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Tuesday, February 3, 2004

things i love about my sweetheart:

* he's sweet, funny, smart, compassionate, articulate, and amazing.
* he's a wonderful writer, who spins fantabulous stories and invents characters out of whole cloth, characters you'd want to buy a beer.
* he's a great dad, who takes the time to listen, and who sees his kid as an entire little person of his own.
* there's an arc of white dots on the iris of his left eye that looks to me like a constellation hanging in the sky.
* one of the benefits of his weight loss (which is in and of itself laudable) is that he regained an adorable tush to go with the legs, which were always sexy.
* he loves rubbing my feet, because he likes making me happy.
* we can talk about the hard things.
* he's an excellent chef, not to mention artist, musician, construction guy, photographer... (have i mentioned that he's exceptionally talented?).
* when we curl up together, i feel like i fit just so with him.



:: scribbled at 10:09 PM ... ... o





my frustration, of course, has found many subjects. not content to be a one-topic frust, it has trotted off, merrily seeking new irritants for me.

the state of my house is one of them. i go thru cycles of being happy with my space, then thinking it's a pit, then doing something about it, then being happy again. but lately, the frust has been helping me see there's soooo much more to it than that.

because, see, it's not just cleaning what's there. it's also obsessing about a whole new order of clean that comes into play when there are little smalls involved, a new order of clean that was apparently burned into my neurons at an early age. and i can't figure out how to resolve that one. why can't the game plan be different? where do the standards originate? how do i decide what's important for me? why do i feel compelled to 'measure up', and who the hell is judging me, anyway?

and let's not even talk about the whole yard sale issue. because the combined contents of two households just won't fit in one house, so things have to go. but what things? see, i can't just dust the footed glass bowl on the sideboard these days; i have to assess the relative importance of the footed glass bowl, and its emotional import, and do i want it, and should i find a place for it, or does it get tagged and go into the yard sale, and do we do the yard sale first, *then* move (as would seem sensible, but then someone wouldn't have a toaster), or do we move then yard sale, and you have to get a permit for that, and get people to come buy your stuff...

*sigh* okay. breathe.

just so you know: it is not all frustration and angst around here. mostly, but not all.

last night, for example. i cooked. i poured a glass of wine, put on the local radio jazz show, emptied out the contents of the 'fridge, and puttered around the kitchen for most of the night.

i figured that if i got all the cooking done in one fell swoop, i could reheat meals for a few days, and have plenty to bring for lunch as well. choices for this week include:

* stuffed chicken breast with wild rice and sundried tomatoes
* roasted portobellos, fennel and tomatoes with olive oil, rosemary and balsamic vinegar
* roasted yellow peppers and sunchokes with white wine vinegar and olive oil
* sautéed brussel sprouts with shallots and caraway
* Bhutanese red rice
* stir fried beef with sugar snap peas, baby corn and water chestnuts

plus, i've got some baby spinach to steam up tonight, and cherry pork sausage to sauté as well.

Chica Bean was laughing at me on the phone last night - 'what, are you running a restaurant?' it does seem like a lot, looking at the list, but it wasn't much to do. chop, peel, cook. very calming way to spend the night. and man oh man, but the place smelled good.

also, it's part of my plan to eat more healthily. or at least, to eat more vegetables. i'm trying to introduce one new vegetable to my repertoire each week for a while. so far, red chard and sweet potatoes are the new regulars. i've always liked sweet potatoes, and the new favorite recipe is this:

Cumin Glazed Sweet Potatoes

4 sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1 1/2 inch cubes
1 1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/4 c honey
1 c chicken stock
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350°. Whisk cumin, honey and chicken stock together in shallow roasting pan. Add sweet potatoes and stir well, coating potatoes. Roast for about an hour, stirring occasionally, until liquid is reduced and become dark and syrupy.

mmm.... sweet taters. yum. cooks well with others, holds well for a few days.



:: scribbled at 6:48 PM ... ... o



Monday, February 2, 2004

radio silence can be interpreted in any number of ways.

for me, it is the sound of intense frustration.

i was sitting in a meeting last week, and partway thru, i realized that there was a print on the window. it looked, i thought, like someone had leaned their head back against the glass, except that it was far too high to make sense for sitting in a chair, too odd that someone would just lean back while standing there. the sun came out full force about then, and i realized that there wasn't just a round smudge, but a line, two lines, waves balancing each side... it was a bird print.

i sat there for much of the rest of the meeting, watching how the print changed as the sun went in and out. there were, i was pretty sure, claw marks as well. when all the discussion was done, i wandered over to the window and nearly pressed my nose up against the glass, examining the bird print. the details were amazing, and saddening. if you looked close enough, you could make out the beak, the bone structure on the wings, the scales on the feet, each overlapping row of feathers on the bird's breast. i peered down at the patio, hoping to see some hint that all had ended well. no clues, just bird print. and i thought, ouch. and yeah.

much of the bitterly intense frustration of the last few weeks has caught me off guard. bitter, because i did not see it coming. bitter, because i see my part in it. bitter, because i do not have answers. at the least, i wish i had had that moment of shattering clarity when i hit the glass.



:: scribbled at 10:18 PM ... ... o



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