The People Called it "RAGTIME"

Last Wednesday night, Matt and I attended Carnegie Mellon University's spring musical production of Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty's 1996 work, Ragtime.  Knowing both the quality of the CMU Drama program and accounting for my personal history with this particular show, I started out with high expectations.

If it had just been about the quality of the singers and actors, I'd have nothing mostly positive notes to write.  Stepping back from the three prior productions of the show I've known and acknolwledging that the people onstage were college students, I can honestly say there was a lot to be impressed by.  Yet, as these things so often go, it's the grown-ups who got in the way and made bad choices that really proved challenging to the integrity of the show.

Ragtime is not a show that deals in subtlety.  From its creation over twenty years ago, it's been derided for being rather power-ballad heavy.  When a light moment of amusement comes along, it's almost shocking.  But, then again, the souce material - E.L. Doctorow's epic historical-novel of the same name - focuses on the years leading up to World War I and how history enfolds three families (one white WASP, one black, and one Latvian immigrant) and brings real-world figures into and between their lives.

Yet, somehow, CMU faculty member and director, Tome Cousin, decided that the More is MORE approach was somehow necessary when it came to already big ideas in a big show.  Rather than trusting the material, which has endured two Broadway productions, a London mounting, various concerts, and many, many regional stagings, Cousin allowed many moments to be completely buried in bad staging, poor line readings, and production gadgetry.

It's one thing for a set to be clever.  It's another for it to be ugly.  More often than not, this set, which I'm sure was believed to be too clever by half, got in the way of the actors, muddied up where exactly the action was supposedly taking place, and became the backdrop for unnecessary projections that, even from the back of the Chosky Theatre, weren't very clear or necessary.

Three enormous revolving steel towers, overburdened by staircases, unable to be removed from the stage, made up the majority of the set design.  That they were computer controlled is impressive for a college production.  However, I found the towers to be too large and too in the way.  If the center tower had been able to be removed from the stage so that there could be a clear view to the color-illuminated panorama backdrop, I might have thought better of it.  But when a pair of characters is supposed to be having a country picnic in front of a rusty steel and brick tower, you can see where it becomes problematic.

Projections came into vogue in the last decade as a cheap alternative to physically constructed set pieces.  That doesn't make them worth the trouble, necessarily.  It makes them happen, though.  Why, for instance, when we're in the patrician suburban home of the white WASP family, is there a projection of a billboard for the father's fireworks factory overhead?  Why not, rather, let a few props and furnishings indicate the home?  It should be said that the furnishings were there.  A piano.  A silver tea set on a tea table.  Chairs.  Surely these very wealthy people don't advertise their business on the side of their home.  Similarly, a tender moment between Sarah and the baby she abandoned was wrong-headedly staged in front of an enormous projection of the full moon that nearly covered the backdrop.  Are we suddenly on a 1914 spaceship?

The blocking and entrances, in so many cases, seemed to be under-rehearsed and awkward.  When Father arrives back at the house on Broadview Avenue after a year away with Admiral Peary on a voyage to the North Pole, there's quite simply no front door through which he is welcomed.  He sauntered between two towers in an area that had no definition as part of the house.  Similarly, it was merciful that Coalhouse's Model T Ford was built on nimble casters.  No Model T was ever forced to cut such odd angles in real life.

Finally, and perhaps most egregious, was the director not being able or willing to trust the material.  I understand that this production is a scaled-back version licensed for smaller companies.  Why on earth one of the most capable drama schools in the nation would choose to present a lesser version and then clutter it up with the set towers is beyond me.  The orchestrations felt thin, lacking the depth of a string section, and some unforgivable cuts were made to pivotal lines and songs.

The ending, though, is what will stick in my mind as the most egregious change.  During the show's epilogue, the new family - composed of Mother and the Little Boy and Tateh and the Little Girl - are supposed to be joined by Sarah and Coalhouse's child.  He's supposed to run onto the stage, now a toddler or young boy.

And they didn't do it.

For the first time in four productions of this show, I was left cold by the ending because this one small touch - one that is, for the record, called for in the script - was ignored.

The thing that leaves me saddest about this production is that, for a first-time viewer of the show, this is what they think it should be.  No, it didn't need to be the enormous spectacle that the original 1997 production was.  The 2009 revival proved that.  But what needs to remain intact is the story.  It should be told, but it should be told by a director that believes in its integrity.

