Bloom.

Where we left off in September was when I wrote effort and the merits of “trying.” Saying that the process of trying is almost like writing code. If I try and do this I might yield that particular result.

But unlike code, life often doesn’t compute. 

I think of how hard I tried for a “natural” birth with both of my kids. Despite my efforts, education, so much research, a great support system, and every little bumper I could imagine, life had different plans and I had c-sections. One of which was an emergency. The other? With my second baby? It was an act of surrender.

The gorgeous, sunny, and hot fall had finally succumbed to grey, wind, and cold. It was Halloween and I walked out of my obstetricians office into the blustery elements. My 41 Week pregnant belly poked out of the puffy, non maternity winter coat I dug out of the closet that morning. As I got in the car, the rain pounded on my windshield and I started to cry just as hard. 

The baby looked great. In fact, she had a full head of hair making the woman operating the ultrasound equipment gush in amazement: “Oh my god, this baby has a lot of hair. A lot of hair! This baby has so much hair!” My doctor was fine with where things were, but made it clear we wouldn’t be able to go much longer.

Months earlier we had discussed my desire for a VBAC, or a vaginal birth after cesarian. After the trauma and pain of Theo’s birth, where nearly anything that could go wrong had, I wanted redemption. I wanted my natural birth. I knew I could do it. My body just had to get it started as an induction wasn’t an option once you have had a c-section. 

So, my body had to go into labor on its own to make a chance at a VBAC even possible. 

It just wasn’t.

And time was running out.

I was told that— in addition to a great head of hair— baby didn’t look too big, so that was good. But, she was still high up in my body and my cervix was not dilated at all.  

Memories of the random reports from friends after 38 Week appointments where they were “already two centimeters dilated” or of the many birth stories that I read and watched on YouTube where women just happened to be in active, progressing labor right on their due dates echoed in my head. 

Why couldn’t my body do that? Why couldn’t I do that?

They wanted me back in 48 hour for another check and to make some decisions. If things at that check up still looked good, I was told that I might be able to do what they called a “gentle induction.” As she explained the process, she rattled off some familiar tools that were used in the sampler platter of interventions that I had already received when Theo was born.

But, I wondered: What if the same thing happened? What if I waited two more days, went in, and got cytotec, the folly balloon, and pitocin? What if I bounced on the ball and rolled with the peanut thingy and did so many squats until an actual whole day passed. And then I had to have an epidural just so I could get some sleep. And, then after another full day would pass. And, would there be another couple hours of painful pushing and no progress to only end up with a c-section… again?

It took me a few more tears and a couple phone calls with Adam and my parents, but late in the afternoon I called the OB’s office and told them just to just forget the next appointment and book me for the OR. If this baby wasn’t coming on her own in the next 48 hours, I would just jump to where the “what if’s” were erased and that I already knew what I was in for.

I felt better, but still not great. But, I knew it was time to surrender.

There was a time when I used to think that surrender was giving up. I pictured a white flag flying signaling defeat or weakness. Or, someone throwing their hands up in frustration with a complete release of control with a exhasperated, “I quit!”

Now I know it is actually quite quiet, but not at all passive. It is just simply an acknowledgment of not wanting to fight any more. It is an openness and comfortably with the unknown and a release of control. 

I like to control things. I put forth good effort to make things in my life move with ease and care. As I wrote in the fall I try very hard. I believe it is good, worthwhile, and beautiful.

But, I can’t control it all. 

There is such a randomness to life. It has bombs that can go off without any notice. Things happen despite good effort. I am learning that I have to hold things loosely. 

This is hard in the sense of love and grief and especially in parenting. To know that I can love someone so intensely and also have so much of my responsibility boil down to keeping that someone alive and to know there are things beyond the limits of my control out in the world is a thought so hot that something in me actually hurts when I think about it.

That early morning of November 2, 2017 I learn that to surrender was not to give it up; but rather, it was to consent to reality with a gentle, quiet release.

That is good, worthwhile, and beautiful, too.

In fact, it may be a radical move to surrender. 

In an interview for the Betches newsletter, Jessica Knoll, the author of my favorite book of the fall, Bright Young Women describes a shift she made in her late thirties by asking herself one simple question: “Does that feel good to me?” 

She went on to explain how little she knew about herself. So many of the things she did was for other people. She didn’t know what she liked to eat, when she liked to go to bed, and more. She explained how impactful this little check in with her self was and how she is learning to let a few things go. She went on to say, “Self knowledge and self actualization is the enemy of the patriarchy. Being curious about who you are as a human being is a quietly revolutionary act.”

My friend Sara and I ask ourselves a similar question all the time. (Ours is more like “Am I doing this for me or because I ‘should?’”) Think on things like working out, wearing makeup, decorating for Holidays, volunteering, and more.

This curiosity about ourselves doesn’t seem like a form of resistance. It feels like just asking ourselves why we are doing what we are doing to make sure it is in fact something we actually want to do. But, what we have found along the way is: 1. Not many take the time to step back and do that reflection. Instead, they may just move along doing things they feel like they “should” be doing. And, 2. is that the things we have let go of often goes back to our own needs for validation or people pleasing.

So many of us are so conditioned to not follow our own instincts or to just do the things that are deemed “right” and “good” by outside forces. Realizing it does not actually feel good, but more like a “should” allows for some reflection and eventually, if desired, surrender. 

For me, this looks like getting B’s in a few areas of our day to day and home. We have a few “doom” piles and I couldn’t even tell you what the basement—Kid Zone— looks like these days. I am surrendering in real time to the idea that styling up an old home takes time (and money— goodness so much money) and that is okay.

I am letting go of the idea of perfectly made meals for every meal every day. The kids recently got very into buying lunch at school. At first, I wanted to push back. I should be making a well balanced meals and they should be eating something homemade. But, they want to get in the lunch line with their friends and, turns out, not packing two lunches each morning is a really big thing completely off my To Do List. 

I am no longer forcing the things that are not working or are things I don’t like to spend my time doing. In my life, that looks like the development (and implementation— LOL) of a “morning routine,” a truly 50/50 split of life, work, and home responsibility with Adam, and enjoyment of anything on TV besides old reality shows. I don’t do it.

It’s a simple dropping of a few “should be’s” and “it’s always been that way’s” and taking steps towards a world more in line with what feels good to me.

And, what is really coming to life recently is a surrender to something bigger. I have felt this before in parenting. It’s a feeling that comes in after any mass shooting or threat of World War, both of which have been remarkably common in my nearly eight years of parenting. It’s a surrender to a reality that I can’t stop the world and soften all it’s sharp edges. I can’t protect them from everything. And, a surrender to a hope that it will all be okay, even if it isn’t.

Just like effort, surrender can also be uncomfortable even when it is right. Check in on that. Is it only uncomfortable to other people while for you, it feels good? Let it go and stay curious. You will find that in surrender you will land in a place where you are quietly at ease. 

Anne Helen Peterson touched on the result of of surrender in her great newsletter “Culture Study” back in October. AHP writes about being in “the portal,” a time of life that she claims to be “a weird spiritual, emotional, professional, and transitional time for women ages 37 to 45.” (Side bar: I feel that.) In exploring her curiosity about this idea of “the portal” she explains she has considered starting everything from a new book to a flower farm and even a Podcast. However, maybe for the first time in a while, it isn’t high achieving and ambition pushing her forward, but creativity. And, that creativity is something she has not been able to access in years prior because she has finally let things go and in her words, “become less concerned with bullshit.”

Letting go has let us see things more clearly. It’s a little unsettling, but it’s also an awakening towards clarity and refinement.

So think in these early days of a new year, as the the trees outside are bare and the holiday hubbub has settled, maybe instead of empty it’s a great time for things to be more clear. And maybe instead of finding something more “to do” in a goal or resolution, maybe it is less. 

Maybe it’s letting go of habits that were never serving you. (Think: Daily coffee orders that are actually more like dessert, lunches with friends who make you feel terrible, aggressive group fitness classes, skincare obsessions, etc.) Letting go of relationships that are toxic or even just letting go of the idea that someone close to you is ever going to change and being quietly okay with that release of control. Maybe it’s letting go of always having to be right or in control— because how exhausting is that?

It’s the release of everything being a fight, because it doesn’t have to be that way. You deserve to find peace and ease.

Know that there is goodness and beauty in letting go and power in surrender.

Writer’s Note: A regret today about yesterday’s “In’s and Out’s” list… Kid goodie bags are fine and so are designer labels. I don’t love them, but that is just a me and my fears about the burning planet thing. I know they bring some people joy and if it’s you, you deserve that. And, eliminating little plastic toys and logoed purses probably isn’t going to save the planet. I was wrong. I am sorry.

Look at that… Surrender in action right there, you guys. 

I took an unplanned hiatus from writing in the fall. I will explain it all a bit more in an upcoming post, but I have no regrets AND I am eager to get back to my “Farmers Market and Library” project. Finishing this is a goal of mine for Q1 2024 and I am glad you are here to be a part of it– despite my lackadaisical, inconsistant approach to it.

“Goal for Q1” sounds very corporate. But, I like goals and decided to break this year down into quarters versus looking at the whole year as things I want to accomplish or experience in hopes of working with smaller, attainable goals. And, also being able to cross things off a list consistently helps me and my mental momentum.

In the very public age of social media and influencer culture, opinions about goals and resolutions are everywhere. Especially right now. I know there are people who are very “anti” New Year’s resolutions. (I live with one of such people.) And, I know it’s not necessarily helpful or healthy for everyone to make a list of things to seemingly “do more” of. But, I like the energy of the end of a year and the beginning of a new one.

