Dance, dance, wherever you may be!

Happiness is a hard thing to navigate.  You have a good day and you never want it to end.  You stay up late, trying to clutch at something that, necessarily, has to end.  You can wake up and do everything the same the next day, but it will almost always fail.  The person you met at the pond doesn’t walk by again because their schedule takes them in the opposite direction, so you burn in the sun alone.  The person you love suddenly flinches at your touch, your bowling partner starts to find bowling trite, or the water in the neighborhood swimming hole is ten degrees colder, and your forced laughter rings hollow.  No matter how hard you try, you cannot revisit past happiness.  In fact, I’ve found that the harder you try, the less happy you become.  It has to be new, and sometimes you sort of just have to sit and twiddle your thumbs, waiting for more to roll in.

Anything could have happened this weekend.  On Thursday, my beginning Irish dance class had their final performance at Kendal, a retirement village in Oberlin.  It could have been a disaster, but my wonderful, graceful, beautiful, amazing students put on an amazing show for a great audience.  They danced like little forest sprites, and then we went out for a celebratory ice cream date.  I couldn’t be prouder of them.  In three and a half months, they learned three céili dances, two jig steps, two reel steps, some hard shoe rhythm, and a slip jig step.  Thursday evenings were always the highlight of my week.  No matter how I felt before class, I always left feeling full and light.  So, thank you, everyone, for a lovely semester and a grand show at Kendal.  I’m so glad we could share our love for Irish dance with the greater Oberlin community!

my class looking serious before the sweets of may [photo: Devon Lycette]

our rapt audience [photo: Devon Lycette]

Still reeling from the joy of Thursday night, I woke up on Friday and gathered my things for the Queen City Feis in Cincinnati, Ohio, my first Irish dance competition in five years.  My motto for this competition, which many of you have already heard repeated dozens of times, was “If pigs can fly, I can place.”  From July 2008 – September 2012, I had not had a single dance lesson.  The steps I knew were steps that had been permanently engraved into my muscle memory, such that learning new figures and movements was nearly impossible.  A back click should always follow a back toe, says my internal dance logic.  Before I could even begin, I needed to have all of that beaten out of me, which made learning a slow, almost painful process.  I was stubborn enough to want to cling to my old steps, but I was also stubborn enough to keep trying to learn new ones.  What resulted was what happened this past Saturday, and it’s probably not what you are thinking based on this introduction to my dancing.

I was competing in the 15&O category in the Prizewinner level.  It had been a while, but I remember how much I hated Prizewinner, not least because the name made me feel like I was some sort of livestock animal.  It’s basically where all these girls convene who are great dancers, but have the misfortune of always competing against each other in a level that requires firsts to move up.  When I was younger, there was a girl whose instructor required a first in everything before she would be allowed to advance.  She got first in everything but one.  In that one dance, the girl who got seconds in everything else took first.  It was brutal for everyone.  So, to say I wasn’t looking forward to coming back to Prizewinner is a major understatement.  I was dreading it.

accurate picture is accurate

My first dance was the reel, which is a dance I have grown to resent.  I have not proven myself ready for harder steps at O’Hare.  I can barely remember Novice-level lead around they taught me, and even if I do end up making all the right moves, it’s questionable I’ll be able to execute them properly.  If my toes are fully pointed, my knee is bent.  If my knee is straight, my legs aren’t crossed.  But I still want something more challenging.  Just one difficult leap.  But I know it’s something I have to earn, and until I’ve proven I can do the simple stuff, there’s no way I should expect to be trusted with the harder steps.

So, there I was, about to make my first mark on the world of feisanna with steps I didn’t think were complicated enough to even warrant a glance in a Prizewinner competition.  My legs were shaking and I was finding it difficult to swallow.  I wasn’t sure if I was going to burst out laughing or bend over and vomit, but I am an Actual Adult (surprise!), and I’m older and wiser than most of the girls I was competing against.  I knew there was no hope if I danced with another girl, so I made sure I was at the very end of the dance.  Some people dread dancing solo before a judge.  It’s risky, of course.  There’s no one else to watch, so unless the judge is writing, they’re going to see every single thing you do.   You can’t hide, but I relish in it.  I crossed myself before stepping on the stage and prayed that there was an uneven number of competitors so I would be by myself.  It worked out in my favor, and despite an error at the every end of my lead around, I placed third!

