I know a lot of amazing people, and for that I consider myself to be quite a lucky gal. I couldn't help but feel pretty extra-special this morning, when I received a package from my brother Paul containing this pair of smart lace-up Keds.
Earlier, I had been complaining about how I needed more comfortable summer shoes (no support over here, people!). I'm just lucky I've got a brother with great taste and even better timing. Thanks, Paul!
Last week, I blabbed about Belvoir Fruit Farms Presse's. Until this afternoon, I had forgotten what happened post-gushfest. Today the evidence presented itself in the form of a very heavy, well-taped box in our front garden. At least our gin and tonics will be a little more lively.
I certainly don't plan on living by this rule, but perhaps some of the best surprises are the ones you buy under the influence and forget about.
Being the thoughtful, imaginative creatures that we are, the distinction between reality and fantasy is sometimes unclear.
We dream up perfect partners, convincing ourselves that they exist. We sabotage good relationships with insecurities; we mask failing ones with delusions of love. We design new us's, ready to adapt to anyone, anywhere; ready to erase whom we might have been.
No matter what, reality is exactly what we make it. We just have to believe.
In BODYTALK's next issue we want to explore how reality/fantasy function in our sexual, romantic, and/or bodily experiences.
How does what we think shape what we see, hear and feel?
How does our imagination save us? How does it betray us?
When do our fantasies become realities?
TELL US. SUBMIT TO THE FANTASY/REALITY ISSUE AT BODYTALKZINE@GMAIL.COM
I make a zine called Not French Cooking. It comes out every few months (In fact, the next issue is under way). But the zine needed a home. It's here. And there is a blog. So read it a whole bunch, why don't you. And pass it on!
If you're interested in contributing to the blog or future issues of the zine, get in touch!
If you're in need of an alternative to tonic water (because we know that's kind of boring sometimes, right?), may I recommend Belvoir Fruit Farms Summer Cooler Pressé. Cucumber, mint and geranium. Perfect with Hendrick's. Wow, normally I don't gush like I am now, but seriously. It's like soft picnic blankets on perfectly manicured lawns.
Sometimes a Monday night needs a little bit of zest. And by zest, I mean lime, cumin and avocado. I've made these before, and as long as I can continue to find cilantro (it's tough 'round these parts!), I'll make them again. When the weather turns, they're one of my favorites. Tacos, with cod, guacamole, mango-peach salsa, teriyaki-apple-pepper slaw and black beans, in a warm spelt tortilla.
The tree outside is blooming more brilliantly by the day. Peak out the kitchen window, and the neighbors' back gardens are spotted with fluttering pastel sheets hanging on unfettered lines. Clouds and rain push hard overhead, but the early April sun, uncompromising, beats hot onto the wood floors. The kitchen is clean. The bed is made. The coffee is sipped slowly. The hours are happy to meander. You are happy to let them.
On days like today — the early days of the fledgling, changing seasons — everything is freshly angled. The light is good. It's time to try something new. Anything. You want to. You have to.
So you bake bread because you've never waited for yeast to rise. You knead. Flour, punch, flatten, roll, flour, punch, flatten, roll, flour, punch flatten, roll.
The bread proves.
You slide the silver trays of young dough inside the oven, and the closing door clips at your anxious, wondering heart.
Your shampooed hair will soak up the aroma that billows from the hot oven that you impatiently, obsessively check. You think of how to describe the smell of bread baking, but your words aren't food words: warm, wholesome, Grandpa, sonorous fans, speckled robins' eggs, quiet shade, bleeding scraped knees, soft checkered cloths and earth. Inscrutable smells. Unreal.
The timer doesn't go, but the bread is ready. And when the rolls are cut they steam like the last whispers of winter's brutal dark evenings.
Dinner is not so far away, but you try one piece. The hard flakes of wild crust scrape at your gums. Strangely, it feels good. Real. Like scrubbed, cleaned surfaces. Inside, the bread is soft, and takes butter like a sponge. How different it is from the dough you kneaded on the countertop. Contained. Solid. Whole.
You take another bite, chew slowly, and watch from the kitchen window as the pale linens blow.