Even with all its faults, if you share your reflections or resolutions on the internet, I am going to joyfully consume every little bit. I genuinely love hearing people consider their wins and loses of a year and hopes for the next one. Keep sharing them. It doesn’t even have to be just this week. All of winter is a slower time for reflections of all sorts.

One of my favorite things that I have been devouring online recently is the trend of creating an “In and Out” list for 2024. I like them because every list is so different it makes it clear this is personal. It’s makes everyone the own tastemaker of their lives versus making a claim for the wider “everyone” which is special, fun, and important.

You should be the tastemaker of your own life and engage with things that feel good and while letting go of things that don’t. These “In and Out” lists are not so much an “to-do” list full of goals and action items, but a list of desired ways of being and how to really lean in to what that means for you.

So, obviously I had to hop on the trend before I get back on my regularly scheduled program of a Tuesday “What I know” and Friday “What I Ate.” A few of these– especially if they are in the realm of lessons learned or food– have notes.

Let me know if any of this sounds good to you or perhaps what is “In and Out” for you in 2024. Happy New Year!

In

Caviar on a potato chip: This is part literal, part metaphor. We went to Napa in early December and it felt like nearly everywhere we were greeted with caviar. This was fun because it’s a little fancy, but we also had never had it before. We learned that caviar is often served with a blini, or a small little coin-sized pancake, and a dollop of creme fraiche. Potato is also a great compliment to caviar and an easy hack is to place a little creme fraiche and caviar right on a potato chip. (New York Housewives did this recently, too!) It’s great tasting, so do try it. But, for me it’s also the idea of incorporating “Little Luxuries” in my day to day. A sprinkle of maldon salt on a chocolate chip cookie, using the candle or a nice smelling shower bomb, topping some stovetop popcorn with parmesan and herbs. If you are familiar with “high/low” fashion, this idea is sort of adjacent. It is the mixing of something a little more fun, unexpected, and maybe even a little fancy in your every day.

Organization- I got myself a label maker in 2023 and I think it gave me a whole new personality. It was part of the reason for my hiatus this fall, honestly. Eager to keep this ball rolling and develop the right systems in our house.

Learning new things

Veggies at breakfast

Privacy

Cheering others on

Booking the trip

Real photo albums- A true “To-Do” of mine. I plan to put my ossified Yearbook Editor muscle to work and use Canva. (Did you know Canva was first created to help with school yearbook design? True story.) I would love to have two complete books by the end of the year. I also grabbed this photo scanner at the end of the year to digitize a lot of my old photos. In going through my old school boxes of high school prints for some of the images in “Farmers Market and Library” I was struck by how there are some photos that I would be really sad to lose if, like, the house burned down.

Mild (Healthy! Fun!) delusion 

Finishing— the project, the goal, the ahem… you know.

Dates— with friends, lovers, and yourself 

Stretching- Another real “goal” of the year. I want to try to do a ten minute Peloton stretch class each night before bed. I go through periods of trying to make this happen often, but this year I want to stick to it.

Writing freehand before typing

Using what you have

Keeping perspective 

Dopamine decor- When we moved, a lot of friends asked me if I was excited to decorate a new home. Of course! And, it has been fun. But, often times that question would be followed up with a “What’s your style?” Best I could muster was a “Nancy Myers inspired hybrid of transitional, light and airy California farmhouse with touches of moody, dark academia.” A mouthful. But, now I think I have landed on it with “Dopamine Decor,” or the idea of decorating your space with whatever feels great to you. Not what HGTV says or what Home Goods is showing or what you see in all the Mormon Mommy Influencers “Forever Homes.” I am loving collecting things that make me happy and especially finding places for the things I love that I already own– even if it isn’t “Trendy” or even something that perfectly matches. It is making our home a true reflection of our family and being home is pleasurable and satisfying.

Having conversations with strangers

Sharing good music, stories, and sunsets

Libraries and farmers markets…!

Out

“Needing” a drink

2x TikTok- In one manic morning in early December, I found myself on the treadmill watching Christmas gift guides on 2x speed on TikTok. It was an insane moment of optimizing consumption of all kinds and almost made me feel sick. No more 2x.

Assumptions- I recently heard someone share the idea of making “Charitable Assumptions” and I loved this idea of flipping the narrative to assuming great things about someone. Or even just giving people more benefit of the doubt. Maybe she isn’t cold, maybe she is tired or just thinking about something else. Maybe he isn’t an idiot, maybe he is scared. In a political fueled year, I feel like this is going to be put into practice a lot and is an idea worth sharing.

Mindless spending

Going to bed late

Girly = Vapid – This is work I have been untangling myself from for years and have written about a lot. The idea of being a cool, chill girl versus just a girl. Of liking what I like. Of not “shoulding” all over myself with antiquated thoughts on what a “Mom should…” or a “woman in the workplace should…” like or do or wear. One thing that really pushed this over the edge was all the Taylor Mania this year. So many of my friends who never were into her finally seemed to get into it and it’s been so fun sharing the love and joy of Taylor Swift with my nearest and dearest. Deep in a group text discussion a friend asked how I knew so much about the history, lore, lyrics, etc. and not in a condescending way. I wasn’t totally sure how to respond beyond the fact that I have been “studying” her since 2006 and made a joke about not having a postgraduate degree like so many of them, but I had this. Then it kind of hit me: If I had this kind of knowledge about, like… The Rolling Stones or Ray Charles or Dave Matthews, I would be, well to quote the one and only Taylor Swift, The Man.

Aging = undesirable – I read this quote from Coco Chanel recently: “No one is young after forty, but one can be irresistible at any age.” Aging is living, baby!

Dumb = Cute 

AI art

Labels- (Unless it’s off of my label maker.) But… Flashy designer stuff? No thanks.

Underwire

Constant selling

Convenience foods for the kids- Okay. Not totally. The drive thru on occasion is fine and some snacks in the pantry are okay. But, I have been relying on both too much lately. It’s time to teach the kids a little bit more about cooking and different foods. The kids and I talked resolutions for them and they are on board, even opting in to the idea of exploring a new country’s cuisine one night a month.

Goodie bags at kid parties – No more little things, please!

Phone before bed

Hauls

Fast fashion

Trying to do everything all the time

Stark Minimalism- Funny to come after a list with a handful of lines that basically say “less stuff!” But, owning stuff is okay and good, too! (See also: Dopamine Decor.)

Let me know what is “In and Out” for you!

The conversation about trying had a lot of parallels to to the last “leftovers” where I shared the idea of doing the things that future you will thank you for. I explained that effort in a few areas of my life sometimes feels like I can code a series of tasks to yield a particular result. 

If I don’t have a third glass of wine, I will sleep better.

If I take time to sweat a little in the morning, I have more energy and tolerance for the after school hustle.

But, of course you can’t code life. Things go sideways, get hard, get busy, get thrown off track. I sometimes call these areas of effort “bumpers” for life. (Think like in bowling.)

Kelly Corrigan recently shared something similar on Instagram Live explaining her mantra of “taking care of the house.” In which, she shared the story of when she first started therapy in her thirties after a bout of panic attacks. Before they could even addressed the panic attacks, her therapist asked if she was getting a good night’s sleep, drinking water, getting outside, etc. Kelly explained that she learned that sometimes we may put up a story around things, but ignoring these basics can make it harder to get back to normal physically, emotionally, and psychologically. So now Kelly imagines it all as “taking care of the house” and recognizes that it’s hard to address bigger issues when these are not taken care of.

I have consumed a lot of Kelly Corrigan content over the years. Her books, her podcast, her random Instagram Lives… Somewhere over the years, I heard her say something in line with “taking care of the house,” but took it even a step further saying, “We live in our heads, we might as well hang nice art.”

Her thought process here was to fill you head (your house!) with not art literally— unless you want to— but, to put care into what you consume. To decorate the place with things that delight you and make you think. To not have piles of junk hanging around or to bring in things you don’t like to look at.

So, we can maintain a house… and also make it a nice place.

Here is some of the “art” that hangs in my “house.”

Influencers– I am a big fan of finding influencers you like to follow that are a little bit older than you. For me, Beth Chappo— an indy native— is great for home decor, food, fashion, and making life bright and fun. Grace Atwood is a great follow for art— fine, fashion, and architecture— and for real talk about skin and bodies in your forties. 

(A note on influencers and just social media in general. Edits are good and wise. Go through the list of people and brands you follow every once and awhile. Unfollowing is fine. I have found that in the years I was pregnant, I followed a lot of people and brands that are just no longer relevant. Even influencers I once found interesting are just people I have outgrown or lost interest in. Even if it’s someone you know in real life, you can “hide” their content so that you remain “friends” you just won’t see them in your feed.)

Movies– This is so subjective and can be dated easily. I think it is fun and good to keep a pulse on things, if you enjoy movies. But, I also think it is fun and good to make your own “Comfort Movie” list. Theses are movies that you know will put you in a good mood or make you laugh or feel inspired no matter what. For me, it’s so many of the movies I listed in the “Try” essay. Little Women, Legally Blonde, Gone Girl… I also love the banter in The Social Network and delight in anything Nancy Meyers mainly thanks to the spaces she creates.

