went to breakfast this morning with Justin, and after we spent the first fifteen minutes in supremely awkward and self-conscious avoidance of one another's eyes, it was a huge relief. I'm glad I still like him, and wasn't just making that up to make myself feel better about missing the friendship.

I had a nice quiet day at work.

I closed the shop with a couple of the girls, then walked home and went for a quick three-mile run. I ate dinner of popcorn with my secret blend of herbs and spices, an apple, and a handful of almonds.

I relaxed for a while with Rhea, petting her until she purred herself to sleep.

Then, I started applying for grad school, and I could just feel my stress level skyrocket. Seriously. I do not want to go. I have to go. I do not want to go.

I feel exactly like I felt applying for college out of high school, except here there's no incentive to at least get out of your parents' place and see the world. You still have to pay rent, and you still have to work, and you still have to try to figure out how your life is supposed to shake out, except now you have to do that and write papers, too.

Goodbye, social life (such as it is). Welcome back, four hours of sleep, semi-coherent syntax, and ream upon ream of bullshit.

I think I'm going to go to bed now, in avoidance of the rest of this application. Tomorrow dawns fresh with the promise of open roads, heart beating like a drum in my chest, and the pull of rain-air cool as a handful of sea glass.

Because I try to be a generous person, I am going to assume that the two people who sat at my four-top for nearly two hours, ringing up a $40.60 tab, meant to tip an extra five and not the $42 they actually left.

Still, yanno, on a night as slow as tonight, that kind of table really throws off your groove.

Otherwise, I had some fantastic customers, including one apartment-seeking older couple that I may have convinced to move into the tobacco lofts, and one three-makers-and-seven-deep gentleman who had a long conversation with me about chef's knives. We agreed that while Wüsthofs have a delightful curvature and cutting edge, the sharp corner on the where the blade meets the handle makes them rather uncomfortable for people with small hands. He congratulated me on my selection of a Global instead. Also, I told him about the shiny shiny Japanese knives that I want with the passion of a thousand burning suns because I would feel like a samurai every time I chopped a carrot. Unfortunately, they run into the $500s. He wished me luck in saving for one, and tipped like he meant it.

All right, time to go to bed, as I have a brunch tomorrow morning (how sophisticated!) followed by an 11-6 at the Luxe. No one actually calls it that, but I'm trying to start a trend. I am also way too punchy right now. Perhaps I should watch the next episode of True Blood (digression: the amount of boobage in that show exceeds that of Deadwood, which is mighty impressive) and drink a tall glass of water and wait until I'm sleepy.

At any rate: this post was brought to you by the letter B, the number 9, and carries with it a friendly reminder to tip your server!

Sometimes my mind makes strange connections. Like today, I was thinking about a woman who makes the most gorgeous cakes, and then thinking that cutting cakes is a pain. A few minutes later, looking for a photograph of a sunflower for the project I'm working on, I saw a sunflower cupcake and thought how pretty it would be to have a field of them.

Then, out of nowhere, my brain goes, "You're getting married at the beginning of September so you can have sunflower cupcakes."

I mean, seriously, brain. Where the hell did that even come from? Why can't I have sunflower cupcakes without getting married? Who exactly am I going to be marrying in this early-September wedding-of-many-sunflowers?

And I'm not one of those girls, either. I didn't spend my childhood designing a dream wedding. (I did pick out a ring, but that was because it was the right size to cut out of a magazine and tape on my finger, something I did with quite a bit of jewelry in my 6-year-old bling phase.) In fact, when I was a kid, I was pretty sure that weddings were stupid, a conviction solidified by having to dress up like an avalanche of lace and attend them. Given my general opposition to lace and all things girly, this was an unpleasant experience. And I haven't given weddings much thought since, except to appreciate my uncle Mark's classy and understated one for its elegance and utter lack of frilliness.

Still, though. Some part of me has to admit, I like the idea of having sunflowers as the wedding flower of choice, mostly because I could grow them myself. And because I like the idea of being surrounded by green and yellow and orange, my favorite three colors.

But you know how it is. Whatever happens, it's a long way off.

And now, to St. Vinny's!

Yesterday, I was bored and very awake. Also, I had just eaten an apple. Also, it was 10 pm.

So I decided, with a mental apology to my downstairs neighbors, to redecorate/rearrange my apartment.

For those of you who have known me for a while, you know that I can't actually live in the same space for more than 8 months to a year before it begins to make me anxious. I solve that problem by periodically making my space different.

This time, I have the following goals:

1. Replace all the boring tan drapes with something exciting. Possibly a muted orange. Also, lose the mini blinds altogether. I hate those things.

2. At some point, replace the crappy unsupportive chair that is falling apart with a two-seater sofa, or, preferably, a small futon. So I could in theory have houseguests of the platonic persuasion. Or, you know, seat more than one person other than me in my living room.

3. Figure out some solution to the problem wherein I have no table or chairs, meaning I eat most of my meals standing at my breakfast bar/workstation, which is where I spend most of my time anyway. I'm thinking some sort of fold-up-and-put-away solution. I even know where I'd stash them. I just need to find something of the right size. Or have carpentry tools. I miss home sometimes. Incidentally, I moved my computer and other electronics from the desk to the breakfast bar, so I mostly stand to work now. It's improved my moods immensely, and there's much better track lighting over here.