wig on loan from the lovely devon

The next dance was my slip jig, and this is where I kind of ruined things for myself the rest of the day. I’ve always been best at my slip jig because it’s more graceful and your power comes from your ability to fly rather than explode.  When I told myself I could maybe take home a ribbon, I always figured that it would be in my slip jig.  So, when I ended up dancing against a girl who cut me off three times, I got frustrated.  At the very end, she was in my way.  I saw her there.  I plowed into her anyway.  But, okay, so I was just taking two steps sideways and then doing a wrap-around.  So it’s not like I was moving very fast or very strongly.  I wasn’t glaring or staring her down as I came up behind her and kicked her in the butt.  I just kind of bumped into her, but it did look a lot like stage rage, and unfortunately I had this judge the rest of the competition, and she did not look at me again.

When I say she did not look at me again, I am not kidding.  I still placed fourth in my treble jig, but that’s only because I pulled my “end of the line, dance alone” strategy again, which meant she had no choice, and even if she pretended to write the whole time, she still could hear every single beat (and I don’t miss beats).  It was supposed to be a different judge for the hornpipe, but another competitor had a “conflict” with that judge so they had to find a replacement.  Lucky for her, and crappy for me, it was the same judge that had written me off earlier in the day.  The judge they had replaced had given me a 95/100 in my hornpipe when I was younger, so I was excited when I saw him walking over after the lunch break.  He’d judged my very first feis when I was a wee babe, and, while it was doubtful he would remember me as a dancer specifically, I knew he typically liked my look.  Anyway, the replacement judge didn’t look at me once until the last four bars of the dance.  I’d been watching her, though, and by that point, I was so frustrated, I slammed by toe into the stage, forgetting that my shoes were too small and what a mistake it was to do that.  The pain ruined my toe stands and that’s really all she saw of my entire dance, which was fine otherwise.

~*vintage*~

All that aside, I am so grateful that I even got anything.  For years in Prizewinner I came home empty-handed.  It was the most frustrating level for me.  I hated it.  So, that’s how I know choosing O’Hare was a good decision.  My dance goals were simple: to learn new steps in each dance, to compete, and to take home at least one medal (or ribbon).  My first competition, I have already claimed one medal and one ribbon, with the whole summer left to go.

This weekend I hosted an amazing dance performance, got a cool new job, actually won prizes in Prizewinner, and I’ll be heading home for a fun bowling session with my champion bowling team.  A little part of me that’s bigger than I’ll admit wants to know when this happiness will end and when I can go back into my cave of Knowing Life Sucks.  I know it has to end sometime, but, for now, I’m just going to ride it (and write it all down so I remember that glorious meadow of Sometimes Life Doesn’t Suck.)  Thanks for all your support, everyone.  I love each and every one of you!  :)

pigs can fly

You’re just what I was looking for, and that is my complaint

There is a problem with my writing that is not endemic to academic zeal.  It extends to casual e-mails, social media updates, and–yes–even blog entries.  I use words, swirly fonts, and photos of cute things to distract from what I’m really trying to say because I’m afraid of the power of my words.  Before I even proposed my thesis, I sent THREE topics to my advisor, because I was afraid the one I really wanted to do wouldn’t be good enough, and I didn’t want to seem like I was too invested in it.  Even after my dream topic was approved, I buried my argument in pretty transitions, cool historical anecdotes, and self-depreciating humor so that no one would know how much I had invested or how much competence I actually possessed.  I had an argument; I had a goal in mind, but the end–or rather, the potential of not achieving the end–terrified me.

aww they’re kissing ass (lol)

I’m the same way elsewhere.  In a relationship, I can’t bring myself to say, “I like you.”  It’s hard enough to say “I miss you and I want to be near you.”  So, I will say something else instead, like, “Hey, everyone [editor's note: "everyone" means "you" in the singular 82% of the time] you should totally come play tonight, but don’t worry if you’re busy because I don’t really care all that much and I have other friends and stuff so here’s a really cute picture of a motivational panda to keep you going through all the hard work you’re doing!  Keep it up!”

this is literally a picture of a “motivational panda” i have sent to people. i am not kidding.

So, then you ask yourself, how am I supposed to move ahead with anything, to connect with anyone, if I’m constantly telling people that I don’t care?  I try to be nonchalant so that people will like me, so that I will be “cool” and “chill,” but it’s killing me.  I’m dissolving into my nonchalance.  I’ve become nothing.  I can write “HELP ME” all over my face in permanent marker, but if I am throwing glitter everywhere and waving around tie-dyed flags while dancing with roses in my mouth no one’s going to notice.