A Good Weekend

In spite of Matt being sick since Friday afternoon with cold-like symptoms, I managed to have a very good weekend, surrounded by people I love dearly.

I spent the entirety of Friday morning assembling a small tea-for-two.  The woman who was a student-teacher during my senior year of high school, who has become a dear friend over the intervening seventeen years, was coming to Pittsburgh for a day of pampering: a massage and facial.  I asked her to drop by our house while she was in town.

We drank lovely Oolong tea from Ten Ren in San Francisco in my mother's 1969 Noritake china.  I baked cream scones, which were accompanied by Devonshire cream, blackcurrant preserves, Scottish lemon curd, and butter.  I also served chocolates and fresh fruit.  Just a small setting, which turned out to be a bit more celebratory when I found out that Saturday was actually her birthday.  How fortuitous that we were able to get together and end up celebrating both her day and our friendship.

Matt slept in the guest room, so I let him have a lay-in on Saturday morning when I woke to begin my next task: a dinner for six on Saturday night.  I've had a turkey in the basement freezer since November, which had been intended for my mother's and my Thanksgiving day meal.  However, she wasn't feeling well at the time, so I remained in Pittsburgh and the two of us went to friends' that day and I went to visit my mother early the next week.

But the turkey was becoming a pressing matter and it seemed there was no time like the present to gather dear friends and feast.  I prepared the turkey; a side of stuffing (so, technically, dressing) of French bread, mushrooms, onions, and celery; mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce with apples and blueberries.  Matt felt well enough to make roasted broccoli.  One couple brought lovely green beans and the other, who happen to own a Dairy Queen, made two dear little ice cream cakes for dessert.  One was cherry-chocolate flavored and the other was turtle.  Both have leftovers in the freezer that I'm doing my level-best to ignore!

It always feels good to set the table and use all of the lovely things I own to make a pretty setting.  I had an optic black and white floral tablecloth on and used kelly green Ikat napkins that I bought the day I interviewed with Sur La Table some four years ago.  It's was all very vivid for midwinter, but it was toned down by candlelight and the cool light of our chandelier.

We served buffet-style from the island and tucked in.  We drank beautiful 2007 Estate Cabernet Sauvignon from Sharp's Hill in Paso Robles and a 2012 Pinot Noir from Wente in Arroyo Seco, Monterey County, CA.  As the night progressed, I pulled a 2009 Amarone della Valpolicella by Ca'Ferreri.

As we adjourned to the living room, I set out chocolates and cookies, which were accompanied by coffee and bourbon.  Matt's spring had wound down and he bade adieu to our guests and retired upstairs to read and go to sleep.  Everyone departed within a half-hour, leaving me time to get the cleaning up started.  (I still have to hand-wash the stemware, but that'll get done.  Sometime.)

Sunday was a cold, rainy day that just begged for hot tea and fresh scones.  I never left the house at all, except to step outside and retrive a runaway lid to the recycling can as the winds ripped over Stanton Hill.

Matt's home sick, but is logged in from the office upstairs, trying to do what he can.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, all depending), the company is still in storm mode from last night's powerful winds, so he's not able to get much done since all changes to the system are locked down.

I went to the Post Office to get stamps and send Valentine's Day cards and then to Whole Foods this morning.  Gym this afternoon.  Applying for at least one job.  Etc., etc.

Keeping busy keeps me sane and this was a happily busy weekend filled with friends and food.

A Thought For the Day

Why do we do the things we do?

Some are addicted.  Some are impoverished.  Some are proud.  Some are depressed.  Some because they can.

Some can't narrow it down to one reason.

I did what I did because I didn't consider the consequences.
I did what I did because it was there.
I did what I did because I lost sight of who I was and what I stood for.

But I'm lucky because I didn't lose my life or cause anyone to lose theirs.
I'm not sick, hospitalized, hurt, handicapped, scarred, or in any way physically injured.
I didn't lose my home or the man I love.

I didn't completely lose "me" to the greed.

It's going to take some time to figure out the way forward.
It's going to hurt.  It already hurts.

I'm ashamed and am most hurt by what I think others will think of what I did.  Someday I'll be able to admit it freely.

But I know I'm still in here somewhere.  I will pay the price.  And I'll live the rest of my life knowing what I did.

And that lesson will be enough to do better.  To do more.  To do for other people.  To negate and defy my own avarice.

