Last night I planted chocolate seeds...well, if by last night you mean 3am this morning and if by planting chocolate seeds you mean throwing Nestle semi-sweet mini morsels off your balcony and into the lawn.
After making chocolate-chip pancakes for a breakfast-themed dinner and left with just a handful of morsels packed into a corner of the nearly empty bag, we thought it quite wise to use the remaining chips as seeds...you know, "teach a man to fish" and so forth. We thought it quite sacrificial, too, all four of us imagining those last bits melting on our tongues.
I suppose the thinking was that chocolate will grow on trees, even if the "seeds" are a highly processed mixture of chocolate paste, cocoa powder, and liquid chocolate which hold no capacity whatsoever for germination. Despite such oversight, it was a noble endeavor.
We mused about what the chocolate fruit would look like when ripe for the picking. Would it hang from the flowers of the tree in the same shape as the morsels, tear-dropped like Hershey Kisses? A narrow stem above a heavy base seemed logical, gravitational. We began to get greedy and wondered if MiracleGro would turn the morsels into solid Nestle bars, or better yet, Nestle Crunch bars. Should we sprinkle some krispies into the ground? Should we make our own labels and package them and sell them for a dollar at the CSU? Should we call them "The Neverending Chocolate Bar" (also available in the Krispie variety) and sign contracts that forbid any of us from discolsing our secret chocolate seeds?
Nah. No MiracleGro. No krispies. We only grow organinc.
I can picture the semi-sweet mini morsels now, some still above ground and sprinkled in the grass with no hope of rooting, some flying high in the bellies of birds, some--the smallest--melted away by rain. I remember how silly it felt at the time. We wondered if the trees would grow tall enough to harvest right from my second story balcony.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Raspberries
A sticky drip of raspberry Popsicle slips down my pinky before I can take the first bite. The world above careens by. The frozen fruits are organic and 100% raspberry according to the label and the friend who recommended them to me. Like eating off the twig, she says. I suck the syrup off my finger and snap off a good portion of the bar between my teeth.I’m eight years old and crouched at the top of the hill in J B's backyard. I’m stooped below the hedge of their raspberry bushes, one hand holding a woven wooden basket against my hip, the other led by its red-tipped fingers into the bushes. I’ve become skilled at picking raspberries because I’ve never turned down an offer to harvest from the B's—pick 10, eat one; pick 10 more, eat 2; pick 5 when no one is watching and eat until you’re full. I hold the berry between my forefinger and thumb, twist with a murderer’s precision, check the cavity once for bugs and pop it into my mouth, still warm from mid-summer sun.
Tastes like heaven.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
A very cliche day
I'm in Seattle and it's raining out--not a hard rain, a spittle--but it's cloudy and the mountains are hidden in haze and I'm drinking Chai tea from a paper cup with a big logo on it and even though it's NOT Starbucks it feels very much like Starbucks what with the coffee shop ambiance and plastic-framed-glasses wearing patrons and the easy listening music (John Cougar Mellencamp back when he still used the "Cougar") playing softly behind the whir of froth-making coffee/tea equipment. I'm taking a breather at Online Coffee Co. from an afternoon at the Pike's Street Market with some fabulous fish-throwing theatrics and a stop at a kick-ass independent book store. S met me for lunch at noon at a Mexican restaurant in the Queen Anne district. We sat by the window and he gave me some entertaining although not at all true history of the city: "the long, low brick hotel across the street from us was built in 1842 as a brothel and some nights you can still hear the wails and moans of the prostitute ghosts from the street."
My flight arrived yesterday about 45 minutes late. We boarded more or less on time but because of headwinds we flew up into Canada, somewhere over British Columbia, and then back down into Seattle. S picked me up and we went right to the Irish pub, Fado, where we (me, Ship, Lily I, Lily II, Laura, and Shane) took part in the weekly trivia game. Since it is so close to St. Patrick's Day all the trivia was Irish/Ireland related so my pop culture skillz were pretty much useless. Tonight we're having seafood and tomorrow we'll do an underground tour, kayaking, happy hour and getting drunk.
I've been pretty busy eating all the good food I come across, drinking lots of Harp and Pinot Grigio, oh and then eating some more.
Despite the general gloom of the weather I can see why Seattlites argue for the city's charm and get defensive when people say, "how can you live with that constant rain?" It's not a flat city. The streets are hills and they give it depth. The buildings are intricate and interesting, maybe because the city is so relatively new; many homes are craftsman and all the homes have huge, wall-sized windows. Pink-white cherry trees sprout up from the sidewalks and decorate homes in Magnolia where S and L live.
I could live here. Well, I could live anywhere, but I could enjoy living here.
My flight arrived yesterday about 45 minutes late. We boarded more or less on time but because of headwinds we flew up into Canada, somewhere over British Columbia, and then back down into Seattle. S picked me up and we went right to the Irish pub, Fado, where we (me, Ship, Lily I, Lily II, Laura, and Shane) took part in the weekly trivia game. Since it is so close to St. Patrick's Day all the trivia was Irish/Ireland related so my pop culture skillz were pretty much useless. Tonight we're having seafood and tomorrow we'll do an underground tour, kayaking, happy hour and getting drunk.