I’m doing it again right now.  Did you notice?

Believe it or not, those first three paragraphs have nothing to do with why I’m writing this post.  Interestingly enough, they were just supposed to tell you why I’m not going to go on talking and distracting you from the main point.  They were supposed to explain why I’m not going to start off this blog entry with a story about how I was thinking of turning into a Hogwarts ghost and calling myself Nearly Jobless Jen.  Am I still typing?  Do you know what I’m going to say at the end of this post?  Do you feel distracted by my words while my emotions are hiding deep within my soul?  Do you even know what the heck is going on right now?

look! this dog thinks it’s people!

Oh, that’s right!  I haven’t told you yet!  Because, honestly, a part of me is still afraid to write about it.  The last time I said I had an interview, everyone got excited for me, and I had to disappoint everyone by not getting the job.  The first time I thought I had gotten a “real job” after college, it turned out to be a temporary position–how embarrassing!  So, yes, I’m terrified of my excitement, and I still haven’t told you, because if I keep making up words you’ll either stop reading or forget how you ended up here in the first place.

But, okay, deep breaths.  Maybe you should sit down.  I’m sitting down.  On my couch with my cat and a bowl of salad.  Right.  The news.  This just in.  I have been offered (and I have accepted!) a Museum Educator position at Hale Farm & Village.  Yes, there will be costumes and children.  No, I am still not sure how long the position is set to last or what exactly my salary will be.  But!  I am older and wiser and these are questions I will be sure to clarify when I meet with them on Tuesday.  Guys, I’m not giving up.  I will start my career in public history, and I will start it here.  I can think of no better place.

Work in progress

Imagine if you will, a distressing scenario.  You’re stranded on a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean.  Your throat is parched, your lips cracked–for the love of God, you would lick an iceberg for a swig of anything that does not taste like brine.  You look out at the rippling expanse of sea that you know stretches miles further than your own pathetic humanity can perceive.  A familiar adage comes to mind.  ”Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink,” you murmur methodically, wondering if there was ever a time when you considered using this phrase literally.  You remember the last time you uttered those words.  Oh, how you’d laughed!  Your intern, a lovely chap, placed another file on your desk.  ”How goes the hiring?” he inquired.  ”You know how these things go,” you chuckled, fingering the edges of the twelfth application that day.  ”Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink.”

Little did you know, just six months later, you’d be waking up afloat in a vast desert of salt water with no end in sight.  Little did you know, you’d be drifting into…The Unemployment Zone.

Melodrama aside, the job search sucks.  Nothing I have ever done could have prepared me for this unfortunate fact of life.  I have held eleven different jobs since college, and I have only interviewed for three of them.  Of those three, one of them was practically guaranteed by my status as an Oberlin student, and one was partly guaranteed by my status as a member of the Oberlin Student Cooperative Association.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not like I didn’t work for those jobs.  I spent time on my applications, and I sweated through every minute of the interviews.  I worked hard and got promoted, or received good enough grades to be considered for department-specific positions.   When I was a notetaker, I never missed a single class, and I developed a reputation of excellence.   I had to prove myself, and it wasn’t easy.  I’ve ridden that reputation into creating a sort of free-lance research assistant position at the College.  I’m really trying hard to keep it up and not exhaust the opportunities I’ve been provided.  So, it’s not like I sat cross-legged, spread my arms, looked up into the clouds, and expected it to rain employment.  I didn’t think it was easy, but I also didn’t think it was going to be this hard.

I was raised to think I was special.  I was raised to believe that if I put in the effort, I would get the results.  When I practiced dance, I won medals.  When I wrote papers or took tests, I got As.  When I spoke in class or in the co-op, people listened and nodded.  When I interviewed for a job, I got it (or, in some cases, a different job within the same organization.)  I was raised with the understanding that my feelings and opinions mattered, that no one was going to ignore me, that I would get exactly what I wanted if I tried hard enough simply because I am me.  I am brilliant.  I am a genius.  I am talented and sharp.  I am well-spoken and polite–amiable, even.  I am passionate and industrious.  I am employable.