I will do better and be better.  I will be the man I am expected to be by others.  I can and I will.

A History of Holding On

I spent Monday with my mother.  I hadn't seen her in a week and a half, so I was due to visit and accomplish her list of tasks.

That's the odd thing about visitng my mom:  we don't spend quality time together.  I arrive; I go grocery shopping with her; I try not to resent the fact that (in yesterday's case) it was a perfectly lovely day, but we weren't out enjoying it in any way; I cook a meal; I depart for home.  In so many ways, I'm a helpful companion, not a son.

On the drive there, I used to listen to the Diane Rehm Show on NPR, which has since been replaced by a show called "A1," hosted by Joshua Johnson.  Thus far, I've been very pleased with his shows.  The second hour of the program, while I was driving, focused on "This American Moment"- how people are trying to make sense of the new administration, events around the world, etc.

Mr. Johnson, at some point, spoke the line, "People don't care how much you know until they know how much you care," a reference point to opening dialogue between people on opposing sides of the political spectrum.  More specifically, he was speaking about people on either side of the debate about the Affordable Care Act, and how it's all too easy for disagreements to go nowhere if neither side is willing to listen to the other.

Think of it like this:  It's easier to say, "You're wrong" than "I hear what you're saying.  You don't like that aspect of the policy."  The former is a stone wall.  It shuts things down rather immediately.  The latter, on the contrary, allows the person you're speaking with to know they've been heard.  Their point has been taken and considered, which at least allows the opening for further discussion and the possibility of sharing your perspective.

This goes to the heart of what I wrote about last time:  Forgiveness.  Without openness and consideration, there cannot be forgiveness.

My mother holds onto so many wrongs in her heart, a pattern I've fallen into.  She resents her mother, my grandmother, taking charge of my parents' wedding in 1969.  That's almost 48 years ago.  Even longer ago than that, there are episodes about a brown winter coat she didn't want as a child, when her father burned her paper dolls (long after she was past the age of playing with them), and other slights that a woman who has reached 70 years old shouldn't dwell upon.

I'm only 34, but I could list a similar catalogue of issues I've had with my mom.

And what good would they do me?

In many ways, I'm lucky to have her.  It's been 21 years since my dad died, so I am grateful to have her.  I simply wish that she would find something to live for in the now and to look to in the future.  She dwells so much in the past - in what has happened to her - that I don't think she sees much room for a future.  And I believe that many of her health issues can be linked to this concentration on negativity.

Sadness multiplies sadness.  It hurts our mental health and can slam the door behind us, locking out the people who want us to be happy.

I'm trying, as I've said, to find happiness.  One of the pieces I was reading mentioned taking three breaths - deep ones - and removing your mind from the spiral it's in by imagining yourself in a place that makes you happy.

That method can't make the world go away.

You still have to face the demons.

You still have to own your failings.

But find that happy place and let your mind be there, in the calm, when you need it.

Finding Beauty. Finding Joy.

Last night, I accompanied Matt to the game shop in Pittsburgh's Oakland neighborhood to watch him play Magic: The Gathering.  He hadn't been to Fridat Night Magic in years and I, not really having much else going on, nor wanting to spend the night alone, went along.

It wasn't like I stood there the entire time.  We're longtime friends with the shop's owner and know another guy who works there.  After chatting a while and watching Matt play, I took a seat in the corner just to do some reading.  My chosen topic:  Forgiveness.

I have an issue.  It's one I've battled for years.  I jokingly call it the Sophia Petrillo problem, named after The Golden Girls character.  Sometime during the run of the series, the grizzled old woman spouts a line to the effect of "I may forget, but I never forgive!"

While I may jokingly call it the Sophia problem, it's an all too real one.  I hold onto things, internalize them, and let them make me miserable for far too long.  It's far from a new problem and one that I wish had a better excuse for existing.  If I had to trace the roots of this choking weed, I believe that I'd find the origins in my being an only child and, at least in part, on my mother doing the same thing.

I never had siblings with whom I had to learn the art of negotiation.  On the flip-side, I never had siblings to serve as a buffer between my mother's negativity and my own life.

The unflattering joke that people turn into their mothers is less a joke to me than a point of blood-chilling worry.  Becoming my mother is one of my worst nightmares.  The woman she's let herself become is embittered by every wrong she's ever actually felt and even a few that she's created in her mind.  And, at seventy years old, she's managed to amass quite a catalogue.