Music– The fee for Spotify each month is money Adam and I are more than happy to spend. We really enjoy music. But again, it’s so subjective and also sometimes timely. What we do love is the playlists that Spotify’s algorithm will create based on our listens. We love an Americana Mix (think Brandi Carlile and Kacey Musgraves…) or what my algorhythm deems a “Mellow Mix” which is things like The National, Noah Kahan, and acoustic Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran. I also have found myself loving and learning of so many new favorites on “Next Ten Songwriters.” It’s emotional and sharp. Great lyrics.

Books– I am tough on books and do not finish a lot to make sure the art in my head is “good.” Gruesome details of murder or intense (not in a good way…) sex are a quick “No thanks” for me. I do like a well researched non fiction read, but if its giving too bleak of an outlook on the world in terms of human behavior, climate, etc. I pass. A few of this years faves: Wild and Precious, Happy Place, Life In Five Senses, Butts, Honey, Baby Mine, The Less People Know About Us, and What She Ate.

And, my most anticipated hold right now is Bright Young Women.

Podcasts: Well, obviously Kelly Corrigan wonders!

What type of “art” do you bring in and hang in you home?

My mom used to joke that “Everyone needs an Uncle Norm.”

Norm is her younger brother and he always beat to his own drum taking a more “unconventional” track to life than my mom and her sister.

Throughout my childhood Norm was unmarried, with girlfriends here and there. (Literally “here and there.” Some even lived in other countries.) He had well established hobbies like wind surfing and hunting. He traveled a lot and adored his dogs.

We were pretty close with him as young kids. He was at birthday celebrations as August was not just my birthday month, but also my siblings, as well as my cousin and grandfather’s. And, my mom and him are just days apart in the winter. He made an effort to be wherever his parents– my grandparents– and we were for Thanksgiving and Christmas. One Christmas he even posed as Santa, swinging by our house early on Christmas Eve “just because,” easily fooling six year old me and two year old Kerry. We believed Uncle Norm had gone for a “run.”

In the dark.

On Christmas Eve.

Then, the summer I was ten we moved to Columbus, Ohio and so did my mom’s sister’s family. Columbus had been Norm’s home for years and now his sisters– and their big, young families– were only a short drive away.

I wrote about that summer in last week’s piece and how that summer I “graduated” from the kids menu at restaurants. Norm had an influence on this as he got thrust in to the role of babysitter a few times that summer while my parents checked out potential houses. A single guy with three kids under ten? What is a better activity than going for ice cream! We would go to Graeters and Rita’s in Grandview or a funky place called Scream in North Market (that would soon become ice cream icon, Jeni’s) and under Uncle Norm’s watch– and even encouragement– I got to try things beyond a “kids scoop.”

Living in the same town, we still did big get togethers for birthdays and Christmas; but, he also became more of a fixture in everyday moments. He got to know us and what we *really* wanted for Christmas. (Think the stuff a mom would never get… like an overpriced Abercrombie sweater I was lusting.) Norm would make sure it was under the tree. He showed up to sporting events and even for photos before dances. Weeknight dinners at home or casual restaurants were often coordinated. And when I finally received my driver’s license, Norm showed up in his black, two seater Mercedes offering me the keys.

(Just for a drive…!)

That day cruising (a little nervously) up and down Muirfield Drive with my Uncle was special and fun and Norm has since told me it was for him, too.

Looking back on a lot of my life, it feels like Norm has always had a knack for knowing that things don’t last forever. He knows that so much is subject to change and it influences him to make an big effort to create special connections when he has the opportunity. I think that moment in the car he saw me, and all the cousins really, growing up. And, I think without the stress of tangible things “to do” and stress about like our parents were (applications, scholarships, and test scores), Norm saw the true bittersweetness of all of us leaving for college well before it even happened. In the years from 17-22, he established a routine of taking me and my sister on “dates.”

He has since explained his reasoning was such that he knew he wouldn’t get to do it for forever. He knew we were going to leave for college and, he had a hunch that after college, we probably were not going come back. So he carved out the time, made the effort, and in true Uncle Norm fashion… he splashed out.

My trips home in my college years are marked with memories of Uncle Norm Dates. Fancy steak houses and trips to cool, hip places in cool, hip neighborhoods outside of Columbus– or so it felt as suburban princesses like Kerry and I very much were. Of course, our nights almost always ended at Jeni’s (becoming “Jeni’s” in 2005, the year I graduated high school.) Salty Carmel becoming a favorite of Kerry’s, while I was partial to the boozy bite of now discontinued Bourbon Butter Pecan despite being well underage.

All of the Uncle Norm Date Nights were fun… but, I do have a favorite.

It was end of 2007 and 2007 is a year that will go down as one of the bleakest for me. I was moody, angsty, unsatisfied, and unsure. I didn’t love Purdue or what I was studying. But, I was a junior and felt like I couldn’t start over. My relationships were a little shaky as bitter me wasn’t the greatest friend and definitely not a romantic partner. I wasn’t even all that fun to be around… period. Fueling that was that so many of my peers were turning 21, going to bars, and connecting with new friends while I still was twenty… and had a long way to go to join them. I grew a little apathetic, but also was highly emotional. I drank too much, searching for belonging and things to feel “right,” but it was always wrong. That entire year I found myself in situations that were at best, reckless. At worse? Risky. It was never “bad” bad, but it was not good.

Something had to change and I knew it. That winter break halfway through my junior year, I spent a little time with myself. I got a job as seasonal help at the local Macy’s and the quick tasks, small challenges, and boring moments that present themselves in a retail job were good for me. For the first time in a while, I felt like I had a little wind in my sails.

In close proximity to the make up counter and nice accessories, I started to consider more my own style and how I wanted to present and be in the world. I used my discount on nice boots– versus cheap stilettos and cheap going out tops… something I would have done before. I made an effort to set small goals to learn something “grown up” that Winter Break. But, it was silly, little stuff. Like how to really do my makeup. I learned about foundation, skin matching, and care for makeup brushes. I made learning how to apply eyeliner well my New Years resolution because it was the era of Lauren Conrad and her winged liner was goals for us all.

With LC and The Hills as my guiding light to all things grown up and a few small steps made to feel more myself and excited about life again, I decided I wanted to really learn and really try *real* sushi before I went back to school in January.

I let Norm and Kerry know about my desire. Kerry, for better or for worse, always had that younger sister “Anything You Do, I Want To Do Too” eye on me and was game. Norm was too. He knew a place and got it booked.

The night of our date came and Kerry and I likely swapped Forever 21 tunics to pair with leggings and big, long necklaces. I probably curled her hair and showed her the trick for the perfect wing flicked liner (flip the pen around and just press the whole thing against your skin versus attempting to draw a line). Norm came and whisked us off to Grandview into a small sushi restaurant. It was dark and cozy. People at the bar watched the chef’s work the rice in to rolls. We were seated at a table. Norm ordered edamame and sake. He offered me a sip. It was warm and fruity and was not– and is still not– one of my favorite things. He taught us how to eat the edamame beans out of the salty edamame pods and discard them in the empty bowl.

Then, it came time to order and Norm’s lessons really began.

Kerry and I like fish and we did then, too. We just didn’t have huge experience with it. We were a salmon, shrimp, and tilapia kind of family. Norm walked us through the whole menu– placing order with the waiter and explaining in’s and out’s of it all to us.

Tempura: Basically… fried.

Philly: Cream Cheese.

Sashimi: Just raw fish, no rice.

Then, he looked over and asked with a bit of a sly grin, “Do you know what ‘roe’ is?”

We shook our heads. We didn’t.

“Guess,” he encouraged.

We shrugged.

“Fish Eggs!”

So, caviar? I considered, though I am not sure I had even ever had that.

He ordered some so we could try it.

He rattled off a few other rolls to the waiter who took our order to the chefs at the bar while we visited.

When our rolls arrived, it wasn’t just on a plate. Or a platter. But, the many, many rolls were presented to us on a huge wooden boat.

(A stock image visual aid is needed here.)

Kerry and I delighted in this wild, colorful presentation that caught the attention of the other tables around us. It was pretty and impressive.

Norm helped us navigate each roll, explaining what kind of fish we were eating. He showed us how to mix just a little wasabi in with our soy sauce for perfect dipping and explained that the “pink stuff” was pickled ginger designed to clear your palate.

He had us each grab a roll topped with ruby red roe. I put it in my mouth and it popped on my tounge like champagne. I loved it.

I loved it all.

2008’s start was stronger. It wasn’t linear or easy, but a series of little steps, little goals, and continued little learnings and self reflections lead to me stepping out of Junior year as a runner, with better grades, a new job as a lifeguard on campus offering small challenges and tasks, and an excitement about the future, my major, and food.

I came home late in the semester for Norm’s wedding to a great woman Emma. That weekend, I weight my options for summer internships, finally settling on a job southern California. LC still a big influence on that decision, but also watching Norm marry Emma– a woman from England. I wondered what I might find so far from home, too. I will write about California soon, but one thing it’s good for is good and inexpensive sushi. I spent many evenings after work alone, day dreaming a little with a small picnic of rolls from Ralphs in Long Beach or the Whole Foods in Manhattan Beach near work. My boss caught on to my knowledge and interest and took me out for really nice sushi with the rest of the management team on my last day. He shook my hand as the meal wrapped up, wishing an eager me luck as I buzzed with excitement to get back to Purdue for Senior Year.

That Fall would bring the opening of Purdue’s first on campus sushi spot– something I celebrated and shared with friends or just got on my own for a day dreaming picnic by one of the campus fountains. That year would end with me in a much better place with my heart and head and myself.