The problem is that there are plenty of ‘Me’s in the sea, and, I hate to break it to you, but there are plenty of ‘You’s too.  So, what I wanted to do was compile a sort of working list of things that I have learned related to the job application process, because I know a lot of people my age are wrestling with the same problems.  Or, maybe they’ve won and pinned the other guy, but I still think it’s good for people to hear that–hey!–just because you have work today doesn’t mean you’ll have it tomorrow.  You are privileged.  Recognize it and grow from it, and don’t you dare look down on me like I am worse than you.

my professor boss gave me this friend to borrow while i am sad so i thought i would share him with you before this post takes a turn

1) Qui tacet consentire…NOT: Sorry, Thomas More, you were wrong in assuming Henry VIII would buy that your silence meant you had accepted his marriage to Anne Boleyn, and you’d probably be wrong in assuming that silence from a potential employer means they’re considering your application.  Fortunately, being wrong in this assumption doesn’t mean that your head is going to roll.  Unfortunately, when you apply for a job, you are not in the power seat.  No one has to respect you.  If you don’t RSVP to a party, it’s inconvenient and rude.  If an organization doesn’t respond to let you know that they have received your application, it’s still inconvenient and rude.  It’s annoying and stressful and all those other badjectives.  The difference is that they have something you want, and, in my case, need.  They can do whatever they please, and there’s no way to hold them accountable.  The worst part about it is, you still have to be polite.  If there’s even the slightest glimmer of hope that you might still be contacted about the position, your fingers have to be dripping in honey when you type up your follow-up e-mails.  When you call them, you have to sound sweet and inquisitive, not paranoid and aggressive.  Who needs dignity as much as they need money?  The answer?  No one.

2) You cannot polish a turd:  Somewhere in the process of losing your dignity, you also (somehow) have to find the ability to brag.  So, there’s this position I held once that I have mixed feelings about.  The truth is: I worked in a dusty, disorganized student co-operative archive up in the Student Union.  I had office hours that no one visited, and I wrote a monthly publication that was probably used more for toilet paper than edification after it had been distributed to the various co-ops around campus.  I planned events that few people attended and created memory-making projects that few participated in.  The truth is: I managed the archival library of a multi-million dollar 501(c)3 non-profit student co-operative association.  I wrote, edited, and distributed a monthly publication, in which I disseminated information about historic and current events.  I developed and tested theories related to co-operative memory making, with some success.  I planned and facilitated education events for co-op membership.  Both truths describe the same position, but which sounds better?  It’s time to invest in some rose-colored glasses.  No matter how successful you consider your work in a position, you have learned something about something.  Through this position, I learned that motivating a group of over 600 busy college students to care about institutional memory is really difficult.  I learned that, even when you bring the history down from the fourth floor and lug it across campus directly to the membership, it can still be inconvenient and inaccessible.  I learned the value of social media, and I later created a successful memory-making project based on this experience.  Long story short: any turd can be polished.

“The Happenings of one co-op are, in a great measure, the Concern of all. Many happy diversions have, and will arise, which are not purely local, but Universal, and through which the spirits of all Members can be raised and loving Community fostered. May these Happenings be recorded with diligence; for, ‘tis not solely the History of generations past. The History of this esteemed cooperative Association belongs to all Members: past, present, and future. It is your History, as it is our History. We own it. Let’s write it.”

3) It’s what’s inside that counts: Yes, your work experience is what makes or breaks your resume.  It’s true.  You can’t apply for a senior archival directorship without ever having worked in an archive.  But I also want to suggest that you shouldn’t apply for that directorship if your resume uses Comic Sans and word art.  Thanks to a post on my friend, Maggie’s, Facebook, I gave my resume a face-lift.   It looks great and natural.  No overly-puffy lips or too-taught cheeks.  And, best of all, it proves that I know how to use Microsoft Word before an employer even reads that fact all the way down at the bottom.  It shows that I am organized and can produce an attractive end product.  Without exercising any brian power, you can figure all of this out.  How easy and convenient!  Before my resume was pretty and I was proud of it.  I can make bullet points, but so can everyone else.  This new format makes my resume from Nashville.  (Because it’s the only Ten-I-See?  Get it?  I made a joke.  It fell flat.  Deal with it.)

the coveted “after” photo. mmmm, that’s one smokin’ resume.