Strangely, I forced myself to learn a hard lesson in high school:  You can't save everyone, so you might as well save yourself.

How is it then that I find it so easy to leave myself foundering, capsizing beneath the weight of perceived wrongs, of real hurts, and unable to forgive, forget, and move on?

I just found myself grumbling quietly under my breath about a former co-worker whose biggest challenge was showing up for work.  When I became the interim manager in November, I called this woman and said that I was going to need some hours from her for the holiday season ahead.  You see, my former boss disliked this woman and never scheduled her.  Yet, she was able to keep her discount  and benefit from it without actually doing any work.

She capitulated when I called and said she'd be able to work on Satuday nights.  Fine.  That was something.  Due to Christmas falling on a Sunday and the store being closed on Christmas Eve, the last time she worked was on the 17th of December.  I scheduled her in January, but she didn't come.  Twice.  I was told after the second occasion that she told one of the keyholders that she was "only holiday help" and wouldn't be coming in.

It's been two weeks since I've been affiliated with my former employer and over a month and a half since last seeing this employee.  Why on earth, on a Saturday night, while I'm baking a cake for a Super Bowl party tomorrow night am I even letting this woman enter my mind.  And beyond that, why am I complaining to myself about her work ethic?  She's not my problem anymore.

That's the sort of silly thing I'm dealing with here.  It's pointless, has no impact on me personally or professionally, but the fact that it's a Satuday night that she should be at work and isn't proved enough to throw me down the rabbit hole.

Forgiveness isn't even something that should be associated with this woman.  It should be letting go and forgetting.  She didn't wrong me in any way.  She doesn't need to be absolved.  I just need to let her go from my mind and heart.

When I drove to Oakmont this morning to get doughnuts, I found myself in the middle of a scrum of people.  I pulled number 280 from the reel of tags.  The staff was helping someone in the mid-260s.  Instead of getting frustrated or huffing and puffing about stupid people (though there was one woman...), I reflected on what I had read and looked for beauty in the moment.

The workmanship of the baked goods, the fabulous designs executed in buttercream, and the sheer volume of goodness they produce were thoughts I paused on.  I thought a moment about thankfulness for the abundance and silly ability to enjoy these sweets while so many have less than they need.  But, overall, I paused and found gladness.

Driving home, I looked forward to fresh, hot coffee with Matt and a lazy morning with WQED playing classical music in the background.  In the afternoon, I worked on a job application and we went to the gym.

I found joy because I looked.  I stopped and noticed the beauty of the bakers' art.  I was thankful for a man I've loved now for nearly ten years, our life together, and a slow Saturday morning getting to do as much or as little as we wanted.

It's sometimes a matter of stopping ourselves.  It's hitting the pause button on negativity.  It's being glad to be alive and in the world.

Somethin' WRONG with Strippin'?

I knew that, with a busy weekend ahead, I wanted to rise and head into the Strip District this morning to get coffee and other provisions.  Instead of the tourist nightmare that it can so often become, one is reminded on a cold weekday morning of the reason we go to these old destinations:  They feel like how living in the city is supposed to be.

Beginning at La Prima Espresso, I ordered a large latte before walking through the portal wall into the bakeshop next door, Colangelo's.  Standing at the window counter, I enjoyed my coffee and cherry-filled pastry and watched as a fine snow began to gently land out of a bright blue sky.

I proceeded down Penn Avenue to the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company for figs, lemon curd, rosemary crackers, and blackcurrant jam.  At Stamoolis' next door, I bought their perfect muhammara.  After meditating on how much I liked the coffee I was drinking, I went back to La Prima to ask which blend I was drinking so that I could buy a pound to bring home and use in the Jura.  I welcomed a pound of their Ogni Giorno blend into our lives with great happiness.

From there, I stopped by Penzey's spices to buy a fresh bottle of Vietnamese Cinnamon, which is perhaps the only cinnamon worth buying if you're a baker.  At Prestogeorge, I bought two pounds of our favorite AA-grade Kenyan coffee and honey sticks for the tea I'm hosting next Friday.

I considered the possibilities at Wholey's of making their beautiful Alaskan Halibut for dinner, but decided to hold off.  I similarly left Lotus Foods, an Asian grocer, empty-handed.  A final stop at Leaf & Bean for cigars and I was back in the car, headed for home, via La Gourmandine, the wonderful French bakery on Butler Street.