I've been pretty busy eating all the good food I come across, drinking lots of Harp and Pinot Grigio, oh and then eating some more.
Despite the general gloom of the weather I can see why Seattlites argue for the city's charm and get defensive when people say, "how can you live with that constant rain?" It's not a flat city. The streets are hills and they give it depth. The buildings are intricate and interesting, maybe because the city is so relatively new; many homes are craftsman and all the homes have huge, wall-sized windows. Pink-white cherry trees sprout up from the sidewalks and decorate homes in Magnolia where S and L live.
I could live here. Well, I could live anywhere, but I could enjoy living here.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Student Health
December 2, 2006: After a week of blinding pain I decided to renew my 5+month expired student health insurance (sometimes, when your life is routine enough, it's a bit exhilarating when you know that you have no health insurance), wait a few more days for it to clear, print out my temporary health insurance card, and make myself an appointment at the MSU clinic. I had been there once before, last semester, because I needed a tetanus immunization in order to enroll in classes for this year, and had a pleasant experience.
However.
This time around I got the full student health experience and I hope I never have to experience it again. The examining room was tiny, about the size of my porch. The velcro on the blood pressure sleeve kept popping off of my arm as it reached 70% maximum inflation. The nurse (who was supposedly a triage nurse) handed me a digital thermometer and instructed me to stick it under my tounge, only she handed it to me holding it by the part that was to go under my tounge. I wiped it, as un-discreetly as possible, before inserting. No fever.
She left me alone in the room and while I waited on the doctor, I heard voices. Specifically, a doctor and a patient in the room next door. The walls were so thin that I could hear everything. The patient's name was Jake and Jake was having explosive diarrhea and some penis discharge. I had met Jake in the waiting room, only I didn't know his name then or his affliction. We had both reached for the same People magazine while we were waiting, and he let me have it but my excitement was short lived because I soon realized that it was People en Espanol. I didn't want to feel like an ass and set it back down like the only reason I went for it was so that Jake couldn't have it, so I flipped through the pages and pretended to read it and be interested.
Needless to say, when Dr. Hurd came into my room and introduced himself, I recognized his voice as the same from the next room. I shook his hand. Then I wondered if he had just done any penis examinations and I wiped my hand on the cushion of my chair. I answered questions very quietly, hoping that my voice wouldn't travel through the walls.
Dr. Hurd had a medical student shadowing him, a young girl--younger than me--blonde, competent looking (but also looking like she would have no problem blending in at a bar with some evening make-up, a haltar-top, pleather pants and a greasy pole), quiet and with a constant and unnerving smile on her face. She looked over his shoulder as I lay back on the examining table and watched intently as the good doctor kneaded my stomach like a loaf of bread. Yes, his cold and possibly penis-tainted hands and her smiling stare made me uncomfortable.
"Where's your pain?" he asked.
"My lower left abdomen," I said.
"And what does it feel like?" he asked.
"Sharp, stabbing pains. I can't sleep at night," I said.
"And how long has this been going on?" he asked.
"Since the beginning of the week," I said.
I was convinced I had appendicitis but that didn't even seem to be on his radar. He thought I had a higher chance of being pregnant. Who knows what was going through the medical student's mind.
After a few more belly rubs and rounds of repeated questions and answers, he gave me a prescription for antacid and sent me on my way.
Welp, the meds didn't work, the pain subsided after about a week, and my appendix never burst. It's been three months and now I'm the picture of student health. Confirmation of the power of the mind: I will not be sick again until May 2008--graduation.
However.
This time around I got the full student health experience and I hope I never have to experience it again. The examining room was tiny, about the size of my porch. The velcro on the blood pressure sleeve kept popping off of my arm as it reached 70% maximum inflation. The nurse (who was supposedly a triage nurse) handed me a digital thermometer and instructed me to stick it under my tounge, only she handed it to me holding it by the part that was to go under my tounge. I wiped it, as un-discreetly as possible, before inserting. No fever.
She left me alone in the room and while I waited on the doctor, I heard voices. Specifically, a doctor and a patient in the room next door. The walls were so thin that I could hear everything. The patient's name was Jake and Jake was having explosive diarrhea and some penis discharge. I had met Jake in the waiting room, only I didn't know his name then or his affliction. We had both reached for the same People magazine while we were waiting, and he let me have it but my excitement was short lived because I soon realized that it was People en Espanol. I didn't want to feel like an ass and set it back down like the only reason I went for it was so that Jake couldn't have it, so I flipped through the pages and pretended to read it and be interested.
Needless to say, when Dr. Hurd came into my room and introduced himself, I recognized his voice as the same from the next room. I shook his hand. Then I wondered if he had just done any penis examinations and I wiped my hand on the cushion of my chair. I answered questions very quietly, hoping that my voice wouldn't travel through the walls.