4) Hey, girl, let me talk to you:  If you get an interview, you are qualified.  It means that they can see you working in the position–the you on paper at least.  They want to talk to you and get to know you.  If you get an interview, have a celebratory drink.  I’m telling you: feel good.  It’s the same way with human relationships.  If someone at a club wants to take you home, it means your smokin’ hot.  Don’t wait until you have a wedding ring to feel validated and beautiful.  Don’t wait until you have that job offer to feel qualified and worth something.  Just like human relationships, there are plenty of other people on earth.  There are hoards of recent history graduates trying to work in museums.  Sometimes it’s just not right, and it can’t go further than an hour long talk or a steamy ONS.  But just because I’m still looking for my soul-job doesn’t mean I don’t deserve one.  The fact that I have had one interview–even just the one–gives me hope.  Even for an hour, maybe even still, that person thought I could do a good job.  I wasn’t lucky enough to receive the coveted acceptance, but that doesn’t mean that someone else was better.  Someone else just happened to be someone else.  I’m trying not to take it personally.  There’s something out there for me.  There’s something out there for you.

There are plenty of other things I’ve learned but I want to end on a positive note.  I’ll save those for another post, perhaps.  Until then, I am your underemployed, yet ever hopeful Friend.

a note i wrote on my hand before my phone interview

WIAW [What I Ate Wednesday]

This will be another post about food.  Since most of you who read my blog know me personally, I will not go into too much detail regarding my recent struggles with disordered eating.  For some reason, when it comes to German literature, I become a method reader.  Perhaps it has to do with the fact that translating each word is such a process that I become very invested in its meaning.  In any case, while Anti-Heimat Literatur had me thinking a little too much the shortcomings of human communication and the peace of death, Franz Kafka had me fixated on bodies.  Eventually, that fixation turned towards my own.  Of course, it’s unfair to blame Kafka for all of it.  Lots of other stuff in my personal life combined to distort my view of myself.  I internalized everything, and without the help of my steadfast friends and my own incredible (if I may say so) will power, it had the potential to get exponentially worse.

a happy interlude, courtesy of tumblr, the font of cutery

Here are the facts you need to know now: I am eating three full meals a day again, sometimes four if I’m working late.  I have gained back the weight I lost last year.  I have rediscovered stress-eating.  The numbers are good, but they don’t feel good, especially when I’m left to think for myself.  For example, I still blame my regained weight for my failed romantic endeavors.  It sometimes takes me longer than necessary to choose an outfit or leave the house, not because I am vain, but because nothing I own “fits properly.”  It’s a healing process, and I understand this, but I am impatient with myself.  I should know better.  In some ways, looking back is really painful.  I remember the things I had when I was “skinny” and  see the things I don’t have now.  But in some ways my past with food is empowering.  If I don’t look back, there’s no way I can see how far I’ve come.  It can get frustrating, but the fact that I can finish an entire burrito and then eat a side of chips and half a brownie, when I remember how hard it was to even take a bite of toast with hummus, makes me feel pretty darn proud.

So, today I’m participating in a meme I’ve seen a few of my blogger friends posting.  It’s called ‘What I Ate Wednesday,’ which is pretty self-explanatory.  I want to celebrate the good things that food has brought me to today.  It begins at midnight, when I ate a handful from a bag of chips.  I was hanging out with a friend I adore, and I was walking her home from her co-op where we’d been snacking.  On the way, there is a pond and it was full of the humming, oscillating harmonies of the American toad (Bufo americanus).  Confusingly, when I reached my hand into the algae, I pulled out a green frog (Rana clamitans), which sounds decidedly different and wasn’t what I was hearing at all.  We played with our amphibious friend for a while before putting him back in his home and continuing to hers.

I was heading towards my own home when I realized I’d irresponsibly cast the bag of chips in the grass when I went in to catch the frog.  I turned around and that’s when I noticed there was someone else by the pond!  I went over unabashedly, which I am prone to do at surprising moments, and let him know that the cool sound he was hearing were really horny American toads on the prowl, which I could see clearly now (still not sure how I managed to catch a frog instead of a toad when the pond was teeming with the little Bufos).  We were standing, but as our conversation continued, we sat down, leaned back, and just enjoyed the night.  I had dropped my nachos in pursuit of a frog, returned in pursuit of my chips, and discovered, instead, a new friend.  What a food journey already, and only in the wee hours of the morning!