And, not too long after that, I would bring my new boyfriend, Adam, to the same restaurant Norm took me and Kerry. It was on his first visit to Columbus to meet my parents and see my home. Adam was and still is a man much like Norm– into fishing and hunting. But, also curious about food and restaurants and how to build stronger connections. He knew I loved sushi. So, he asked me teach him about it.

Using everything my uncle taught me, I gave Adam the same experience.

(Though, we didn’t get a full boat. Our college budgets didn’t permit that.)

Still to this day, sushi is one of our favorite things and we love living so close to Purdue with its huge international population because, now, the sushi here is plentiful and actually quite good.

Sushi has become a bit of a tradition for Adam and me the night before Thanksgiving and it is sometimes the quick fix for dinner on nights we are a little tired or, on the flip side, maybe want to celebrate. I have had countless sushi nights in and out with girlfriends. But still, everytime I get it, no matter where and who it’s with, I think about that night with my sister and uncle where I felt a little grown up, a lot loved, and like there was a lot to be excited about and look forward to.

And, there was.

A sushi boat load!

A Note: Life beyond “Uncle Norm Dates” is great. I mentioned that 2008 brought a marriage for Norm to an amazing woman, Emma. Turns out, we are not just so lucky to have not just an Uncle Norm, but an Emma, too!

Truth be told, I have many, many great Aunts and Uncle’s. In so many ways, I am very lucky. But, the foundation that Norm took great effort to lay all those years ago is special and deep. Emma fit right in because she understood it. She has the same skill of making and keeping deep connections and understanding the changes– big and small– that life brings.

They both love Adam (and Kerry’s husband, Dennis) so well. They love our kids like they are their grandkids. (And, spoil them just like Norm did us!) 2022 was hard for so many reasons for all of us– Danny died and Emma fought cancer. Having them near us both physically and just in the knowing we are all supported by each other was so important and vital to taking those every day, small steps to staying on track easier.

And makes this photo taken of us all this summer very special to me.

How lucky and loved we are.

Sushi is hard to make. Adam and I have tried! Instead, you can find me making this riff on the TikTok famous, Emily Mariko Salmon Bowls often.

Salmon Bowls

• 3 to 4 oz. cooked salmon, chilled
• 1 1/2 c. leftover rice
• 1 tbsp. water
• 1 tbsp. soy sauce
• 2 tsp. mayonnaise
• 2 tsp. Sriracha 
• 1/2 avocado, sliced
• 1/4 c. cucumber, sliced
• 1/4 c. kimchi
• Scallions, thinly sliced for garnish
• Cooked, shelled edamame
• Toasted sesame seeds, for garnish
• Seaweed snacks, for serving

• In a microwave safe bowl, add the salmon. Using a fork, flake it until it resembles canned fish. Top the salmon with rice, and sprinkle rice with about 1 tablespoon of water.
• Cover bowl with parchment or plastic wrap, and microwave until the rice is fluffy and everything is warmed through, about 2 minutes.
• Remove bowl from the microwave, and discard the parchment/plastic wrap. Add soy sauce, mayonnaise and sriracha. Toss until fully combined.
• Top bowl with avocado, cucumber, kimchi, scallions, and sesame seeds. Serve with seaweed snacks sliced or as a vessel.
   

Nostalgia is kind of a cornerstone of my personality.

I like to share old stories (case and point…), reflect on cultural moments of my coming of age, document with photos, keep old letters, and look at those photos, letters, journals, and other artifacts. In this project, I get the thrill of digging into old albums and shoe boxes full of early 2000s movie stubs, postcards, and even old ribbons and awards. Knick-knacks and pieces of my past are helping me tell these stories, making me giggle… and cringe.

On one recent odyssey into a big box of my past I found the guest book from my graduation party. Friends and family were encouraged to write well wishes for college. All of them are kind of the same:

“You are such a great girl!”

“Good luck at Purdue!”

“I am going to miss you!”

Then, one from a guy friend made me stop in my tracks and cringe just as hard as I probably did when I read it in 2005.

“You are going to do so great because you always try so hard.”

It was meant to be nice and encouraging. It is nice and encouraging.

However.

“You always try so hard?”

Cringe. Double my age and still… cringe!

No one– especially a guy– was never supposed to notice that.

I grew up in a time of “Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline?” and “Easy, breezy, beautiful, Cover girl” as the messaging on beauty. Elle Woods’ nonchalant take on getting into Harvard Law (“What? Like, it’s hard?”) was the standard for caring about achievement. Being a “try hard” was a major insult. Gillian Flynn’s “cool girl” who eats hot dogs and beer, and yet somehow is a Size 2 in Gone Girl had not yet been put down on paper and adapted for the screen, but the concept was alive and well.

Beauty, grades, success, and even just emotional control should all come easy. Effort, reaction, and caring was “uncool.”

It is an idea that has persisted into adulthood. You should look good, but you shouldn’t try to look good. Your home should be clean, but don’t make it appear to be the work that it, in fact, is. You should be a great mom, but you shouldn’t have to try to be a great mom. Doing something with effort, like decorating for a holiday, having a side hustle, or putting together a fun long weekend with you partner, is seen as “extra.”

In the first drafts of this essay in my mind, I wanted to make a case for effort and trying. Because try as I have to be easy, breezy– to be effortless– I am quite effortful.

I care. I make plans. I give a lot of F’s. And, as my observant old friend noticed, I do try so hard.

Talking about effort and trying can get a little icky because is just another thing that has been kind of co-op’ed by the Girl Bosses and Guru’s to be a positioning of “being better” with subtext of “better than others.”

However, it also can get a little icky on the other side of the spectrum where there is a tone of judgement– particularly in and among women– when it comes to effort. Even a “Oh, you’re dressed up…!” is loaded with hints of “ew, try hard” and “Why?” Are you trying to make us all look bad? Do you think you are better than us?

I have wrestled with this and believe there is merit to trying, not morality. Meaning effort is worthy, but does not make you worthy.

In developing my notes for the whole project the place holder for this essay on “trying” was Taylor Swift’s, “I have never been a natural. All I do is try, try, try.” This is a lyric from “mirrorball,” a song that has a lot of interpretations; but, is also just such a good, slightly melancholy song perfect for a glass of wine and conversation.

Some believe it is a metaphor for a romantic relationship, beautiful and shiny; but also, delicate and fragile. Some see is as a metaphor for the pandemic (“When they called off the circus/burned the disco down/sent home the horses/and the rodeo clowns”). The disco ball no longer with people dancing around it, sparkling in the dark. Instead, it is now left in the normal daylight only to see that it’s actually just a bunch of broken pieces hanging on display like so many felt. Taylor claims that, for her, it is a metaphor for celebrity citing that there are some people who just “sparkle and every time they break it entertains us.”

But, the seemingly most popular interpretation of the mirrorball is that it’s the high achivinging, always trying, doing the most in school and for friends and parents, but still not quite enough, oldest daughter types. (“Still on that trapeze/still trying everything/to keep you looking at me.”)

It’s an unhealthy take.

But, man is it relatable.

It’s people pleasing and doing the good and right thing because you think you “should.” It’s keeping the status quo or as I sometimes see it in my life when things are toxic or off kilter, a hightened effort to keep the figurative temperature in the room warm. It’s the pursuit of being “enough” which is illusive and if you really go looking for it, impossible.

Or actually, very possible because you are already there. So why try?

Why put in effort no matter what you do it’s never enough?

One of this summer’s most talked moments in pop culture was America Ferrera’s monologue in “The Barbie Movie.” In it, America’s character talked about the impossibility of being a woman and that she is tired, but also so tired of seeing so many other women tie themselves in knots trying to be some sort of ideal. Many women in audiences around the world cried. Many called it “iconic.” Many claimed it was best thing they had ever heard.

I cried a lot in the Barbie movie. (Like, a lot.)

But, not so much here. And, not because it wasn’t impactful. It was.

It was just that I had heard that speech, or many others like it, so many times before.

It’s there with both Jo March and Amy March (and Greta Gerwig’s touch) in latest adaptation of “Little Woman.” (Though I am partial to the 1996 version as it raised me…) In the new one, Jo shares her knowing of women to capable of so much and her exhaustion of fighting against the patriarchy saying she is “so sick of people saying love is all a woman is fit for.” While Amy, Jo’s sister, often gets a whiney, privileged, “young” edit is fighting the same thoughts as she makes patriarchy work for her. I think she actually has the sharper dialogue about effort and strategy and actual impossibilities of being a woman when she chillingly snaps back at Lauri for his claims on her quitting painting just because she can’t be great and marrying for money. She doesn’t shy from the fact that she is implementing a strategy (even if it’s her Plan B) because, for her, marriage is very much an economic proposition.

Then there is Elle Woods again, now in Harvard thanks to great effort (despite what she might have originally claimed) not asking, but realizing, “I am never going to be enough for you” in a hard conversation with ex-boyfriend Warner.

Then there is Taylor Swift– Miss Mirrorball herself– in the Miss Americana documentary grappling with everything from her strategy of running her business being seen as “calculated” to impossible beauty standards (“Because if you’re thin enough, then you don’t have that ass that everybody wants, but if you have enough weight on you to have an ass, then your stomach isn’t flat enough.”) all with the goal of making sure to be a “nice” girl. (“A nice girl smiles and waves and says thank you. A nice girl doesn’t make people feel uncomfortable with her views.”)

