when words fail

6/26/09 - Dinner with Sarah (Part II)
Chicken Lasagna Alfredo with Pecans and Raisins

Do you know this song? Sarah asked.
I shook my head.
It was Ray Lamontagne’s Be Here Now.

Don’t let your mind get weary and confused
Your will be still, don’t try
Don’t let your heart get heavy child
Inside you there’s a strength that lies…

Be here now, here now…
Be here now, here now…

I listened to the words, and immediately thought of a passage I’ve been meaning to share from Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf. In it, Harry Haller was brought into a magic theater where he explored the unfulfilled possibilities of his life.

I lived through much in Pablo’s little theater and not a thousandth part can be told in words. All the girls I had ever loved were mine. Each gave me what she alone had to give and to each I gave what she alone knew how to take. Much love, much happiness, much indulgence, and much bewilderment, too, and suffering fell to my share. All the love that I had missed in my life bloomed magically in my garden during this hour of dreams.There were chaste and tender blooms, garish ones that blazed, dark ones swiftly fading. There were flaring lust, inward reverie, glowing melancholy, anguished dying, radiant birth. I found women who were only to be taken by storm and those whom it was a joy to woo and win by degrees. Every twilit corner of my life where, if but for a moment, the voice of sex had called me, a woman’s glance kindled me or the gleam of a girl’s white skin allured me, emerged again and all that had been missed was made good. All were mine, each in her own way… Each had her secret and the bouquet of her soil. Each kissed and laughed in a fashion of her own, and in her own peculiar way was shameful and in her own peculiar way shameless. They came and went. The stream carried them towards me and washed me up to them and away…it astonished me to find how rich my life - the seemingly so poor and loveless life of the Steppenwolf - had been in the opportunities and allurements of love. I had missed them. I had fled before them. I had stumbled on over them. I had made haste to forget them. But here they all were stored up in their hundreds, and not one missing. And now that I saw them I gave myself up to them without defense and sank down into the rosy twilight of their underworld.

***

Sometimes, I told Sarah,
Sometimes I am so fixated on wrestling with a situation that in the moment, I become blind to what I can take from it. The more I look back, the more I see how often I have made things more difficult for myself by insisting on fighting imagined battles. If I can calm down enough to recognize the essence of each occasion, and focus on experiencing just that, I can live my magic theater every day.

I am thinking about all sorts of relationships, including but not limiting to romance. For one, I know that when I go home, it’s vital for me to trust the independence I have established and not worry about asserting my autonomy with my parents - for that is the biggest fear in going home, no? That you would revert to a child. I can be much more open to all that I want to learn from them without the struggling.

There is so much I hope to absorb during my time in Taiwan. I want my parents’ knowledge of food, their creativity, their vision, their passion. If I can remember to focus on those things, we will keep moving forward together and not be held back by petty arguments over facts already solid. The lessons are there, I don’t need to make up my own.

For this, and everything,
Be here now.
Take what can be given, give what can be taken.

6/26/09 - Dinner with Sarah (Part I)

Sarah and I finally found another chance to share a meal. It was my turn to cook this time. Wanting to use Krissy’s herbs at their freshest, I created a menu inspired by the ingredients.

Mint - Mojito, naturally.
A few glasses in,
Sarah had the brilliant idea of liquefying a pear into the blend.

Chives, Rosemary & Thyme - White Bean Salad.
I chopped a red onion, mixed that with the herbs, a splash of lemon juice and some oil. Patience is virtue. The more time that passes, the better
the taste.

Thyme - Chicken Lasagna Alfredo with Pecans and Raisins.
I used thyme to lighten up the lasagna, pecans to give texture, and raisins to bring an unexpected sweetness.

***

While resting in between bites, Sarah showed me photos of her travels and pieces of writing stored away. One of my favorite things about this woman is that she shares herself freely with me. She shows whatever she pleases, tells any story that comes to mind, always trusting that I would find interest in the things worthwhile to her.

Not a moment’s wasted on unnecessary concerns.
We have no walls between us in that sense.

Of course, I am interested.
I love that I never have to prove myself with reassurances.

There’s a chance we won’t relate on every level, or agree on everything,
but so what?
It’s just sharing.

On each other’s open palms, we put pieces of our lives, the way we would pretty pebbles from a beach.

6/26/09 - Gifts from Krissy.

One night, not long after I started tango, I asked Krissy to dance with me. I didn’t notice at the time, that the tanda I had chosen was a difficult set of milongas. Fast-paced and irregular.

When I started stumbling, I panicked.
Should we wait for the next set? I asked her.
But she held on to me,
Let’s do this, now that we are already on the dance floor.