Dr. Hurd had a medical student shadowing him, a young girl--younger than me--blonde, competent looking (but also looking like she would have no problem blending in at a bar with some evening make-up, a haltar-top, pleather pants and a greasy pole), quiet and with a constant and unnerving smile on her face. She looked over his shoulder as I lay back on the examining table and watched intently as the good doctor kneaded my stomach like a loaf of bread. Yes, his cold and possibly penis-tainted hands and her smiling stare made me uncomfortable.
"Where's your pain?" he asked.
"My lower left abdomen," I said.
"And what does it feel like?" he asked.
"Sharp, stabbing pains. I can't sleep at night," I said.
"And how long has this been going on?" he asked.
"Since the beginning of the week," I said.
I was convinced I had appendicitis but that didn't even seem to be on his radar. He thought I had a higher chance of being pregnant. Who knows what was going through the medical student's mind.
After a few more belly rubs and rounds of repeated questions and answers, he gave me a prescription for antacid and sent me on my way.
Welp, the meds didn't work, the pain subsided after about a week, and my appendix never burst. It's been three months and now I'm the picture of student health. Confirmation of the power of the mind: I will not be sick again until May 2008--graduation.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Calling the Dead
So I've been preoccupied with death lately.
I watch Six Feet Under every Monday night from 8:00 until midnight (to clarify, Bravo shows three full episodes back to back and since it's an HBO series they're longer than the 1-hour shows on cable, thus I spend every Monday night doing marathon-tube watching but it's sooo worth it). As the title of the show suggests, it's pretty morbid--funerals, cremation, suicides, kidnapping and beatings, murders, apocolyptic obsession, etc. Despite the show's abundant merits (writing and acting especially), there is little escaping the dark undertones.
For the past three weeks I've been working on an essay about my grandmother and her recent battle with cancer. I had set out for the piece to be more medical/objective regarding the initial diagnosis and (long) recovery process, but, as essays tend to do, it took on another life and I couldn't remove myself enough to NOT include Gran's lifespan and how much or how little of it she has left.
Finally, since the beginning of the semester I've been receiving phone calls in my office from various people--telemarketers, credit cards, insurance companies--all asking to speak to a guy named Z.H. He was a graduate student in the Literature track for the past few years but at the end of last semester the head of the track sent out an email notifying everyone of Z's suicide at a conference in Texas. This is all I know about him. This and that he apparently used to be in my office.
On February 20 I got a call:
Unlike all the previous callers, this man obviously knew that Z.H. was deceased: business affairs...family affairs. Still, I fumbled over the words used to be but no longer is. With all the other calls all I had to say was, "No" to "Is Z.H. in?" The man on the phone used a soft voice, I say used because it was clear that it was a put-on. I could feel the low resonance of his natural speaking voice. He probably thought I knew Z...I could have been his friend, his sister, his wife for all this guy knew. I can't remember the last time I was spoken to in such a thick tone of condolence. The tone itself made me sad, made me wish I knew Z and then made me wish that I didn't because if I did then I'd be one of the ones that lost him.
Death sucks even when no one is dying.
I watch Six Feet Under every Monday night from 8:00 until midnight (to clarify, Bravo shows three full episodes back to back and since it's an HBO series they're longer than the 1-hour shows on cable, thus I spend every Monday night doing marathon-tube watching but it's sooo worth it). As the title of the show suggests, it's pretty morbid--funerals, cremation, suicides, kidnapping and beatings, murders, apocolyptic obsession, etc. Despite the show's abundant merits (writing and acting especially), there is little escaping the dark undertones.
For the past three weeks I've been working on an essay about my grandmother and her recent battle with cancer. I had set out for the piece to be more medical/objective regarding the initial diagnosis and (long) recovery process, but, as essays tend to do, it took on another life and I couldn't remove myself enough to NOT include Gran's lifespan and how much or how little of it she has left.
Finally, since the beginning of the semester I've been receiving phone calls in my office from various people--telemarketers, credit cards, insurance companies--all asking to speak to a guy named Z.H. He was a graduate student in the Literature track for the past few years but at the end of last semester the head of the track sent out an email notifying everyone of Z's suicide at a conference in Texas. This is all I know about him. This and that he apparently used to be in my office.
On February 20 I got a call:
GA office.
Hi, ma’am. Hope I’m calling the right number. I’m trying to reach someone who handles the business affairs or family affairs of a Z.H. Is that name familiar to you?
You know, he used to be in this office but no longer is.
Okay. I’m sorry about disturbing you. Have a fine day.
That’s okay. You too.
Bye bye now.
Bye bye.
Unlike all the previous callers, this man obviously knew that Z.H. was deceased: business affairs...family affairs. Still, I fumbled over the words used to be but no longer is. With all the other calls all I had to say was, "No" to "Is Z.H. in?" The man on the phone used a soft voice, I say used because it was clear that it was a put-on. I could feel the low resonance of his natural speaking voice. He probably thought I knew Z...I could have been his friend, his sister, his wife for all this guy knew. I can't remember the last time I was spoken to in such a thick tone of condolence. The tone itself made me sad, made me wish I knew Z and then made me wish that I didn't because if I did then I'd be one of the ones that lost him.
Death sucks even when no one is dying.
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