When I woke up, I went downstairs and ate breakfast with my housemate who works for the College.  I ate strawberry yogurt with Honey Nut Cheerios.  One part (the yogurt) was an old friend, that I’ve enjoyed since probably before I could chew.  The other was a newfound discovery, after years of detesting the smell and aftertaste of Cheerios.  There’s just something about the honey-nut taste that makes these stand out.  Before I went upstairs, I also ate an apple.

this is a picture of a grapefruit, which would also make a yummy breakfast

Between breakfast and lunch, I practiced dance as much as possible while being distracted by a major and slow-rolling storm.  Each time I would complete a step without stopping, I’d dash outside for a few blissful seconds of the sweet sounds and smells of rain.  Unfortunately, the Internet and the dreary state of my room later bogged me down in laziness until I finally peeled myself off my bed to make myself lunch.  I made pasta, this really thin kind that’s really jiving with my eating habits.  It’s thin enough that when I need something to nibble, I can munch on it raw without worrying about my teeth.  It’s also light and cooks quickly.  I tore up a slice of colby jack cheese (my favorite) and poured on some tomato basil sauce.  I also chopped up a cucumber I bought on Saturday at the Farmers’ Market and drowned it in salad dressing.  A failed addition to this meal was my sauteed asparagus.  It tasted alright, but I realized after I’d eaten half of it that it had some weird black flecks on it, which were either carcinogenic bits of the teflon pan, or weird food residue from the previous user’s meal.  Either way, it wasn’t something I wanted to risk, so I bit the heads off (the best part, in my opinion) and tossed the rest.

Feeling invigorated by my lunch, I worked on an oral history interview transcription I’m doing for a professor here.  It’s really cool.  I feel like every interview I transcribe is like listening to an NPR radio show.  I’m really learning a lot about her project and different ways to look at American history, especially an era that isn’t exactly my forte.  Unfortunately, I had to jet in order to get to my fencing class on time.  At this point, it was 4pm and it was so dark outside the street-lights had been turned on.  Talk about an ominous storm!  Thankfully, the raincoat I’d yanked from the lost and found at work (it’s not stealing if your boss is gonna throw it away) was still waterproof.  Alas, my poor hiking boots probably had their last wet run.  Needless to say, it was an uncomfortably damp class.

Afterwards, I met another friend for dinner at the Mandarin, a Chinese restaurant with a lot of tofu options.  I love tofu, and I’m not ashamed.  I only wish I knew how to cook it for myself.  I ordered the sesame tofu, which came with white rice and about four pieces of broccoli.  The tofu was really firm and had just enough chewy/crunchy texture to make it a real treat.  I could only eat half, the portions were so big, so I know what I’m having for lunch tomorrow!  Since my friend and I live next door to each other, he came over for ice cream on the way home.  It was a gift from a different friend as a reward for my hard work on an interview transcription that ended up being 26 pages single-spaced.  He got me dinosaur sprinkles and the shell chocolate syrup.  Oh my wow, it was so yummy.

And that, folks, is what I have eaten this Wednesday.  It is 11:09pm right now, and I can’t forsee any snacking in the near future.  I am full as a flamingo and pleased as a pickle.  It’s not been the best day, but food and the events that surrounded it have been surprisingly class.  Thanks for bearing with me.  I’ll see you soon with a serious post about jobs, I promise.  I know I owe you one.

Until then!

The things I do for Jesus…

Here is a disturbing fact to put things into perspective.  The amount of times I’ve seen a cause I supported in theory–like kickstarting a Veronica Mars movie, or, more importantly, a battered woman’s safe-house–and yet offered no financial support, despite the considerable padding a lifetime of stingy saving has afforded me, vastly outnumbers the amount of jobs (and boys) that have rejected me so far.  Another fact: most of the organizations I enjoy, such as public television, radio, and local historical societies, offer their services on “suggested donation” basis, which I often ignore or shortchange.  $1 is kind of like $5, right?  I love these things; I value them.  I would even go so far as to say I couldn’t live without them.  So why, when it comes down to it, can I not bring myself to support them monetarily?

An honest answer really has to do with uncertainty.  When I get scared, I don’t run.  I curl into a ball, stick my head in the sand, and cling as tightly as possible to things “the way they are now.”  That includes everything from personal relationships to financial stability.  I’m twenty two.  I am single and have never had a boyfriend.   I work three part-time jobs, two of which are more free-lance than anything else, and I barely scrape together a living wage.  Every exchange with a stranger could be the first time I speak to my soulmate.  Every time I check my e-mail, there is the potential that I will suddenly find myself gainfully employed…or not.  The point is, I never know.  So, partly, I cling to my capital because, if there is anything for sure in this world, it is that I will need money to keep living in it.

