Soul Food

I recently dined at the downtown DC cajun eatery, Acadiana, which ended up being, not only a memorable culinary experience, but a searing sweet childhood memory catalyst.

On a client lunch, I sat primly in the formal dining room, feeling natural in my business suit, easy amongst my companions (a group of Congressmen were seated nonchalantly beside us), and perfectly comfortable uttering menu items like "remoulade," "tarte à la bouillie," and "foi gras" (in both pronunciation and familiarity). All-in-all, a very "grown-up" experience.

Then, as I was perusing the menu -- just prior to selecting the best shrimp and grits I've ever had -- I stumbled across the "Natchitoches meat pies." My decidedly adult moment was washed over by a flash flood of early memories of my maternal grandmother, a grand old cajun lady from Natchitoches, Louisiana -- Granny Lu (derived from "Lula," familiar for "Lavesta").

Although she died when I was young, I vividly remember Granny Lu and her intoxicating blend of southern charm and hard-earned eccentricity. Her house carried the heavy aroma of the township's famous meat pies in the morning, and the scorched sugar scent of pralines in the afternoon.

During our summer stays in Natchitoches, I'd spend my days with my southern cousins, foraging through the waist-high grass of Granny Lu's yard: a tangled habitat for fiberglass deer and other species of plastic lawn wildlife, a beguiling bayou for adventurous kids. The scent of my dad's shameless vacation cigars mingled with the tangible heat of the Louisiana summer and my mother's rediscovered drawl would roll across the yard from the porch, where the grown-up's traded old stories and easy laughter.

Nights were more enchanting. Being the only granddaughter, Granny Lu bestowed on me the distinct honor of sharing her great big bed with the special satin sheets and the late-night tales. Long after the parents and cousins and siblings and aunts and uncles were dozing soundly, recharging for another day of slow-like honey fun, Granny Lu would divulge the sacred stories of her girlhood -- misadventures of when she, like me!, was all stumbling alacrity and awestruck by that which surrounded her.

Now that I am a good bit older, a lot wiser, and a little sadder, those memories -- hers and mine -- are carefully stowed, so sharp I can smell the meat pies, so tangible I can feel the slip of satin and the scratch of grass. Even if it takes a piece of my tidy adulthood to stir the stories and bring the best ones, once again, to the surface of remembrance.

Politictionary, anyone?

It is a well-known fact that I love words. And I am fortunate to be in a line of work where words, whether wielded as weapons or used as tools for building and productivity, are appropriately revered and agonized over. It's not uncommon for me to hit up merriamwebster.com 10 times a day, in search of just the right word to consummately convey that very specific idea.

I recently stumbled across Merriam-Webster's Word of the Year "Truthiness" -- a satirical term coined by comedic commentator, Stephen Colbert, and often used by Colbert and others bent on mocking the President and denigrating his every move.

1 : "truth that comes from the gut, not books" (Stephen Colbert, Comedy Central's "The Colbert Report," October 2005)
2 : "the quality of preferring concepts or facts one wishes to be true, rather than concepts or facts known to be true" (American Dialect Society, January 2006)

Truthiness was the readers' top pick from the ten words the folks at Merriam-Webster deemed to be the most worthy of recognition. The other contenders?

google
decider
war
insurgent
terrorism
vendetta
sectarian
quagmire
corruption

Crimony! Was 2006 a political year, or what? The midterm elections were largely painted as a referendum on the President and the War in Iraq -- did this bleed over into Merriam-Webster's nerdy word contest?

This is interesting to me, though, because I think it heartily demonstrates the effect that the steady drum-beat of message (in this case, that put forth by a largely anti-war, anti-Bush, and often anti-Republican media) can have on collective consciousness.

For better or worse, we consume, digest, and -- as evidenced above -- regurgitate the information we're served.

The year is young, but this is my favorite day so far...

Saturday, January 13

After leisurely caffeinating with my roommate, while pouring over Bridal magazines and gushing over wedding gowns (I informed Carla that I would be the first official Bridezillamaid), I embarked on a day of perfect simple fun. It started out at the apartment of original mensch Matty Hogan, where I rendezvoused with the notorious Michael Sanders and his band of merry mates, who were gracing Northern Virginia with their much-desired presence for the weekend.

In brief homage to the aforementioned mates... These guys -- my brother and his friends -- are the most rollicking, quirky gentlemen I know. And I heart each one of them. (They always let me choose my Monopoly piece first and roll before anyone else, while turning a blind eye to my dubious strategy for domination; they listen to my dating horror stories and respond with the perfect blend of levity and protection; they seamlessly fold me into their boys club without for a moment falling down on their chivalry or good manners).