This is what I've missed.  This taste of life - of what it's like to live in a city and surround oneself with it.  To be among people who are not overprivileged, pretentious, nouveau riche white North Hills assholes.

It's coming home with food that you will use to enrich your life and enliven your soul.

It's the sense of wonder as the snow falls.

It's life.

And I've really missed it these past months.

What to write?

I could blog about the weather, but I'd really rather not.

One could hold forth on the vagaries of the winter in Pittsburgh, encapsulating snow, sleet, ice pellets, rain, and sunshine in the span of about six hours.

Then there's the situation with the water supply for the entirety of Pittsburgh within the boundary of the rivers possibly being contaminated with Giardia.  That's fun.  We're drinking bottled water and drank fine Belgian beers out of plastic cups at Sharp Edge.

Or there's Beyonce being pregnant with twins, though I fear I'd run out of steam rather quickly there.
I skipped the gym today and, instead, went on a 2+ mile walk in Highland Park with Matt after he came home from work.  Sometimes the chill and rush of winter air beats the hell out of the warm, dry sterility of the gym.

I guess I'd forego writing on anything of substance and just go bake banana nut muffins for Matt to take into work tomorrow.

Avoiding the Rut

The challenge I'm doing my best to face head-on is not allowing myself to get caught in a rut.

Today, I realized that it's very easy for me to get trapped in a loop of checking my email, Facebook, the Washington Post, and Huffington Post in a weird ad nauseam way.  Since I unsubscribed from a ton of retailer emails and deleted the bookmark links to them from my browser, I still have to get used to the absence of the crap from my life.  Weird.

My phone will notify me of anything important, whether emails or NPR news flashes.  Yet there I was, in some listless vicious cycle.

I went to the gym and grocery store this morning.  The gym was difficult due to a large Silver Sneakers contingent everywhere and stupid people blocking access to things.  The grocery store was mostly in case the weather goes to hell tomorrow.  I did job applications.  I had coffee.  I enjoyed a little bit of sunshine through the windows this afternoon.

But this day really felt like a loser in a lot of ways.

Oh well.  Only one thing to do and that's make tomorrow more fulfilling by hook or by crook.

As You Would Have Done Unto You

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles.  From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips.  "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed, to me:

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Emma Lazarus, 1883

This poem, written to raise funds to build the pedestal beneath the Statue of Liberty has eight lines that are little known and five and a half that are iconic, enshrined as part of the immigrant narrative in the early 20th century.  

Not that those immigrants were all welcomed with open arms.  Equally as well-known are the signs hung in storefront windows saying that bore the following message:

America's history of racism and xenophobia isn't something we're taught in grade school.  The genocidal acts committed against Native Americans are covered over by brown paper bag teepees and talk of the first Thanksgiving.  Also ignored is the isolationist policy that let World War I rage for three years as we ignored it.  Add onto that the refusal to admit Jewish refugees as World War II was boiling to eruption two decades later.

The pattern is very evident.  It takes different forms.  Once, it was Catholics that were undesirable.  Now it's Muslims.  Once, there was a quota on how many Asians were allowed admission.  Now it's a total ban on people from majority-Islamic countries that the current President just co-incidentally doesn't have business ties to.

The Book of Luke, chapter six, verse thirty-one reminds us to "Do unto others as you would have done unto you."

But Mister Trump doesn't consider anyone above him.  People don't do unto Trump.  He does unto them.

I've spent a lot of time in the past twenty-four hours wondering who would stand up to his hatred.  It turns out that it was a federal judge, Ann Donnelly, who was able to place a temporary injunction against this blanket ban.  One woman was able to re-open the borders and reunite families.  One woman, walking the walk and talking the talk.  As she would have done unto her, she has done for others.

This is faith in action.  Perhaps not religious faith, but faith in the United States, its Constitution laws, and the moral imperative it seeks to uphold.  It seems to me that Judge Donnelly understands the simple lessons taught by the Beatitudes.  Obviously, they are ones lost on the man inhabiting the highest office in the land.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.

We can only hope that these divine lessons carry some weight today.  It's obvious that there are good and righteous people judging by the photos of lawyers setting up shop in airports around the country to fight - pro bono, mind you - for the detained immigrants.  The tens of thousands who appeared at LAX, Kennedy, Dulles, O'Hare, Logan, and other major airports are living their truth.