But, at the same time, there is a privilege inherent in my potential poverty.  I am not starving.  I am not sick.  I am not homeless, and I am certainly not without a strong safety net of friends and family.  If things get tough, I can ask my parents to help out with groceries.  When I visit home, they refill my gas tank.  So, where there is uncertainty, I do know one thing for certain: it could be 100% worse.

Bringing myself back to the topic of this post, last Saturday I mailed a check amounting to $51.27 to Oberlin Community Services, officially ending my Lenten fast.  My plan was to try viewing my world more positively, but, knowing that I would fail, starting a complaint jar into which I would drop $0.25 every time I tore down myself or my situation.  What I wanted was a way to feel good even in my failure.  Like, sure, I was a Negative Nancy all month (and, let’s face it, March was not my best), but I can still help build my community.  I tried being positive, but what I learned, ultimately, was how to give.

Mailing that check was probably one of the more difficult things I’ve done.  One one hand, I was embarrassed and all too aware that it had taken a religious ritual to motivate me to be a better human.  I was ashamed that $51.27 was all I could give. And then there was that awful, guilty moment where I actually contemplated dumping the jar into my other jar, which has about $120 raised for my Irish dancing.  But here’s the thing.  I didn’t.  I didn’t keep the money, and I didn’t end up sending it because I was looking for the approval of God.  I sent it because that was, religion or not, the kind, committed, good, and only thing to do.  I also didn’t feel so bad that I couldn’t give more.  When you do the math, $51.27 / 40 = $1.28 per day ~=~ 5 complaints per day.  That’s radical for me.  In the end, I get to be proud of myself for beginning to improve my outlook, and also to give back to my community!

So, while this post is titled “The things I do for Jesus,” I’m really only using that to quote one of my favorite movies.  (Anyone know the title?)  My personal beliefs may have set the time frame in which I entered a period of self-reflection and personal growth (and also helped me find strength in darker moments), but the ultimate motivation was humanity.  There are a lot of things I care about, and while I have the means, I might as well make an effort to make this planet a more livable, accessible space for everyone.  What’s more important, after all?  One more whiskey sour at the bar, or ensuring that my fellow people are happy, safe, warm, healthy, and have all the opportunities I had to learn and explore?

i needed my quarters for vending machine snacks

Pray, madam, are you a food blog?

By my face and by my actions, sure ‘twould be logical to call me as such.  I have not posted much recently to disclaim the assertion; yet, once more, I will argue that I am not a food blog.  There are upwards of eight posts in my queue about travel, job applications, historical research, working in food service, my dance goals, and graduate growing pains.  I spend hours each day staring at them, my fingertips resting lightly on the keys of this old computer (graciously loaned to me by a former professor), and, at the same time that I have everything to say, I find I have no way to say it.

Pre-tested recipes and anecdotes dominate my table of contents, in part, because they occupy a simpler space in my mind, a space which can neither offend nor tarnish my personal and professional reputation.  They offer a safe haven in a time of great upheaval, but they also speak deeper volumes about my life.  With each new recipe conquered, I feel a little more adult, a little more put-together.  Each new culinary triumph marks a meal where I did not eat only oreos and peanut butter.  They’re small victories, I will concede, but they are grounding.  I can’t finish a personal statement.  I don’t follow-through with work assignments.  I forgot my reel steps, and my hornpipe is in shambles.  I lost the flash drive with my thesis and my entire budget on it.  I haven’t kissed anyone in seven months.  I’m drifting away from friends left and right.  The life I’m living sometimes seems like the bastard child of modern sitcom and Austrian Antiheimat literature, but–dammit–I CAN SAUTEE ONIONS.

So, it is with great apology that I, once again, submit for your pleasure a recipe I strongly believe everyone should try.  I have been having trouble sleeping lately, and so I’ve been cracking open books I forgot I owned.  There is no better way to combat insomnia than returning to a story that has comforted you.  About a week ago, I rediscovered my friend Móna’s book, The Chef & I: A Nourishing Narrative.  It’s a touching, heart-warming journey through her remarkable life, but it’s also a recipe book.  A few months ago, I tried (unsuccessfully) to woo a boy with the delicious fried portobello mushrooms and tomato basil dipping sauce.  (Since the food was splendid, I’m assuming it was more a problem with my physical ability than my culinary ability to woo.)  Today, I decided to try my hand at the mango salsa salmon.