At Mr. Hogan's house, my brother and I put on a veritable concert of epic guitar songs with Guitar Hero, which might just be the most simulated fun I've ever had...

This was followed by lunch at Elevation Burger in Falls Church, home of my second favorite burger in the sub-gourmet category and my all-time favorite french fries. This obviously spurned a lively, and at times contentious, debate on the "best burger ever" and made each of us take a serious look at our own evaluation criteria for such critical topics.

The dramatic climax of the day was disc golf in Arlington. In the 60 degree heat wave, I went sans long sleeves and procured what might be my first ever January freckles. Aaron Stone, once again, tried to help me with my pathetic forehand throw. And my brother, the self-proclaimed John McEnroe of disc golf, demonstrated that for one to truly be successful in one's throw he (or she) must make the sound of the creature on his (or her) disc as it is thrown. My driving disc has a banshee on it. I opted not to howl, but I did enjoy my brother's sith-like scream as he lurched his...

It was sad to see the Lynchburg crew pack up and go. I can't wait for the Spring and similar days in such good company.

Is Nothing Sacred?

Go ahead, curl up with a brand new book. Open it up for the first time and smell the fresh ink and the new paper. Run your fingers down the unbroken spine. Earmark the page with the paragraph that changed your month. Underline your favorite passage. Decide for yourself if the agonized-over cover art captures of the spirit of the story. Put it on your shelf and let its now-broken spine stand bright among the others to create a brilliant display of drama and horror, mystery and romance.

Go back in five years. Open it up for the hundredth time and smell the aged pages. Rub the cloth-soft paper between your thumb and forefinger. See if that passage still makes you cry.

OR

Get yourself an electronic book - one streamlined machine for a thousand sacred stories. How convenient. How efficient. How cutting edge.

You can keep it on your sparse shelf between your iPod® and your Sidekick®. Be sure to leave room for your Digital Soul™.

So-Called "New Dawn of Reading"

Sony Leading the Charge in the Ruination of Written Artifacts

Loaner Husbands OR A Case Study in Self-(in)sufficiency

When I was kid there were two young adulthood experiences I often imagined: college and getting married. The former is far behind me now, but the latter is nowhere in sight. Though I never expected I'd get married right out of college, I also never gave much thought to the lag time that might occur between the two events.

Over the past several years I have swapped back and forth between being the better half of a pair and being stone-cold single. While nothing is lovelier than being in love, there are some benefits to singlehood -- utterly unapologetic independence not being the least of them. I love coming and going as I please, even if it's often alone. I've also picked up a few necessary skills along the way: I can fasten a complicated bracelet clasp one-handed; I can recognize a dishonest mechanic and call him out on it; My umbrella skills allow me to get myself in and out of a car in a monsoon without soiling my hair or outfit with a drop of rain; and I've actually fantasized about how the face of a would-be purse snatcher would meet the heel of my stiletto knee-high boot as I roundhouse kicked my way out of an assault.

On the contrary, when I've been in past relationships I've had boyfriends work hard to take care of me. They've argued with automechanics, they've soaked themselves to make sure I arrive somewhere dry, they've taken very charming steps to accommodate my every whim and solve all my crises. Is it adorable? Very much so. Is it appreciated? Absolutely. Necessary? Perhaps not.

But every now and then I am reminded that there are limitations to my self-sufficiency. One such incident:

A few weeks ago I decided to go through and remove the clutter in my bedroom, including relocating my college computer and monitor to the attic of my condo. Instead of calling on one of my lovely male friends for assistance, or at least waiting until my roommate's boyfriend was around to help, I decided I'd hoist the roughly shopping-cart sized items up the rickety ladder and into the perilously dark attic myself.

I started with the monitor. I managed to hold the bulky piece of equipment awkwardly in one arm (yeah, I work out) and made it all the way to the top of the ladder -- only to discover that the angle in which I'd approached the opening to the attic was all wrong. There was no way I could wedge the monitor through the narrow opening and into its new attic location. For a solid minute, as I balanced the heavy object on my leg and held onto the ladder with my one free hand, I contemplated whether I'd drop the monitor and that would cause me to fall, or if I'd first fall and then the monitor would land on top of me. Then I calculated exactly how long I'd be sprawled in the hallway of my condo before my roommate would arrive home and discover me with my newly shattered spine laying among a thousand fragments of computer monitor.

