I’m not a gym person and I hate joining groups, but for the first time since moving back to Chicago (when I was at my heaviest, 250 lbs.), I’ve plateaued. With that in mind, I finally motivated myself to do something I’ve always wanted to do but was scared to: Signed up for a hip hop dance class, where I’ll hopefully twerk off the 15 pounds to get me back to an arbitrary number I’ve dangled like a carrot for myself. At my heaviest, my breathing was shallow and I felt awful, all of the time. I barely moved my body outside of walking to and from public transportation, while eating at all hours of the day, not to mention drinking casually because wine was always around. Surprisingly, in moving back, I dropped nearly 20 pounds in what I now believe was stress weight from living in NYC, from commuting 5 hours a day, from daily drinking 7 cups of coffee laden with sugar, from drinking wine on the Metro North train home because …
I’ve been taking a step back. Breathing. Calming my racing thoughts. Chilling the fuck out.
A few weeks ago, a friend of Ian’s sent him a care package of a dozen Georgia peaches. Wrapped in thin, crinkly sheafs of white paper, nestled in individual foam nooks, the bounty of summer fruit looked just like the emoji, sun-gold, fragrant and chipper in their little homes. Upon opening the package, I couldn’t help myself. In a moment of animal lust, I grabbed one of the plump, floral-perfumed fruit and devoured it over the sink, sticky sweet juice dripping slowly down my chin and neck. Was it peach season then? Is it peach season now? A month ago, Kim Severson of the New York Times wrote a delightful piece on a debate among Southerners and writers about the perfect time to eat a peach: “Kathleen Purvis, the Southern food writer most likely to let you know when you have something wrong, made a peach declaration on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. Peaches, she said, should never be eaten before the Fourth of July.” I love the charm of this easy-to-remember rule, even …
“Queer, tender, true. I like those things.” – Gabrielle Hamilton, Mind of a Chef
A look at the stuff that’s fueled my week.
When temps start to creep up, I’m definitely fucking heavy with whites, and if you know anything about me, you’d know that I’d prefer it, shall we say, jazzy. Sauntering over to my wine rack today, I found the right bottle, Francois Chidaine’s traditional method sparkling wine.
I’ve been sitting on this blog now for eight months. Eight months of generating ideas, practicing my photography, cooking meal after meal, waiting for “the right time” to post… And what do I have to show for it? Eight months of a blank blog taking up all-too-common Internet space, gathering dust. I’ve been racked with the guilt of the lazy and the restless. I battled myself over what I thought this space should be, trying to define its purpose, how to make it “different” from everything else that’s out there, but in the end, I did nothing. Until now. Done is better than perfect, and with that, I will enter the wide (and admittedly saturated) world of words and food and drink and travel and just do the damn thing. …Big breath… and jump.