Whether or not they're religious, they are undertaking the work of faith.  They are the beacon of welcome.  They are the home for these exiles.

They are America and what it should stand for in 2017.

Do One Thing With Love

Today has been a fairly lazy day.  I woke to make fresh blueberry scones, which was a nice touch for the morning, but which is further indulging my sense of self back in the kitchen.  The work of human hands and all that bit.

But the day has taken a terribly sad turn with the news coming from the nation's airports.  Muslim people - even those with legal green cards - are being banned from entering the country.  They're being detained and expelled.

If this was a movie, John Wayne would come riding over the hill and slay the evil bastard making these decrees, but it's 2017, Wayne's dead, and Elvis isn't cutting any more records.  We're pretty stuck.  Rock, meet hard place.

Just as one is about to lose heart, though, newer updates arrive showing mass protests at JFK Airport.
The people - the majority of Americans who did not vote for this evil man - will not stand for this.  They are rising and marching.  And we will continue to do so as it becomes ever more evident that our only choice is to resist and overcome.

More women and people of color are going to run for office.
More people are going to vote.
And the Republicans will lose.

We must choose love.  Unity in a divided nation is pretty far-fetched at this point.  The line of "Us" verus "Them" grows clearer every day.  And it won't be going away.

Choose to do one thing with love.  For yourself or a loved-one.  For a stranger.  Just act with love, kindness, and affirm the dignity of someone in danger of being trampled by this sadistic regime that has taken over Washington, D.C.

Choose love.

Love will trump Hate and make Trump hate us.

Love will win.

Returning to the Kitchen

When I began working with W-S in June, I was forced to make compromises with my own life and passions.  The biggest of them?  The time I got to spend in my kitchen.

There's something tragicoming here... working for yet another company that sold batterie de cuisine and not getting to enjoy the rather exceptional collection I'd already amassed.  In the summer, of course, one is not usually as dedicated to intensive cooking, but sometime around August I generally am hit with a deep longing for fall cooking.  Even though the weather doesn't reflect it, I yearn for soups and roasts worthy of a cool Autumn Sunday party to watch football on TV.

Only, work had other plans for me.  As early November arrived, my boss announced his resignation, which left me, the erstwhile No. 2 in command, as something of a temporary No. 1.  What lay ahead - 55 hour weeks, intense exhaustion, anxiety, depression, and a month-and-a-half long countdown until it was all over - kept me even more out of the kitchen that I'd been previously.  Matt picked up much of the slack, making sure that we were fed, but allowing me to do what I could when I could.

I never understood how troubling this forced absence would be until I was in the midst of it.  During my time with SLT, I was allowed the time to cook, to enjoy my weekly farmer's market, to source my ingredients, and enjoy my craft.  During 2016, I believe I was able to go to the farmer's market twice.  To my knowledge, I never bought a single fresh strawberry in 2016.

As I just stood in my kitchen making pizza dough, it occurred to me that I can't possibly think of the last time I made bread.  That heady scent of flour as it commingles with yeast, salt, sugar, water, and olive oil (for this recipe, at least) is something secure and unmistakably pleasant to me.

This weekend, I plan to make chicken noodle soup, another long-absent friend.  I hope this period between jobs doesn't last too terribly long, but I'm damned determined to make the most of it while I've got the time so to do.

I remember reading Ruth Reichl's last book, My Kitchen Year: 136 Recipes That Saved My Life, a tome written as a reflection on the year after the demise of Gourmet magazine, of which Reichl was the editor.  It inevitably connected with me, both due to our shared love of the kitchen and Ms. Reichl's sumptuous, yet straightforward prose.

In mourning her career and the magazine she was so dedicated to shepherding, she found solace in the kitchen, surrounded by her lifetime's passion and work.  Reichl reconnected with the foods she loved and, in them, found meaning.

Having had the chance to speak with Reichl after her 2015 lecture at the Carnegie Music Hall in Oakland, I asked her who the next Ruth Reichl was going to be, m
eaning what was the next chapter for this woman whose life had so long been dedicated to food writing.  She replied that she didn't know, but was pretty happy with the Ruth she was right then.

I don't know what my next act will be, but I'm going to spend this brief intermission finding joy in the things I love, revisiting some fond favorites, and trying out some new recipes along the way.