4. Cover the wall next to my bed with small, colorful prints. I finally figured out a way to do it that is inexpensive and not too irritating (in theory.) More on that once I've spent lots of money and am very irritated and still have nothing on that wall.

5. Organize my craft/bookbinding supplies and place them in an easily accessible place so I'm not constantly rummaging through boxes after my bone folder or craft knife.

6. Convince the Powers That Be to open a goddamned IKEA within a reasonable distance already.

On Saturday, I went for a long tempo run along the shore of Lake Mendota. I ran across the isthmus, over the series of rolling hills that makes East Johnson, past Tenney Park and up into the Maple Bluff area. Once I got to Warner Park, I ran out to the shore and did a few stretches to ensure my body was in good working order before I demanded its best performance. Then, with Peter Gabriel's "I Grieve" on my iPod (can I just interject here that I love the way it suddenly gets all upbeat about two-thirds of the way through?), I stood up. Looked across the wind-ruffled inlet to the bluffs on the other side.

Oh. Oh.

The trees outlining the cliff had turned from their usual dark green to the most brilliant red I've seen since the fall of 2007. The fall when we drove out to Devil's Lake and things were going to be perfect and I was so happy.

I waited for the little twinge of nostalgia to come. It didn't. I just looked at the colors, and understood when I had last seen them. The events belonged to the same timestream, but had no other relationship to one another.

And I realized, standing there with the wind drying sweat from my face, that the colors were in me. In the celebration I carry in my heart and invite from the world. In the breath coming hard into my open lungs, the absolute freedom of knocking out five miles and knowing that this thing that now brings me joy started because of my deepest grief.

I thought for a while, when I misunderstood the continuity of time, that I had perhaps already experienced my happiness. Perhaps I would have to carry that in my heart to wait out the bad times. Now, I understand that happiness and sadness exist simultaneously at all times, that it is how I look that matters. So I choose.

Once, I was running away. Now, I'm running because I can't live without the feel of the wind in my hair, because I relish the strength and endurance of my body, because my heart beats so fast it feels like falling in love, every time.

I don't often make food from recipes. When I do, I generally use the recipe as inspiration and substitute away, ending up with something tasty for dinner.

But tonight, I had about-to-expire tempeh in the refrigerator, had just gotten home from a long day at work, and wanted nothing more than to let someone else figure out what I wanted for dinner. So I googled recipes, scrolled through the first few pages, and settled on a tempeh satay. It was supposed to take about twenty minutes.

The recipe had two parts: first, you boiled the tempeh in what amounted to a vinegar reduction with a little oil mixed in, then, when it was reduced, seared it on all sides. Simple enough; I'd done variations on that theme many times. To make the sauce, you sauteed some onions and garlic, curry, turmeric, and ginger, then added a little water and blended the whole mess with cashews to add a little heft.

It all started innocently enough. The tempeh seared beautifully, leaving it crispy on the outside and meaty on the inside. The sauce did exactly what it was supposed to do on the stove, hissing and boiling and turning quite an attractive yellow. I put it in the blender. Put the lid on. Held the lid on tightly. Pushed the button. It started slowly, pulling the sauce down and into the blades.

Then, it exploded.

I mean, exploded everywhere.

For those of you who have never experienced the tininess of my apartment, let me define everywhere: every vertical surface for about half my living space.

"Huh," I said. I remember thinking very clearly: 'Huh' is not language of the level appropriate here.

Still in a state of minor shock, I surveyed myself for damage. Somehow, none of the sauce had ended up on me, probably because the lid of the blender acted as a sort of shield. I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the closest wall. Instead of wiping the sauce off, as I had vaguely expected, it streaked a splotch of bright yellow down the white paneling.

"Oh, shit," I said, the severity of the situation beginning to hit me. I began to think about the amazing staining powers of turmeric, and how my fingernails sometimes stayed yellow for days after making a big batch of curry paste. I began to think about how many white, vertical, matte, and charmingly textured surfaces exist in my apartment. I began to reevaluate my attachment to my security deposit.

In a blind panic, I abandoned the paper towel idea altogether and brought in the big guns: a scrubbing sponge and all-surface cleaner. Banking on the fact that most walls in the apartment were covered with at least several layers of white paint, I began the lovely task of scrubbing the top layer off various surfaces with a vigorous dedication that lasted for the better part of forty-five minutes.

Hungry and grumpy, I walked back into the kitchen. As I turned the corner, something blue on the floor caught my eye. I bent closer, thinking that it resembled a paw print. Especially since there were about fifteen more of them in a little loop leading from Rhea's favorite box around the rug and back to the box.

"Oh no you don't, kitten," I told her, evicting her from her box. As I had suspected, a bit of paint or ink, long-dried in the corner, had become wet in the Blender Blast. I blotted it dry again with a paper towel and then, with a long-suffering sigh, began scrubbing paw prints off the floor.