***

A few weeks later, we were practicing back ochos in class.
She looked at my footwork, Can I offer you a suggestion?
It’s a small detail, she continued. But you want to try to keep your legs extended when you are shifting weight from one to another.

Offer. Suggestion.
These words coming from a dancer I so admire.
She could have easily just told me what to do and I would have listened. Gratefully.

Stunned by her gentleness, all I could do was nod.

***

Learning to lead has been difficult for me. Unlike with following, I am often unsure of how to use my body in the role. Several times I felt like giving up, but I kept trying because of Krissy.

It’s problem-solving. It’s trouble-shooting, she would help me name the obstacles then guide me step by step to resolution. With her, every challenge became manageable.

Last Friday,
we had what was probably our last private lesson for the time being.
I have something for you. A mysterious grin on her face.
Mint, thyme, chives, and rosemary. Fresh herbs from her back porch.

… and a beautiful pair of tango shoes.

***

As we walked through the streets on the way back from dinner, Krissy turned to me, Do you ever get sudden flashbacks?

All the time.
I remember sensations.
Completely. Involuntarily. Obsessively.
You?

She smiled, The other day I was running across the street. I had this feeling of being a child again. When I was a little girl, I was always playing. Always, always playing. I never got tired. I would run around everywhere, feeling so big, feeling like I owned the world.

It’s been a few days, I am still turning that image in my head.

***

It was hot as hell in those days… Science calls it the world before life began - the Hadean period. But life had begun, because life is more than the ability to reproduce. In the molten lava spills and cratered rocks, life longed for life. The proto, the almost, the maybe. Not Venus. Not Mars. Earth.

Planet Earth, that wanted life so badly, she got it.

…What limits? There are none.
— Jeanette Winterson

***

Certain things haven’t changed.
The world is still yours.

6/13/09 - Iron chef Potluck.
Photo: Kristin & Andrew’s gorgeous cupcake… I wish I had made it.

Two Saturdays ago, Stephen took me to an Iron Chef Potluck competition.
The secret ingredient: basil.

We had no idea what to expect. Stephen had only met Iddo, our host of the night, the week before. The two got along so well that at the last minute, we were added to the guest list for the group’s third competition in Philly.

Way ahead of time, we began exchanging emails back and forth to plan our entry. We even made multiple sketches of our game plan. When the day finally arrived, we set aside the entire afternoon to perfect our dish. It was more than enough time. I suspect we both volunteered our day not so much out of a desire to win, but to spend more time with each other.

We cooked to hip hop. Stephen and I are soulmates on the club floor. I don’t go out so much anymore, now that I am pursuing tango. But it’s still the case that when we dance, the rest of the world disappears. We can dance by ourselves and in crowds with equal ease. Wherever we go, we are usually the ones who get the dancing started. Sometimes, we even take over the floor.

***

Our basil leaves wilted, so we walked a few blocks to buy new ones. The sky was funny that day. It could not make up its mind, touching us sometimes with rainfall, sometimes sunshine.

I feel like this weather is flirting with me, Stephen laughed.

Are you seduced?

Oh no, I’m not fooled.

When we went back to the apartment,
he opened the door and let me through first.

Thank you, I said.

My pleasure.

One of the first things I remember about Stephen is this phrase. He doesn’t say you’re welcome. He says my pleasure, and you can see he means it.

***

You know, you are my second favorite person to cook with,
Stephen told me as I sliced pieces of cheese.
My favorite’s gotta be my mom.

I’m still smiling about the flattering second place,
and the adorable choice of his first.

Stephen and I work seamlessly in the kitchen, helping each other out, cleaning as we go. We cook together the way we dance.

***

The Iron Chef Potluck Entries:

Tomato Soup with Basil Puree (Doug)

Shredded Duck Lettuce Wraps (Zhanna, Holly and Neil)

Mini Basil Gorgonzola Burger (Jodi and Jon)

Potato Salad (Ben)

Scallops with Basil Pesto Pasta (Lauren and Iddo)

Chicken Parmesan with a Twist [Fried Cheese on top] & Pesto Mashed Potatoes (Stephen & ABby)

Chocolate Cupcakes with Basil Orange Infused Buttercream Frosting
with a Chocolate-covered Basil Leaf (Kristin and Andrew)

See more photos in my Flickr Album.

***

Stephen and I took the title for the night. We were up against amazing competition, but I think the fried cheese instantly swayed the men’s opinions in our favor. It helped too, that we bribed everyone with a bonus round of bruschetta, made more delicious with sprinkles of brown sugar.