Truly by the grace of God, I managed to remain calm and inch my way down the ladder without damaging my own body or the stupid monitor. Upon safely arriving back on the ground, I promptly skipped over to my neighbor's condo and asked her burly marine husband for assistance. He kindly (and effortlessly) accomplished what I could not.

I guess I need these reminders -- while being able to care for oneself is a good thing, asking for help when needed is wise. And, by-the-way, I am happy to let any nice young man haggle on my behalf, lift my heavy objects, and otherwise rescue me any time!

"Thank you for choosing Starbucks."

I am embarrassed to admit that nearly every weekday -- sometimes twice when I'm extra stressed -- I visit Starbucks, slap my out-stretched arm up on the counter, and allow them to inject their bold drip coffee (AKA "heroin light") into my fiending body.

I noticed on my way out the door this morning that their savvy corporate message managers had the audacity to "Thank [me] for choosing Starbucks" via door sign on my out. Thanks for "choosing" Starbucks? There's not a lot of choosing to it.

If by "Thank you for choosing Starbucks" you really mean "We recognize that without our bitter, slightly burned coffee your mind will wander and deteriorate, your body will ache and atrophy, and you will cease to function. Thank you for your addiction!" then fine. I accept their gratitude. But, as far as I can tell, this is the only Starbucks choice I have: From the corner of 15th and K -- the block on which my building sits -- I can see three (3) Starbucks.

Starbucks A:
Distance - 45 seconds, walking
Attributes - Longest line; highest concentration of attractive young professional males; Consistent service

Starbucks B:
Distance - 90 seconds, walking
Attributes - Shortest line; Good service; Most likely to be accosted by a homeless person en route

Starbucks C:
Distance - 3 minutes, walking
Attributes - Average line; Best outdoor seating; Most likely to have unplanned encounter with an ex-boyfriend

(No, Starbucks, THANK YOU for helping me responsibly spend my money. And for giving ME so many choices).

"But if you did know, what would it be?"

At the tender age of 18 years-old, I found myself smitten with one Matt Nosich. He was the wandering and philosophizing stuff of dreams, that couldn't have been more masterfully created in the romantic recesses of my dark adolescent mind. For a girl who liked her turtlenecks black, her cigarettes Red, and her coffee without cream or sugar, Matt was my own private Kerouac. Gleaming green eyes were lit from deep within, where idealism and brooding locked horns in a struggle that was only evident in the occasional flicker of dequiet.

As one might expect from a tumultuous tangling that began in the smoking section of a late night dive, the adored Matt -- in practical terms -- ended up being little more than a loitering lothario. But during our short and, at the time, wholly enrapturing relationship, he managed to leave an impression that earned him a place of honor in my pantheon of past paramours -- and perhaps more notably, this blog posting.

Matt's chief attribute was disarmament. He could see through and obliterate any barrier, facade, bluff, hindrance, or obstruction the most adept illusionist or the fiercest self-protectorate might try to employ. It took him all of five minutes to deduce that the sum of my lacerating sarcasm, snobbish intellect, artistic bent, and my carefully contrived confidence was, indeed, an acute and potent self-consciousness. Perhaps no big mystery in retrospect, but I was certainly impressed at the time. In his own psycho-philosophical attempt to analyze the goings-on of my mind, he would ask me probing questions that, then not having a terribly strong sense of who I was, would frequently yield the answer, "I don't know."

"I don't know" was rarely a passable answer for Matt Nosich. Invariably he'd challenge, "But if you did know, what would it be?" I was impressed by the depth of the question and I would furrow my brow in deep contemplation as I tried to conjure a worthy retort. Years later I'd reflect on those caffeine-charged conversations and roll my eyes at such "inspired" rubbish.

But lately, I find myself circumscribed in "I don't knows." In my own battles with anxiety, "I don't know" is the war cry. My last relationship died to the retreating chant of "I don't know." So when, then, do we stop accepting, aiding and abetting the not knowing? When does apathy cease to be coddled? When is indecision no longer an option?

The problem with "I don't' know" is that it is ambiguous and allows involved parties to interpret the meaning or potential outcome quite liberally -- or to avoid an outcome altogether. What I've come to appreciate about Matt's question -- "But if you did know, what would it be?" -- is that it demands some intellectual and emotional accountability. It requires consideration, not default.

I can think of dozens of conversations where I've complacently offered an "I don't know" or accepted one because I didn't have the courage to be honest or I didn't have the confidence to demand honesty. If ignorance is, in fact, bliss, it's the fleeting kind. It's not long before desire for a resolution and the need to know overtakes that breathless bliss and replaces it with the unrest of wondering.