I was afraid to make this because I’ve never really had mango, I tend to avoid fish except on Lenten Fridays, and I really can’t handle spicy foods.  Now that it’s done, my only regret is that I didn’t try it sooner.  What you need is simple; what you do with it is simple; and there’s really no way you can mess it up…except, of course, if you trip and drop it on the linoleum.  In which case, I expect you to eat it off the floor.  You heard me.

The ingredients are as follows: a salmon fillet, salt, pepper, a mango, half a lime, some cilantro, and red pepper flakes.  I got my fish frozen from Wal*Mart (yes, Wal*Mart), but I imagine fresh fish is more desirable.  Also, if you’re whisking up gourmet meals for one, the whole mango isn’t needed by any stretch of the imagination.  I ate half of it during the cooking process because I have no self-control, and I still had too much left over.  I ate the last quarter for dessert.

To make the salsa, cut the mango so it’s chunky.  The size of the chunks are wholly your prerogative.  Having never eaten mango before, this was an adventure.  I ended up kind of tearing it apart with my fingers because I am, at heart, a wild beast.  Coarsely chop the cilantro then stir it into the mango with your hands.  Or a fork if you want to be more civilized.  Add a sprinkle of salt and as many pepper flakes as your palate can handle.  Then take half a lime and squeeze it until there’s nothing left.  Stir it some more and viola!

To make the fish, lather the fillet in salt and black pepper on both sides while you’re heating up a skillet with a drop of olive oil in it.  Plop the fish in skin-up and let it sizzle for three minutes while the oven preheats to a “medium” heat.  I took this to mean 300 F, because the lowest I’ve ever used is 200 and the highest 400.  It worked, so let’s go with 300 F, how bouts?  What’s really cool that I didn’t expect is that you can actually see the fish cooking in the skillet.  It will turn white starting from the bottom up, and when you flip it over it will have this really lovely textured salt/pepper crust on it–surprise!  Anyway, when it’s done chilling in the pan, take it out and let it bake in the oven for about ten minutes.  Flop it on a bed of rice (and greens [not pictured because I forgot to buy any]) and top it with the mango!

So, there you go.  Another recipe on my Not-A-Food-Blog blog.  Hopefully I will have figured out enough about my life to return to the true purpose of this virtual endeavor soon.  Jobs, jobs, jobs, growing up, growing up, growing up.  In any case, there’s still one Friday left before Easter!  Add this to your menu and you will not be sorry.

Happy living,
Jen

das Brot, das Bier

Friends, let it be known that I am no baker, and I am certainly not much of a drinker.  Apparently, however, when I combine these two efforts, I am sometimes able to create something delightfully edible.  (“Why not?” you query.  ”Alcohol and bread are both comestibles.  Combining them should not negate that property.”  But I counter, “In my kitchen, even toast can catch fire.”)  Dear readers, this is truly a miraculous occasion; for, I had entered the kitchen a novice, and I emerged (puns, ahoy!) a well-seasoned genius.

today’s was a domestic morning

I first tried making beer bread a few weeks back after purchasing a six pack of Honey Brown Lager.  I don’t really care for beer, but Honey Brown was cheaper than cider, and all I had in my pocket at the time was tip money.  I’m trying this new thing called “frugality,” you know.  I drank one, and it tasted tolerable, but I’m no beer fanatic.  The other five bottles sat in my fridge for ages before the Internet gave me direction.  ”Go to the kitchen,” it said.  ”Go to the kitchen and bake, my child.”

And so…I baked.

3 cups all-purpose flour
2 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp baking powder
1 tsp salt

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees (F) and then put these dry ingredients into a bowl and whisk it all about, then……….!!!!

cider works too, if you have it laying about!

2 tbsp honey or agave nectar
1 bottle beer (or cider, as it turns out)
2 tbsp butter (melted)

Add the wet ingredients and stir until mixed.  Add the batter to a greased bread pan, then pour another 2 tbsp butter on top of it.  Bake in oven for 50-60 minutes.

And that’s all!  The crust is buttery and crispy.  The meat (so to speak) of the bread is soft and moist.  I’ve heard tell it goes well with cheese, but I know for a fact it goes well with company.  Impress your besties and win their hearts through their stomachs.  The best part of all is that I, being an incurable miser, got to use my unfortunate purchase for my own gain rather than begrudgingly giving it away for free.  Everybody wins!

More on my life and job applications to come.  Stay tuned.  :)