Which brings us right back to Gone Girl and the impossibility of the “cool” girl.

So… Why try? Why tie ourselves in knots only to always be doing it wrong? Why put in effort if we are never going to get it right.

One thing I know for sure is that there is no “right” way to do a life and as I dug for some inspiration on TikTok, flipping through mirrorball tattoo after mirrorball tattoo, I came across one that made me reconsider the whole “all I do is try, try, try” as the lesson.

One user wrote as she showed off the small, sparkling mirrorball on her arm that she had received a “Isn’t that kind of sad to have on your body?” response to her reasoning for it as she connected with the high achiever, oldest daughter, always spinning and sparkling interpretation. To which she responded, “It’s not for you.”

It’s for her.

What if we changed the idea of not just the messaging of a tattoo, the mirrorball… but also the act of trying all together to be for us.

I considered the areas of my life that I have found important to make effort in and many of them are small, menial, daily tasks: Make the bed, meal plan, keep the house in order, keep tabs on financials, workout, drink water not booze, wear a real outfit…

What I find in these small areas of effort is the closest I can get to a touch of semblance of control. I joke a little that it’s like plugging in a computer code for best results: If I do this, then I might yield this.

If I make the bed, then I will probably sleep better that night because there is something immediately relaxing for me about getting into a clean, crisp, made up bed.

If I wear an outfit, I feel more comfortable and confident as I greet the world. And because, for me, I think it is an area of play and creativity.

If I work out, I can release some extra energy that my body has stored up so that it doesn’t come out as a short temper with the ones I love most and it will help me sleep better.

If I have on another glass of wine, I will likely sleep poorly tonight, making tasks, work, and parenting hard tomorrow… and, let’s be real at 36, the next day as well.

There is a clear common thread here of the major importance of sleep in my life… But, I know enough to know that putting forth effort and trying in these areas help to protect my rest (and fun and play…) which will yield peace and ease in my life. That is important, to me, for me.

I know this to be true because I know all too well that, despite how hard I try, I cannot control life. Giving these areas of life effort when it is easy acts as bowling bumpers for when life gets hard.

Having the habit of effort towards conscious drinking habits and trying better ways to deal with emotions established pre pandemic was something I was and still am so grateful to have knowing that that time could have sent me on a bender or a wild spiral. Same with in the month’s after Danny’s death, when it felt like I was moving through wet mud and every task was a challenge. A daily hangover would have only made it that much worse. Those days were like the new baby days when something as simple as emptying the dishwasher required massive effort.

Everyone has their own “code” to enter for their own peace and ease. And, everyone has seasons when their trying might look different. It may even seem– or actually be– small.

But, I still think you gotta try.

And, instead of the performing trying of “I have never been a natural. All I do is try, try, try” in “mirrorball,” part of me is now much more inclined to believe that another great Taylor Swift song might have it right. It’s “This Is Me Trying” with lyrics of the same name. This song could be between lovers making a case for their effort in the relationship, but can also be interpreted as someone fighting addiction or depression and their smallest efforts– trying to stay alive or stay sober or just keep moving one little step forward– are them trying to stay in the game of life on their own pursuit of peace and ease.

Effort looks different for everyone; but, it is so worthy and good.

… Even if it is a little big and sparkly, too.

Not to get all girl bossy, but yes. There are goals for successful relationships and achievements in careers (mine and Adam’s, both so very linked as partners). We do try hard. I honestly find effort quite attractive.

Not to mention, the effort for “more” and even just the everyday stuff is also very linked to the loss of the young people close to me. I can think of no greater insult to them to give up. To die before I am dead.

And, that is why, for me, in “The Barbie Movie” I cried hard in the final montage of home videos as Billie Eilish sang “What Was I Made For?” and Barbie decides to become Barbara. She chooses to breathe, feel, and, even with all it’s impossibilities, be human.

She gave it a try.

As images of moms and babies, playing kids, dancing, laughing, skipping, blowing out birthday candles, watching fireworks, graduating, getting married, and getting old played across the screen, I cried.

It is so hard to live and breathe and be–as man or woman. It can sometimes feel impossible and not with the effort. But, in reality, the experience of it really is so beautiful and such a gift.

And I want to experience it.

Despite the suffering, the mess, the hard stuff, the impossibilities, I want to give it my greatest effort.

THIS is my trying.

It’s strange, but now that we are six weeks into this project I was reviewing the meals I intend to share as we move forward and discovered that there are actually very few are from my childhood. Like, the years my age was in the single digits.

So much of what I have written down and plan to share is from high school, college, my twenties and as I grew into motherhood, and from my relationship with my friends right now and with Adam. After reflection, I think it makes a little sense. Once I was a certain age, I was the one who was exploring food, thinking about as a career and more, and also more so just choosing what I ate. Another piece of it is also that once I was a certain age, my thoughts, feelings and connections were deeper and more diverse thus making the things I ate while experiencing all of that more memorable.

My family makes fun of me for it, but I have a very good memory. I think it because I have this thing when I know something is a “memory” when I am in it. (Which only sort of sounds cool– it leads to a lot of sad Christmas Days because it feels “over,” when I know I should just be present.)

I was and still am a documenter– always taking pictures. I think this nature leads to keeping an eye open for moments and memories and when you take a picture it also does something to your brain to lock it in a bit more. Because of this, and my parents keeping a really great record of things, I also have the gift of a lot of evidence. I love to go back and look at albums, photos, saved old letters, journals, and even old planners.

But, for some reason, food memories pre age 15ish didn’t come to me quickly when I mapped this out this summer. I hardly had any in my first plan of this.

This week I wanted to change that and, despite what I believe to be a good memory, to recall noteworthy things I ate as a kid has required a bit of thought.

I had a really good childhood– the only really “hard,” unusual thing being a lot of moving. I spent third, fourth, and fifth grade Christmas all in different homes. (Something that might also contribute to the melancholic feelings I get at Christmas…) There is a video from one of those Christmases where the cheery voice of my dad behind the camera says, “The first Christmas in our new house!” as he pans to a shot of the living room and me by the tree. To which, a nine year old me responds with what I believe to be excellent budding dark humor: “Who knows where we will be next year…”

Told ya. I couldn’t just be in the moment.

As for the things that I ate, they were pretty normal for a white girl in the midwest. “Pretty normal” because my mom would be classified by today’s standards as a “schunchy” mom. She made a good amount of things from scratch and we only ate out on occasion. My sister and I joke that we had weird food at our house (I would have a few friends agree with this). Our snacks were things like blue corn chips and homemade salsa, microwave popcorn or nuts.

We were what the internet has dubbed “an ingredient house.” A house where there were the ingredients available to make things versus containing “ready to eat” meal items. This made us covet some of the 90s kid classics like Dunkaroos and Chef Boyardee. (And, honestly probably contributed to us becoming confident cooks today because if you wanted a snack the kitchen was essentially the set of Chopped and we had to get creative.)

But mom was “scrunchy,” meaning only sort of “crunchy” or “from scratch.” So despite plenty of ingredients, we also had many of the classic kid staples. Think: Frozen Chicken Nuggets, grilled cheese, and rectangle pizza at lunch.

Many of the foods I write about in this have roots to my childhood despite a more impactful story about them later in life. For example, I ate a lot of caesar salad with friends in high school and beyond; but, I first had a caesar salad the summer I turned ten. That summer, my Dad started a job in Columbus, Ohio, but we had trouble finding a house. I also think my mom didn’t want to move us from our friends and experience a totally boring, friendless summer. So we stayed in Chicago while Dad was in an apartment in Ohio and we visited a handful of times to look at houses. We ate quite a bit of fast food traveling back and forth from Chicago to Columbus and when bouncing around all of the Columbus suburbs with a realtor.

Being ten, I decided I had outgrown a kids meal. Underwhelmed by a small toy, unless it was a Teeny Beanie, I explored what else McDonalds and Wendy’s menu had to offer. Wendy’s had a side caesar that I learned to make a full meal with a side of fries. The irony of all of this is that this meal– fries and a caesar (and a really good glass of rose)– may be makings of my “last meal” meal today. To think the roots of it are in the back of a minivan in the late days of summer 1997 when Princess Diana had just died, I had a Tamagotchi to care for, and was experimenting with glitter gel from Limited Too on my eyes all while my parents tried to navigate the Columbus suburbs is kind of special.

As was the time when a friend’s mom purchased a small cake just for me at her own daughter’s birthday party. Heather, my great friend and neighbor when we lived in Cincinnati from ages 5 to 8, picked out a big chocolate cake for her March birthday. I had given up chocolate for Lent and was taking it very seriously. (Like any second grader in pursuit of a first communion dress would.) Even going as far as getting “white milk” in the school lunch line. Talk about dedication to the Big Guy…!

Knowing me, I likely was talking a lot about my sacrifice and how I was still going strong. Heather and her mom took notice and presented me with my own small grocery store cake– white cake with white frosting flowers– at her party. I was little, but knew this level of noticing and care was love. Maybe that’s where my love of plain white cake and white icing started and why it persists as my ultimate favorite cake to this day.

Opening up some of these memories, only brings more. This week in reflecting on meals from my childhood so much has come back and made me smile and laugh. I think I am going to have to do a whole “Left Overs” or even bump something to do another essay on the influence of American Girl food. (Think the cookbooks, the recipes in the magazines, the dolls teeny tiny foods, etc.) I honestly cannot believe I forgot about some of those recipes and meals. But, once I remembered the hold that Pleasant Company had on me, an avalanche of pleasant memories flooded my brain. If you are a peer of mine, I hope some of these silly food stories might do the same for you.