Getting the Routine

I've stuck to my guns so far and not bought anything besides foodstuffs.

Really, it's been easier than I would have thought, though it's interesting to me how Pavlovian my reactions are.  I still click to my "Other Bookmarks" link, which is where I used to keep a lot of my retail links.  They've been gone for almost a week now and yet I still automatically track to their location.  Yet another habit to break.

The other big chunk, which after working for years in retail isn't so hard, is staying away from shopping centers.  The three and a half years I spent with Sur La Table were made more tolerable by the copious natural light that came into the space from the enormous walls of windows.  Williams-Sonoma, which was on the ground level of its mall, was a dark pit by comparison.  You had to step outside the front door and crane your neck upwards to even see light from the skylights far above.  Not exactly ideal.

Speaking of Sonoma, one of my former co-workers was messaging me this morning that it's in chaos.  The new general manager is apparently in way over her head and, well, that's not my problem.  I think a big part of the issue is that she'd been a District Manager for ages and ages with her former employer, Abercrombie & Fitch.  She doesn't know the product, doesn't know the area (she moved here from Oakland, CA), and doesn't have me (who knew everything and had been running the business since early November).  And what she does have is the overbearing D.M. who was a huge reason I wanted to depart the company.

But enough of that.  Back to happier pastures.

I treated Matt and myself to ice cream last night at Millie's on Highland and went to get a little sweet this morning at Oakmont, but I consider those to be sanity-stabilizing indulgences.  A little taste of life, I guess.

Matt went yesterday after work while I was up visitng my mom to renew our membership with the Kingsley Association so that we can get back to the gym.  I went today, doing about half of the Cybex circuit, twenty-five minutes on the elliptical, and rowing a quick 500 meters on the rowing machine.

I've gotten one job application sent in today and my goal is to get another one - one for a job that sounds absolutely incredible and a great fit.  I've been struggling with the content they want because I want it to be perfect.  Silly, I know.  The object is to get the damned thing done and out of my hands.

Back to business.  And back to a life I recognize.

The Ritual of Tea

I think yesterday's wicked headache may have had - in part - something to do with not having any caffeine intake.  More often, I'll end up with one due to dehydration, but I know I was drinking water yesterday, so all bets are off.

I'm beginning this day with tea and baking before going to visit my mother.

To me, coffee and cigarettes have a lot in common.  As do tea and cigars.  While coffee is so often that quick jolt, a needed drug to begin or muddle through the day, tea is slower.  It takes time.  At least in our house, where we're lucky enough to own a superautomatic coffee maker, tea-making takes a glacial age at four minutes.

Similarly, a cigarette is meant to be quick.  That addicted calm of nicotine.  A cigar, conversely, is a lengthy, slow process of flavor, watching the smoke curl upwards into the sky.

My work life for four years has been so surrounded by coffee that any time I can take to reconnect with tea feels special.  I'll often seek out both when I'm away on holiday, but I more often bring tea home to experience over again.

Like most everyone, I grew up on Lipton Black Pekoe tea bags for both hot or iced teas.  Growing up in Western Pennsylvania in the 1980s, it wasn't like I had a lot of options.  But between travel and local resources here in Pittsburgh, I've found some wonderful tea varietals.

Part of what I want out of this period between jobs is to find the slowness and ritual in life that I can look to when I'm busy again as an anchor, a point of calm.

Baking and cooking are always those moorings.  But tea, I think, makes a beautiful way to start off a day.

Day the Third

I went out in public today and spent money.  On groceries, so we're okay there.

But otherwise I didn't accomplish a damned thing.  That's to my detriment, I'm sure, but I didn't have the energy and then ended up with a ripping headache that put me in bed late afternoon.

I need to get a schedule put to my days.  Some format by which I can make things happen: read, apply for jobs, cook, relax, and hopefully get to the gym.  I think that's how one both survives and thrives in these interrim periods between jobs.

Tomorrow is a visit with my mom.  But then Thursday and Friday have to be back on task.  I want to walk into the weekend with a positive look back on these days that, yes, I could have done better, but that I did well for a start.

I admit defeat today.  It was my fault.  And I'm going to make the rest of the week better.

Retail "Therapy"

The Oxford Dictionary defines the word “Therapy” as meaning: Treatment intended to heal or relieve a disorder.

Chemotherapy attempts to kill cancer.

