Kitchen Wench

I usually don’t think too hard about why I do this. Writing feels familiar and comfortable. It’s not that is feels natural, like breathing, but that it feels routine and “normal”, like brushing your teeth before going to bed. Like brushing your teeth, it’s become sort of a habit. It would feel strange not to do it, because that’s what you’ve always done.

But it wasn’t always like this. This weekend, author and essayist David Foster Wallace hanged himself at 46. It is incredibly sad, for a multitude of reasons. I felt a little lurch inside me when I heard the news. I have always loved reading, but it wasn’t until high school that I started reading authors that made me not just want to consume words, but create them myself. David Foster Wallace was one of those writers.

Unlike many of the books I read for class, DFW was a modern American author. He was still alive; in fact, at the time, he was in his mid-thirties. So, I wrote him a fan letter. It was several pages long, typed. I told him all about how his book made me want to write, but that I also felt paralyzed by my own fear and perfectionism. Later, I read over it and became a bit embarrassed by my boundless enthusiasm and precocious rambling. I consoled myself with the fact that he’d probably never read it, that the publisher would never actually route the letter to the right place, and it was probably sitting in some mail room in New York gathering dust this very minute…

He wrote me a thank you note. When my mother handed me the letter, I just stared at it for several minutes, too terrified to open it. What could he possibly have to say to me? I felt about as insignificant as a dust mote, and this man was heralded as one of the greatest authors of modern time. In slanted, blocky script, David Foster Wallace told me that letters like mine helped him and that he too struggled with a harsh inner critic. The note was deeply humbling, encouraging, and personal. He signed it with a funny smiley face doodle. I was utterly delirious.

I still have the note, nearly ten years after I received it. I kept it tucked away in my bedroom and would reread it on occasion, still stunned that David Foster Wallace had sent me a handwritten thank you note. I briefly considered applying to Pomona, just so I could take a creative writing class with him. In the end, practicality won the day, and I went to college close to home. I still continued to read him over the years, but had forgotten all about this little exchange.

Today, I feel like I am inundated with words. Every morning, I read the newspaper on the subway; my Outlook inbox at work is constantly overflowing; and I get agitated just looking at the unread post count on my Google Reader. Amidst all this incoming data, it’s easy to forget that words can do more than convey the most basic of information.

When I first read David Foster Wallace, I knew I wasn’t grasping the entire depth of the work. But I could tell that he was blisteringly talented, and that his moments of brilliance were often heartbreakingly beautiful. What also struck me about Wallace was his ability to observe and understand other people (both real and fictional). As Laura Miller describes in her Salon article, he had a singular way of connecting the reader to the most unlikely of characters. I never had any illusions that I could write using language and vocabulary at such a high level. I did, however, cling to a sliver of hope that I could aspire to capture human experiences in a humorous and perceptive way. I still do, and I guess that’s why I’m still here writing this.

I am sitting in my living room watching a Paula Dean marathon on the Food Network. My hope is that this festival of butter, eggs, mayonaise, and southern charm will culminate with “Paula’s European Vacation”, as I think that watching Paula eat her way across Europe for the first time will probably be fattening and entertaining.

I’ve been watching an awful lot of the Food Network lately, but the truth of the matter is, I haven’t cooked anything since those oatmeal cookies, save a delicious grilled Rachel sandwich. Ever since being spit out from my undergraduate institution last month, I’ve been trying to get my life reorganized for this rude entry into “The Real World.” Right now, that means being preoccupied with money (or lack thereof) until my first paycheck, as well as packing up everything I own in preparation for moving. This doesn’t leave me a lot of time or energy to cook, though I have obsessed over microwaves, glassware, and trying to fit a mandolin slicer into my check-in luggage.

Instead of creating, I have been consuming (albeit in moderation), but frankly, it’s just not the same. Good food is delicious, but I feel so… passive. And a little bit bored. Expect some changes in this blog in the upcoming weeks–it’s going to expand and change shape as I adjust to urban living, eating out on the cheap, dollar-streching, and cooking dinner for two most nights of the week. I’m pretty excited about getting back into a rhythm and getting creative–but that seems pretty far away at the moment.

In the meantime, it’s back to watching Paula find 101 uses for the canned biscuit.

No, I’m not talking about the delicious crunchy topping on those familar breakfast treats, which also happened to be the subject of a semi-famous Seinfeld episode.

I’m talking about what the Urban Dictionary defines as that unsightly roll of flesh which bulges above a pair of too-tight jeans. You know what I’m talking about. It might even be worse than “plumber’s ass.” And, of the many items accquired on my travels through China, it appears to be the one that keeps on giving.

Up until now, it never occurred to me to address the issue of weight loss on here. Yet weight gain is often an inevitable part of eating lots of rich, delicious foods–or at least it is for some of us. Two years ago, I discovered that I can no longer eat whatever I want, whenever I want, in any amount that I want. After being away from a scale for nearly 5 months in China, I started screaming when I got home and found that I had gained 10 pounds and a wardrobe full of ill-fitting clothes. As someone who had never gained more than a couple pounds in any given time period, this was a pretty big deal–I’d gained 10% of my original body weight. It took me six more months and a few new pairs of pants to lose it all, plus a little more.