What is also helping me clue into my own old food memories is to pay more attention to life around me. I have two kids who are just that now, kids. No longer babies, but living, breathing, talking, reading kids. Same with so many of my friends.

Just this week, Savannah picked up a Disney Princess baking cookbook at the library making me think about snacks and meals, like the character breakfasts, at Disney World (Land…? Florida.) in my youth. My son is so into Harry Potter– making his way through The Sorcerer’s Stone right now– and I can only think of how my family saw so many installments of the series together in theaters on Thanksgiving Day that the movies on Thanksgiving became a sort of tradition.

And, the simple mention of a friend’s kid reading “Little House on the Prairie” brought back memories of the, I think, universal elementary field trip to cosplay prairie life at some sort of “Pioneer Village.” I remembered my lunch on a trip to Ohio’s pioneer village that delighted me to no end. The trip was with my Girl Scout Troop was *so* authentic thanks to some magic made by my mom.

She was (and still is) crafty and a tad extra if there is a theme. She’d taken the recommendation to pack something “of the times” to heart– so much so, she put it all in a basket that I carried in the crook of my arm, really finishing off the look of my long skirt, apron, and bonnet. Inside the carefully packed basket was cold ham in wax paper, a couple drop biscuits with a dollop of butter in what seemed like a tin cup (very Laura Ingalls…), but I actually think was the jigger of their aluminum cocktail shaker. To top it all off, a real root beer in a glass bottle! Sugary root beer, kind of rare treat in our “scrunchy” home, and doing basic arithmetic on a slate for a day made me think, “Who needs running water, electricity and Nickelodeon?! This is great!” It had to be these trips that lead to droves of millennials coveting nap dresses in 2020… Right?

My mom was highly involved in our childhood– helping at school and making magic like this. When we lived in Cincinnati, alongside a great group of friends she made, they took PTO to another level. The Halloween’s were wild in those years with a huge school fundraiser event. I remember cake walks, bobbing for apples, and an incredibly scary and detailed haunted house that included creepy clowns and–in a weird twist for my brain to understand– my mom as the creative director. The cake walk felt like a better fit for her (it was for me…), but really all of those women were so talented with food, crafts, decor, events, and memory making. They made more magic for our elementary eyes than the best witch could.

Had they had the Internet, these women would have been Mommy Bloggers– sharing tips, holiday decor, crafts, and recipes. They were that good, that creative, and so passionate. But, in the early nineties, they used what they had to share their talents.

One school year, The PTO put together a cookbook and sold it to raise money for the school. The spiral bound book, meant to look like a blue composition book, included food and school themed drawings from students and recipes from PTO members. That blue cookbook lived on our counter and moved with us to Chicago and back to Ohio again. It is now still a part of my mom’s cookbook collection and I would venture to guess she still uses it.

As my mom cooks through any cookbook, she takes note in the margin. Simple stuff like, “Very good” or “Needs more salt/cheese/oregano…” The PTO book is full of notes and they pages are crinkled and oil splattered as the recipes became some of our household staples.

My favorite of the whole book was Corn Flake Chicken, a recipe from the mom of my best friend in those years, Denise. It was what I requested for my birthday meal for years. I loved the spicy, herby flavors on the crunchy corn flakes that dusted the chicken’s skin. It felt as close we got to fried chicken in our “weird” food house… and who doesn’t love fried chicken?

And, I loved that it came from my friend’s mom. It was something Denise ate in her kitchen, too.

We were at an age where our imagination still fueled our play. We could be Mary Kate and Ashley on an adventure or the Boxcar Kids, alone in the woods, making a home with whatever they could find. So much of the content we consumed was about siblings or orphans. (The 90s were kind of weird and sad like that…) I know I thought more than once about “wouldn’t it be neat if we were? And somehow we lived together?” Knowing we were eating something that was made in her home was special and felt a bit like living our imaginations.

Or, maybe it was just being a kid who moved away from good friendship, at an age when that was really starting to matter, that really made Corn Flake Chicken matter, too.

Denise’s mom was Bonnie and for as close as Denise and I were, Bonnie and my mom may have been just as tight. They had many similar interests. Food and cooking, obviously. But, also sewing, themed birthday parties, and getting involved with our Girl Scouts Troop. My siblings were even the same ages and genders as Denise’s so we were all good friends… Me and Denise, the oldests. Molly and Kerry, middle girls. Then, both our mom’s were pregnant together and having boys in the summer of 1994.

I don’t know their whole story and I know there is so much more to an adult friendship than a kid can see. But, the morning we moved back to Chicago I got a peek of it. Bonnie and Denise showed up at our house on the cold, winter morning before the sun rose. The goodbye parties had been had– and they were plenty and good. But, they both wanted one last hug.

After they left, I remember sitting on my mom’s lap– maybe one of the last times I did being a third grader and nearly nine. Together, we cried in the dark hallway between our kitchen and dining room at the loss of our really good friends.

Our house empty. The station wagon and Uhaul packed for the trip to a new house, a new school, and new friends.

We sang the Girl Scouts song:

Make new friends

But keep the old

One is silver

And the other’s gold.

A reminder to us both to be strong and keep looking ahead because there was a new house, new school, and new friends. But, to remember this place and our great friends here, too.

For years in that new Chicago house and into the one in Dublin, we kept in touch– visiting Cincinnati when we could and connecting on Facebook ten years later.

We also kept making Corn Flake Chicken, never forgetting where and who it came from.

(And because, let’s be real… Corn Flakes were one of the only cereals mom kept in our “scrunchy,” ingredient house…!)

Corn Flake Chicken

• 3 boneless skinless chicken breasts cut into 6 pieces
• 2 large eggs
• ¼ cup whole milk
• 4 cups cornflakes
• 2 teaspoons paprika
• 1 teaspoon garlic powder
• ½ teaspoon onion powder
• ½ teaspoon oregano
• 1 teaspoon salt
• ½ teaspoon black pepper
• Cooking spray

• Preheat your oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit and prepare a baking sheet by lining it with parchment paper and placing an oven-safe wire rack over it.
• Prepare your chicken by cutting each breast in half so you have 6 equal pieces, set aside.
• Whisk the eggs and milk in a medium shallow bowl, and set aside.
• In a large plastic bag, add your cornflakes, paprika, garlic, onion, oregano, salt, and pepper.
• Use a rolling pin to crush the cornflakes and shake until everything has come together into a coarse crumb mixture. Pour the cornflake crumbs out into a large plate.
• Dip your chicken into the egg mixture to coat, remove and coat generously in the cornflake crumbs, completely covering the chicken.
• Place the breaded chicken onto the prepared wire rack and pan, repeat with all your chicken cuts.
• Once all the chicken is breaded, spray them each with cooking oil and place in the oven, and bake for 20-25 minutes, flipping halfway through baking.
• Remove from the oven and allow the chicken to cool for a few minutes before enjoying.

The origin of this essay comes from the more ironic of places: I was lurking on a random comment thread, from a random post– something I wasn’t even following– that got served to me from Facebook’s algorithm. The post was problematic and presumptuous (as are most things you can find in mindless scroll deep into Facebook…), asking something along the lines of “Why are kids from affluent families fit, while those from lower income families not?”

First off, not true. But, roll with me as I rolled into the comments. Answers varied from the shaming of cheap convenience and fast foods to better accessibility to organized sports. Then, in making the point of that cooking dinner and not just enrolling children in athletics, but taking them to practice and games, one poster shared, “Time is the most undervalued resource.”

The line hit me with that knowing, “ain’t that the truth?” feeling and knocked me out of the problematic thread and into another one entirely.

I am the kind of gal who nearly always underestimates all that can get done in a day. Always trying to cram thirty hours worth of stuff into twenty four. It’s part my nature: I have joked my memoir should be titled, “Pressed For Time.” Part the millennial high achiever track that is very hard to get off of. But, it’s all also very influenced by the mid 2010’s Girl Boss/Lean In era, things like “You have the same amount of hours in the day as Beyonce!” felt personal. Add in my keenly aware sense of time passing that sometimes leads to actual panic attacks and the front row seat to young death (also leads to actual panic attacks…), the ideas that “tomorrow isn’t guaranteed!” and “do the thing now!” (two very girl bossy refrains…) are very real. And are also, in a way, a bit of the foundation for doing this project now versus at forty like I had originally considered before my brother died.

I can poke holes in these ideas, yes. Mary Oliver’s line of “What would you do with your one wild and precious?” can mean so many different things to me, given the day. Sometimes it’s a rallying cry. Other, it’s permission to rest. But, I do know there is value in this thinking. To live life now. To get off Facebook comment threads late at night. To not pretend to be working, but to actually do something. To make what you want to make, do what you want to do, be who you want to be, and not wait for someday.

But, my dad might remind me that this idea isn’t “time” being the resource, but rather it’s “mindfulness.“

Like the Beyonce quote alludes to, time is actually an equalizer.

True… ish.

What isn’t is equal is… well, income for one.

Very few of us “normal” people will ever be at Beyonce level wealth.

However, I am aware that I am in a position of privilege to have some disposable income and I get to choose how I use it. Buying myself time can be possible. You may be in the same position.