Physical therapy helps people after surgery or an accident.

Speech therapy aids those with speaking issues.  

Retail therapy serves to empty our wallets and fill our lives with crap.  

By spending money, what salve is being applied to what unspeakable ailment?  A sacred Balm of Gilead to heal what wounds?  

So where did the concept of Retail Therapy come from and who convinced us of its necessity?

According to Wikipedia (Yes, a professor of English citing Wikipedia in a piece... ye gods!), the term "Retail Therapy" first appeared in 1986 in the Chicago Tribune newspaper.  "We've become a nation measuring out our lives in shopping bags and nursing our psychic ills through retail therapy."

The era of conspicuous consumption.  Of big shoulder pads and bigger egos.  

Though fashions and times may have changed, I daresay our desire to acquire has only grown more voracious and desperate.  

We have been thoroughly bamboozled by retailers who have convinced us that what we own is not enough.  Not new enough.  Not good enough.  We should not be satisfied until we have replaced or added-on to the point that we are the point of envy.

For me, accumulation has been a long-standing issue.  This issue has not been helped by four years spent working for retailers who sell things I love and can easily fall prey to.  I love cooking and baking and have for a long time.  

Granted, some things were necessary.  Matt would agree on that point.  We needed new dishes.  We have them now, able to serve 16 people, which is about the largest group we can seat at table for a big, big dinner.  Add-on stemware and barware to match.  And flatware.  And linens.  Suddenly, you can see how this spirals out of control.

I'm sure that I'd be absolutely appalled if I could see the amount of money I've spent in the four years I worked for SLT and W-S.  Money that could have been saved or paid onto student loans.  Money that could have been put towards a car or a vacation.  Real, tangible greenbacks that are made somehow less impactful due to the fact that they are invisble and whisked away by a plastic credit or debit card.

Our world-view of what is needed versus what is wanted has been so poisoned by advertisers, planned obsolescence, and our own fickle desires that I don't know if there's a way back.

For me and my part, I'm attempting a retail detox this month.  Today is day two.  Whenever a retailer is contacting me via email, I'm either completely unsubscribing or reducing their emails dramatically.  Same goes for the companies I've liked on Facebook.  

I've even gone into my browser bookmarks and removed those quick-clicks that led to so much wasted time and which planted the seeds of desire for so much of the useless stuff that wants to be brought into our lives.  

It's not so much the classic image of monkeys covering eyes, ears, and mouth.  This is a more active, positive quest to free myself of these poisons and those who feed them into our lives.  

No malls, no browsing, no such activity.  

Today is day two.  

Four Years On...

It's been nearly four years since I've updated this blog and, while some things have not changed, many huge, important milestones have come and gone in my life together with Matt.

For one, we own a home now.  We live in the Stanton Heights neighborhood of Pittsburgh.  I worked for three and a half years with Sur La Table before moving on to Williams-Sonoma.  We've seen lots of good and bad moments come and go, but we're still pretty much the same semi-boring people we've always been.

Friends have come and gone.  My mom is still kicking.  And, dammit, I'm still here.

My time with W-S has come to an end and I am looking towards the next step.

What will it be?  Your guess is as good as mine.

I've already begun applying for jobs and will be continuing to do so in earnest.  I stopped to talk with my good friend Maria on Friday and will likely be helping her out at the shop a few days to learn a bit of that business, give me something to do, and keep my sanity intact while the job search gets underway.

However, the thing I'm here to write, reflect upon, and hopefully chart the progress of is a Month Without Shopping.

Beginning today - the 22nd of January - and lasting until the 23rd of February (I'm going to try for the long month of 31 days), I want to keep myself from spending unnecessarily.

I'm allowed to buy groceries and toiletries.  If a lightbulb blows out, we're not going to live by candle.  Bills will be paid.  But otherwise I'd like to keep my spending at an absolute minimum as a challenge to myself.

Since college - and likely before that - I've been a shopper.  It's not that I've needed most of the things I've bought.  It's that shopping acted as a cork for some unknowable hole in my life.  Depression?  Very probably.  A temporary thrill to salve over a larger problem sounds like why some people drink or take drugs.

I generally operate without cash, so it should be fairly easy for me to keep track of my spending, not losing the odd $5 bill to this or that.

I'm going to be very boring this month, but for a very good reason.  I need to do this for me.

Here's to day one.