By the end, I was starving. I mean, I'd been hungry when I started dinner, but over an hour later, my stomach wasn't hearing excuses. So I turned to my tempeh, forked a piece, and dipped it in the sauce.

And you know what?

The sauce sucked. No, I mean, really. It was oddly textured and boring. The substitution of cashews for the more traditional peanut sucked half the flavor out of it. The spice mixture was all right, but the base tasted like...well, like carrots. It was like dipping tempeh into a spiced carrot puree.

Oh, fuck this, I thought, and spent the next five minutes whipping up my go-to peanut sauce. By this time, I was madder than anything and suddenly not very hungry, so I ate five or six pieces of the tempeh and a handful of wasabi crisps and washed them down with a big glass of water before sitting down in a huff with my Margaret Atwood and reading until I felt better.

Now, it's dark as pitch out and I'm about to go to bed so I can be up for the Farmers' Market tomorrow. (Which had better be a goddamned treat.) I am taking deep breaths, so deep I imagine I can smell the coffee already.

Saturday was intense. I got to the farmers' market around 7:30, bought my usual stuff, walked around for about three hours total running various errands, and then went home, took a shower, baked some mushroom pastries, and went to work at the bar. Work managed to be both slow and insane at the same time. Being quadruple-sat when one of your tables is an 8-top bachelorette party is a little stressful. But then my section died around 9, so it was dull as anything until 2, when I drank my shift beer, hung out with the boys for a while, and got home around 5.

Sunday and Monday, I literally did nothing. I just relaxed. I wrote a lot, and cooked a lot, and rewatched quite a bit of Friday Night Lights. I slept ten hours each night. I felt the stress seep out of me like the end of an illness, and let it go.

And today, tips from Saturday in hand, I went to Berkeley Running Company to get myself a pair of running tights.

This is not as simple as it sounds. Since running tights are extremely fitted, getting the right size matters. Furthermore, since I'm a size small in terms of weight but a medium in terms of height, finding a happy compromise doesn't always work. I really wanted to buy a pair of black compression tights with badass dark blue support webs, because they (a) made me feel like Bionic Woman and (b) made my legs look damn sexy, but the small was too short and the medium was too loose. Sigh.

At long last, after spending forever in the dressing room running in circles and knocking into walls, I settled for a pair of medium ASICS tights. They're a little loose, but have an adjustable waistband and enough structure that they don't bunch up anywhere. And they're nice and warm, with a thin layer of fleece on the inside and water-and-wind-resistant cloth on the outside.

Quite excited about my purchase, I took my tights home and went for a run.

They are awesome. I cannot stress this enough. It is so nice to be running into a wind that would have made me want to die a few weeks ago, only to discover that it really doesn't phase me this time around. It is so nice to feel my muscles warm up in five minutes instead of fifteen. And they're tight enough that once it gets really really cold, I can just put another pair of pants on over them.

So anyway, I spent the entire half-hour of my run geeking out about my pants, which I realize is absurd.

Now I'm home with a mug of vegan eggnog+Meyers, the next episode or two of Deadwood, and a happy cat who keeps falling asleep on my lap. (And my tights!) I think I'm going to call it a day.

I couldn't sleep last night, so I got up at 5 am to bake some apple strudel for work-folk. It made the apartment smell absolutely delicious, and as I woke slowly from the cold and haze of dozing and waking for hours, it brought me to life.

All day at work, my mental clock kept ticking down. I work here for five more hours. For three more hours. For one hour and twenty minutes.

And then, the part of me that really loved the job kicked in. I'm leaving some of the people most dear to me in the world. I'm leaving behind the last part of the life I had when life was really good. I'm leaving the books! Who will care for them? Who will love them and touch them and know them when I am gone? Who will people ask when a customer can only describe one facet of a hardcover? Who will be their advocate?

I know. Emma tells me I'm so idealistic that I give her cavities. But I feel like I'm betraying something bigger than myself, the authors whose books won't find their customers because I won't be there.

I'm sure this feeling will pass. Probably with the end of this beer I'm drinking, which caps off an evening of beers with Parrish and Andrea. I am, despite how I sound here, really excited about my new job. I'm excited to be a new person. I'm excited to discover new things, and capacities. I'm excited to have Fridays off.

I suppose this will be like any mix of emotion. Three weeks from now, I'll suddenly find myself crying in the shower, and that will be a low I didn't know I was reaching, and then I'll be fine.

Right now? It's like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I'm once again free to fly.

1. It's my second-to-last day at Borders! (Wow, two weeks passes in a heartbeat.)

2. It might snow later this week. SNOW! SNOW! Hehehehehe. For those of you who are joining this blog after last winter, you probably don't know about my unhealthy obsession with the first snow. Or how it is annually the most beautiful day of the year, and the day on which I dance around like a crazy person.

3. I have finally gone totally vegan at home. I have started a food blog to commemorate this. On it, I supplement recipes that I make with the best pictures I can coerce from my takes-a-lickin-and-keeps-on-tickin camera. I figured it was just easier to keep the food part of this blog elsewhere, plus the interface is way more pic-friendly.

4. Rhea is insanely cuddly.

5. My legs did not feel like wood after yesterday's 8-miler. More like bamboo. Stiff, but flexible.