When faced with some tasks, I often think in terms of my time as dollars per hour. I sometimes ask, “Can this job be done just as well by someone else and give me time to do the things I need to do while being cost effective?” Things like lawn care and house cleaning have been outsourced in the past for my family because it made sense in looking at dollars spent versus. time earned. I have a friend in real time considering this as she explores a matchmaking service. Money spent would save her time as someone else will filter though romantic matches verses her spending hours in an app.

An older generation might say, “Time is Money!” But I like what Gretchen Rubin calls a “Happiness Solution” in The Happiness Project. It’s a question you can ask yourself: Is it actually wiser to outsource a couple things so you can focus on and get done what really matters to you? If so, Happiness Solution.

It is also wise to think broader on this. Obviously income is not equal and the idea of disposable income to many is just that… an idea.

When I worked for a marketing agency just out of college, Coca-Cola was my client. I was the assistant account executive for marketing programs at college campus in Indiana. (This was a great job, but was also the role that’s funding cut right before I was married.) Luck would have it that Chicago was hosting a a major national meeting for the brand and, along with a few of my regional peers, I was invited. It was a wild experience for 22 year old me to get a peak at the conversations that go on in the driving of sales of a product as omnipresent as Coke. There is so much that I learned in those meetings that I still think about today as we experience marketing in grocery stores, on commercials, at sporting events, and more. One thing that burst my naive little bubble was the stat that something like 80% of households live paycheck to paycheck.

This was in early 2010– the recession was still strong. Based on a quick Google search this number seems to be reported as anywhere from 59-70% in 2023. Still… a lot.

When I moved into my next role with the school system, childhood obesity and the food consumption habits of lower income families was just as pervasive as Coca-Cola. (Coke was even sometimes the villain.)

I was a part of so many conversations on how to mediate the stats and realities. There were so many ideas from government programs like “Let’s Move!,” SNAP, and the National School Lunch reform to classes teaching families how to cook or grow gardens at local community centers. None of which were “bad” ideas, but I can’t help but wonder if the focus was in the wrong place.

Maybe it isn’t that these families need more community gardens.

Maybe it isn’t that they don’t know how to cook.

Maybe they need more time to be able to cook.

Maybe we need better systems that provide families with more time to care for their basic needs like dinner and movement and connection.

There is something in my wildest imagination that believes we could save the word at the table. Sometimes I reprimand myself because that seems so privilege fueled. I know that when I take a step back and see the systems in place, getting together at the table– low income or not– actually requires so much, but especially requires time.

I have done a lot of thinking and work untangling myself from Girl Boss America and even some of these idealized ideas about solving problems like hunger, obesity, loneliness, food systems and more. Maintenance Phase, a hilariously smart podcast debunking diet myths, did a great episode about Michael Pollan’s book “Omnivore’s Dilemma.” The hosts determined there wasn’t inherently anything “wrong” with Michael’s point of eating real, good food and getting connected with farms. But, it’s not true and right for everyone and especially as a proposed solution to obesity. The statement that they used that I now think about and use often is, “That’s an individual proposed solution to a systematic problem.”

On an individual level, Happiness Solutions, being mindful with your time, and getting connected to local farmers are all wise thoughts. You should what you can with what you have to make the most of those same 24 hours as Beyonce. Because life is short and this isn’t a dress rehearsal: it’s your one wild and precious!

But, be so clear reality that while, yes, we all have 24 hours, they are not the same. And, so many times, have to be bought. Time is a privilege.

There are many barriers for people in our systems today and, on the day after September 11th, to me, it’s clear that time is the most undervalued resource. More of it can make a huge difference.

So, do what you can with what you have.

Fight for better systems.

And, hug your people because you never know how much time we’ve got.

I wrote about Laura and Rachel, a couple of my best childhood friends last week. But, another overwhelming group to write about is the group of women I became close with in my sorority. Like, Laura and Rach, they are like scaffolding and sticky, too. Our love is rooted in deep knowing and understanding of one another.

This group is beyond supportive and we are still in touch nearly every day thanks to a group “What’s App” chat. There the conversations can range from fashion and parenting consulting, to work venting and sharing the same funny stories about something that happened fifteen years ago, to anything Purdue related and lots of advice for midlife’s mundanity like car buying to even what to serve for dinner.

(Literally all topics discussed in the chat just this past weekend…)

This group really good about staying in touch out of our phones, too. Even before we left college, we made an effort to connect on breaks be it at the lake in the summer or for New Years on Winter Break. Post grad, we visited each other’s new apartments and made plans for drinks when work had us traveling. The season of weddings and babies brought all sorts of group travel and get togethers. Even as that season has shifted a bit, bringing more responsibly and commitments, we still make an effort to get together when life presents us with an opportunity. There is already big chatter about doing a blow out trip the year we all turn 40. And still to this day, we really try to get back to Purdue for at least one game a football season. (Something we are doing this week!)

It’s pretty amazing that our bond is still there.

Also still there? Our shared love of food.

A long standing joke is that there are only two things that can make our group quiet down:

1. Someone taking a group photo– can’t smile when your chatty!
2. Our food arriving at a restaurant.

We are all pretty big fans of food and love to share food together be it via recipes, connecting over a meal, cooking together, sharing our gardens, and more.

The origins of the food that we still eat together are varied. There is of course the sorority favorites prepared by in-house chefs that we still gush about today. Things like Bagel Bar (a lunch hit!), puppy chow (often an afterschool snack set out for us), and scotcheroos for dessert. We even made a cookbook of the best of all of them for a Mom’s Day fundraiser. There is also the influence of our families of origin because many of the college years and early post grad years included everyone’s parent’s welcoming us into their homes as one of their own. Anne’s mom made a chai tea mix whenever we came to her house. Haleigh’s mom introduced us to Taco Soup the night we went to their house to watch Miss Indiana win Miss America. Betsy’s mom was alway sending her back to our shared, post grad apartment with cookies.

But, also our early twenties were marked by the rise and massive popularity of Pinterest.

And, wow. Did we ever Pinterest.

We dove right in.

It makes sense a group of recession grads, not to mention sorority women, gravitated toward Pinterest. It packaged an elevated lifestyle in an attainable fashion and hit the buckets of lifestyle we were experiencing and curating for the first time, in real time, on– and off– our online boards: Fashion, crafts, home decor, weddings, and cooking.

So many of our trips together had– and still have– a “pitch in” element. Weekends at the lake, bachelorettes, tailgates… We are older now, and many in this group have grown into really great cooks, but still some of the earliest recipes we found on Pinterest or those from the chapter house or someone’s parents persist as some of our favorites today. And they are always requested by the group to make an appearance at our next get together.

In this group of foodies, we have been lucky to have many great meals out in really neat restaurants all over. From Chicago to Miami, DC to Charleston, Indy and many more. But, for me, the most memorable meals are the ones that we pitch in together, make these old favorite recipes, and just eat in.

A meal like this is often on the first night of a trip, lake weekend, or bachelorette. Everyone coming in at different times based on flights and work days leads us to keep it casual. It’s nothing special, just a hodge podge of all our favorite snacks and sweet and plenty of drinks. But, it’s the closest we get to “hanging out” (doing nothing, but together) as we get these days.

Hanging out used to be all we did. Laying around watching Dawson’s Creek, sort of studying, girls coming and going, rehashing conversations with fraternity men, and making plans for the weekend. These nights in feel a lot like that again. When we are in comfy clothes and just us again. We are not on a time crunch or at the mercy of a DJ so even the music is ours. We might get a little third glass of wine close only to remember that we always were and always will be.

When so much changes, this doesn’t.

And, neither will the snacks.

My dad was not the family cook.

Gender roles at my house were fairly traditional. But, Dad also wasn’t often home for dinner. He worked a lot and often far away from our homes in the suburbs. He traveled a lot to New York and Toronto and he often had to take clients and traveling co-workers out. My parents valued family meals and would shoot for as many as we could get together, but sometimes it was only one or two a week.

It’s funny to think about my dad’s cooking. Not in the “LOL, dad can’t cook,” burnt dinners kind of funny. Or even because it was wildly interesting. It was novel because it was out of the ordinary… and because it was such a departure of what mom would prepare.

Mom had recipes, skill, and knowledge.

Dad was scrappy– likely a result of being one of eight kids– and used what he could find. He would grill for family meals and did the bird for Thanksgiving; but, if he was really “in charge” of the meal, he wasn’t often “cooking” anything, but rather putting things together. And it always really worked. He had a knack for flavors, combining jelly with cream cheese on our sandwiches, hot dogs and ketchup with mac and cheese, bourbon with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. We grew to love Dad’s “garbage salads” and “garbage pasta’s” where he would mix whatever he could find in with some cooked pasta or greens and call it a meal.

Peas? Cool.

Pepperoni? Works.

Leftover steak? Great.

The nubs of tortilla chips in the bottom of the bag? Use it up!

Strangely, the more odd the better.

The Garbage Salad is something I employ at my house at least every couple weeks. Adam says if we were to ever open a restaurant, a Garbage Salad– that changes every day– needs to be on the menu.

I think if my Dad were to pick anything he “cooked” for us growing up that he would want to be remembered for it would be pancakes and waffles on weekends.

My mom’s dad was an early riser and when visiting their home, breakfast was an event. Well, actually all meals were an event at Grandy and Poppa’s… But at least for breakfast, Poppa ran the show. When at their home in Charlottesville as a young girl, we would rise to the smells of bacon and coffee wafting through the long hall to the foyer and up to our rooms. Once downstairs in the kitchen, we would be greeted with freshly squeezed orange juice (something my grandfather did nearly every day!) and his famous pancakes on the griddle. It was cozy and special. I think my dad really liked it as a young man and wanted to emulate this ritual in our home.