I am pretty sure it’s impossible not to gain weight while traveling in China. In a city where running a mile on an outdoor track is equivalent to smoking a pack of cigarettes, excercise seems to do more harm than good. Also, those eight or nine 12 course banquets I had to sit through probably didn’t help, not to mention the countless hotel buffets, abundance of cheap food, and the constant eating out.

Anyway, while I actually managed to fit back into most of my pants this time around, my waistline looks an awful lot like a dreadfully fattening blueberry muffin, hot from the oven (except for the part where my skin isn’t covered in purple spots). I tried to see if there was any quick way to fix this, before I have to start a new job with my stomach hanging out of those suits I bought 2 inches ago. Google rewarded my search with an article written by a transvestite who advocated 180 sit-ups (not crunches) for a week.

Well. I can barely do one sit-up, let alone 180, so that’s out. In the meantime, it’s back to denying myself delicious things (like that nutty, flaky aged gouda in the refridgerator–8 grams of fat per oz!) and forcing myself to use this terrifying eliptical running machine that’s been collecting dust in the dining room. I kind of hate running. But I hate the idea of buying a new wardrobe even more. Running is free, dress pants are expensive, and 2 inches from now, my new metabolism should allow me to eat the occasional ounce of aged gouda cheese.

Well, it’s that time of year again. It’s nearly Christmas and suddenly all the things that I’ve been trying to get done leading up to this moment still aren’t done and I find myself just sort of… giving up. For two days I’ve been in this fog; I can’t remember half of what’s on my To Do List (or maybe my brain is just blocking it out) and I’ve thrown my hands up at getting those remaining people presents. None of us really needs anything, I don’t have the time or will to shop, and this year, I really don’t have very much money and the economic forecast is not looking so rosy.

The thing is, the money, cooking, cleaning, and shopping stress isn’t really what’s at the heart of this. Really, it just comes down to that impending sense of doom–that all this effort is really just leading up to several suffocating hours trapped in the same room as your entire extended family. All I want to do is cook the amazing spread I have planned and then hide in my room with my dinner plate. And, this is really selfish, but I really want to cook what I want, regardless of whether certain people have the gall to complain about it. We host Christmas every year and if I’m going to entertain you in “my” own house, I expect that you will respect the effort that I have put into planning a menu (yes, a menu where the dishes were carefully selected) and not complain that maybe your favorite vegetable or meat was not featured this year.

I don’t think this is a matter of feeling underappreciated–I don’t really want to start having Christmas at someone else’s house because I like that my dad and I do the cooking. For one, I can’t stand the thought of eating bad food at Christmas. For two, I sort of feel like if you have some people who have a clear standout skill, it makes sense to let them do what they do best. It’s sort of like my “gift”, I guess. Really, I think I just want some appreciation for “the art” of the Christmas meal. The thought, the time, the work, the tradition! C’mon people, I just want a little RESPECT! *overdramatic head toss*

Seriously, as frustrated as I’ve felt for the last 24 hours, I have come to some more productive conclusions. You can’t please everybody, and your family is probably the toughest audience of all because you didn’t pick them. I can choose my friends, usually based on the fact that we have common interests or otherwise understand each other. There’s no point in twisting myself out of shape for someone who is never going to be satisfied, be it with my salmon or with my political views. It’s easier to say you’ll grow a thicker skin than to actually do it, of course. But I have to start somewhere, and it might as well be over a piece of fish.

I used to say that there was very little good that could come out of a Livejournal (or similar service). Indeed, most of my dealings with personal diaries have not ended well. Yet, I have to admit that I find certain ones utterly fascinating to read. I don’t mean those blogs where people write about current events or politics or sports. That’s actually relevant and maybe even informative, but what I like is that semi and/or pseudo-intellectual emotional garbage people shit out of their left ear. You know, where the author tries to get all deep and stuff about some (usually) mundane experience. Read the rest of this entry �

I’ll admit it: this is not my first blogging attempt. But, invariably, I don’t keep it up because once I set foot on campus, I am way too busy. However, I’ve decided, this layout is too damn pretty for me to give up. Also, for less shallow reasons, I don’t want to give it up—I like writing and I really need to give myself more excuses to do it for pleasure. I only have a few more months left to my undergraduate career, so in the meantime I accept that writing while in school is next to impossible, perhaps my life beyond holds the promise that I will be able to cultivate this hobby. (Or maybe that is just terrifically demented wishful thinking.)

Looking over the course of fall term, it’s not even worth getting down on myself. I don’t remember when I’ve ever been this busy with classes and work. The work was surely worth it, as my bank account proves. As to the classes, I’m not so sure—by the end, the mere mention of grad school sent me into a twitching fit. I love knowledge—but sometimes I hate the process by which I’m expected to consume it. Maybe I’m just getting burnt out.

Regardless, I survived fall term. I’m back home. And I hope I’m back here, at least for the next month.