And, he did! He got the recipe and worked hard to carry on pieces of the legacy of my mom’s parents– a very sweet gesture of love to my mom and to us. He even has made a fuss of passing the recipe down to Adam and my sister’s husband, Dennis, complete with the gift of a waffle maker and spatula.

These weekend breakfasts of pancakes and waffles were special and they were often one of the meals enjoyed as a family we could count on in those busy years of school, practices, and my Dad’s career.

They were memorable, but truthfully? I don’t *love* a pancake.

And, truthfully? There is another breakfast that holds a more special place in my memory of time with my dad.

Dad traveled what feels like nearly weekly when I was in middle school and high school and in those years, school started early. The start time being 7:25, if my memory serves me correctly. My mom is many things, but an “early riser” is not in her wiring.

Now, because she is reading this, I will say that she mustered it when she had to and will likely tell you all about early ice times and morning club meetings for me and swimming practices for Kerry and Dan. BUT… once I was a little more self sufficient and definitely once I was a driver, I was lucky to get a wave from her, still in bed, as I crossed the hallway to head downstairs in the 6:00 hour.

However, if Dad was home, odds are he was already in his office. Maybe working, but likely writing prayers, or “hanging out with Jesus,” as he took in a moment of stillness while we all slept. He knew our routines and knew I would be headed out the door, so often he crossed the house to meet me in the kitchen for a hug as I dug in the pantry for a Special K bar and a Diet Coke– my typical breakfast in high school, consumed on my drive in.

He would tell me he had started my (well, his…) boxy, hand-me-down Volvo and flipped on the seat warmers so it was warm.

But, on a few of those cold, dark Ohio winter mornings, I would find him already in the kitchen cooking a small sauce pot of oats.

I don’t know why it was oatmeal. Despite both my parents working for Quaker in their early careers, oatmeal wasn’t something we had a lot. In many ways, to me and the way we ate, it was random as a food choice. And, it was also a little random to see dad at the stove tending to this little pan.

It only happened a few times. But, everytime he would get two bowls, one for me and one for him, and we would sit and eat a warm, satisfying bowl of oatmeal– after he had sprinkled some brown sugar on top. The brown sugar would melt and ooze into the grain, giving each bite a little sweetness.

It wasn’t special or a “tradition” or the carrying on of a legacy, at least to my knowledge. But, I did know on those dark mornings, with a surprise bowl of oatmeal and my dad, the day was going to be pretty good and that I was loved.

Two great things to have bouying you at seventeen.

Directions for oatmeal on the stovetop can be found on any package of oats. Brown sugar makes a great topping. As does fruit. But, I also love to have a savory bowl of hot oats. They are just a grain and so sometimes I treat them as such with some herbs like thyme, a squeeze of fresh lemon, and drizzle of olive oil. Honestly, with a little kale salad, that’s my kind of breakfast. (See? Not a huge fan of a pancake…)

However, I have taken to overnight oats, especially when it’s warm. Here is the recipe that has been on repeat at my house this summer:

Peanut Butter Banana Overnight Oats

1/2 banana

1/3 cup uncooked old fashioned rolled oats

1/2 cup unsweetened chocolate almond milk (I use regular white milk often. It is what we have and works great.)

1 tablespoon PB2 powdered peanut butter

1 tablespoon chocolate protein powder

Pinch of Salt

Add half banana to a mason jar with remaining ingredients. Stir and cover, refrigerate overnight. (I often double the recipe and make two days worth to use the whole banana.)

The sad, robotic, literal “whomp whommmp” of the blood pressure reading filled the room.  

Like dogs trained to a whistle, Adam and I turned to face each other, eyes wide. We had been there long enough to know that was a bad sound. It was the sound we heard for the first couple days of my return to the hospital after the birth of Theo when sparkles in my vision sent me to the ER. I was quickly admitted with postpartum preeclampsia and HELLP Syndrome due to massive water retention and stroke level blood pressure readings. We were on Day Four and just that morning I had been relieved of all wires, cords, and medication to see if my body could regulate on it’s own.

After a morning of silence, the chime of a high reading meant my body still could not maintain normal blood pressure readings. Frustration and fears rolled through the room at the sound. I asked Adam, bouncing our son, for the numbers.

He looked. Bad, again, and getting higher.

Nurses and a doctor entered the room shortly. They fiddled with the monitors and the doctor considered, out loud, that we may have to start IV medication again.

I crumpled down into tears.

Just that morning another nurse had removed the port that morning, thanks to signs of improving health. It seems so small, but having that dangly sticker off my body was amazing. Having all the wires removed was freeing. When I arrived earlier that week, my veins had been under so much pressure that the mild discomfort that the prick of drawing blood or an IV can cause was very painful. In fact, I had been in pain since I was induced ten days earlier. I was so tired of hurting. The idea of getting poked again, receiving medication again, and starting all over was too much.  

I wanted to protest, whine, and cry.  Instead, I was grabbed by the shoulders by a nurse who kind of gave me “upperclassmen you don’t want to meet alone in the high school bathroom” energy. She gave me a little shake. “This sucks, but we all have shit that we have to deal with,” she said, her face inches from mine.

Her statement made me want to cry more. I felt ashamed and a little scared. And also, her tone and statement felt kind of mean given my situation, but also just kind of in general? Umm, hello? Where was the compassion and care?

She continued. “You have a healthy baby and a loving husband. Parents who are here and care about you. We all have shit. This is just your shit right now.”  

The next day I stared at the cars flying passed on highway outside my window. I drove that highway all the time, never once thinking about what was happening in the walls of the hospital. Never thinking about the people in those walls whose lives were changing or were dealing with really hard things as I traveled by. Never thinking about how maybe they or their loved ones are also likely aso visiting the nearby Whole Foods or Target, like Adam had been all week. Just a person walking around with caring worry and fear, all while being very sleep deprived, but out there in in the world.

The week I really put pen to paper to make some plans for this project early in the summer was one of those weeks where I was questioning a few things parenting. The kids were dealing with bullies at camp and my little pals “anxiety” and “insecurities” were working overtime, sucking my brain space and keeping a racing current in my heart. It felt so hard.

And, it is. Raising kids and teaching them how to deal with the world is hard, important work deserving of time, energy, brain space, and heart.

But, also that week I had a friend miscarry. Another question some marriage stuff. Another lost an in-law. Another had a mom in the hospital.

One of my favorite podcast hosts, authors, and all around parasocial relationships is with Nora McInerny. Nora hosts the podcast, “Terrible, Thanks for Asking” and wrote a handful of grief books in the wake of the death of her husband in their early thirties. She is funny and sarcastic and relies on all of the same millennial zeitgeist references do drive home a point as I do. I have co-opted a handful of her well used phrases.

One of them being, “there isn’t a ‘grief olympics.'” Meaning, no one is handing out medals for tough stuff. One hard thing vs. the other hard thing isn’t more worthy or weighty than another. Perspective is good; but when things are hard, don’t compare. Let your stuff be hard and let someone else’s stuff be hard, too.

The other is one that I use almost daily: “Life is just being lifey.” I have already used it in this project. It’s such a perfect little phrase that I almost gave it its own essay.

You know how it feels like sometimes life is like tires on a car? You have a “house” tire. A “kids” tire. Health. Marriage. Work. Sleep. And so on. Rarely are you cruising on all the tires. Often one– or more– are running a little flat. That’s life just being lifey.

But no matter if it’s a literal or figurative flat tire or actual big grief, it’s all shit. We all have it.

Life, for me, felt very much like a living breathing version of “March in the Midwest” the March after Danny died. Some days felt like moving through mud or others were like a crusty, dirty pile of snow still on the sidewalk. Some days I felt like I might get a glimmer of sunshine and temperatures in the seventies, others I might be slipping on black ice, raw with pain. In my mind, I joked that I needed something like a hat or a shirt, something a la the Scarlet Letter (but less sexy), to note my mental state. To let people know of my shit.

I recalled the veils worn by the March sisters in the days after Meg’s death in Little Woman. Maybe a name tag, I mused.

“Hello, I am… grieving.”

“Hello, I am… ragey.”

Hello, I am… always worried.”

“Hello, I am… not sure what you are going to get.”

“Hello, I am… actually feeling pretty good and would love to talk about my dead brother if you bring it up in conversation.”

But, then I imagine all the hats that we would see out in the world. What would everyone’s name tags say? They would be everywhere.

“Hi, my teen is suicidal.”

“Hi, my wife left me this morning.”

“Hi, IFV failed. Again.”

“Hi, my car’s tire is flat and it just sucks.”

These people are all around us. We all have shit. We just don’t have name tags, hats, or veils. This realization has made me consider more so the causes and conditions that make a human react with poor or unexplained behavior versus the assuming, “Wow, that guy’s an asshole/space cadet/idiot/depressing.” I think it is a smart way of looking at things because so many times someone’s actions don’t match their true intentions. Hurt people do hurt people. But, many don’t want to. I have been the hurt person who hurt someone else and I was blessed with a grace that has made me want to greet the world and people with more kindness, grace, and ease, too.

Because, yeah. Some of this is just shit. Life is lifey and the tires are going to go flat on occasion. And, it will probably happen again, too. Here is the permission to call hardships and suffering of all kinds what it is.

But also to find on the other side of that suffering is compassion and care.

Because we all have our shit.