6/17/09 - Almond Rum Biscotti.

Last year around this time, I was miserable.
I had set aside the summer to be a writer, only to discover that my creativity shied away from attention. I would wake up at 5AM every day and waste hours, crumbling pages filled with sentences that led to nowhere. 

Day after day, I starved for inspiration, until finally I snapped. One morning, I was so peeved with my writer’s block that I hurled it into the oven. An hour and a half later, I had a batch of biscottis. As a sort of mockery, I uploaded a photo of my difficulties transformed, and entitled the resulting blog, When Words Fail. Ironic now; perfectly descriptive at the time. 

So much has changed since.

For one, this blog has grown beyond my expectations. I haven’t always taken my work here seriously. These days I spend hours taking notes, drafting, editing and re-editing, reading every line aloud to perfect the rhythm. But there was a period when I thought of the space as nothing more than a dump for miscellaneous material. 

It wasn’t until last September that I realized this blog can be more.
Emotionally drained at the time, I wanted to ease myself out of introspection. I was tired of sharing feelings so I casually posted a photo with some banal description. 

That very night, SJ came over to our apartment to hang out. The first she said when she saw me was, What’s up with your latest entry?

What do you mean? I was confused.

The tone was really out of place.

Immediately, I grew defensive. 
What tone? It’s just a blog. It’s supposed to be spontaneous. I write whatever I want.

But you have a style that you’ve been establishing, she insisted.

I didn’t say much more after that, but she had set my thoughts in motion. I went back to re-read some of the entries I liked and saw her point. This could be the writing project I had been waiting for, if I would just put my heart into it. 

Gradually, the blog turned into a forum for my experiments with words - blurring boundaries between poetry and prose, breaking linguistic rules, reshuffling narratives, drawing wild (but relevant) associations, representing real life with fiction techniques.

While the anchor point is still always food, the stories I tell are really about what revolves around it: the people I cook with and eat with, the connections between what we eat and how we live.

Since I started distilling my life experiences in this virtual space, I have found a new freedom. People, objects, memories, thoughts and feelings… there are no constants but the constant of change. What I need to remember from the past year is here, preserved as is, raw and contradicting at times, but always truthful. I need not carry anything. 

6/14/09 - Written on a Napkin.

I found this while sorting through my belongings, packing for home.
It must have been from nearly two years ago. I can’t recall now, where Andrew and I were sitting at the time. Maybe it was T-bar, maybe El Vez, or Mizu Sushi. In any case, we were out somewhere, waiting for our food. Suddenly, he grabbed at a napkin and pulled out his pen.

I remember watching him, amused. The softness of the napkin seemed to call for unusual effort. Painstakingly, he drew his symbol and wrote the message, each stroke’s pressure apparent in the thick and thin of blue ink.

I remember the way he quickly slid the napkin in front of me, smile secretive. He’s like that, sweet at the most unexpected moments.

***

For all the disagreements we have, it’s amazing that we’ve only become better friends. There were certainly times when we frustrated and exhausted each other, but he was the one who showed me how we can agree to disagree, how we can hold strong opinions but remain open-minded.

My brutally honest Andrew will say anything he needs to say. There is no sugar-coating with this man. Nevertheless, he is one of the most gracious I know in arguments. He may not be convinced by another’s stand, but he will always acknowledge its validity. That’s a difficult thing to do, being fair when it gets personal.

My gravitation towards openness began with Andrew.
Point taken, a phrase of his that’s become part of my mindset and speech.

***

When I told my friend over the phone that I am moving back to Taiwan, he sighed, I am never going to see you again.

Nonsense.
Technology has reduced our world to the size of days.

In fact, I soon discovered that it’s cheaper and easier on my travelling if I stop by San Francisco before flying back to Taiwan. I wrote Andrew to see if I could stay with him for a few days.

His reply:
Dear Foodbuzz Featured Publisher,

Those dates will not work
A friend is staying here then
Her name is ABby

Love,

The Haiku Bandit

Every time we talk, I am reminded of how we make each other smile.

***

The last time we spent time together was around Thanksgiving, when he visited Philly. I keep thinking back to the moment before he left through our fire escape.

Andrew had held me in his arms, Think of me.

I often do, I had replied.
It’s still true, I often do.

6/12/09 - Ginger Grilled Tuna and Wasabi Mashed Potatoes.

While I was in D.C. last weekend, Gunder made me a dinner of fish steak and an assortment of stewed vegetables. We had a whole year of stories to share with each other, so as soon as we put the fish in the oven and the vegetables on the stove, we sat down with a bottle of Argentine Malbec and let the words flow.

Something she said that evening shook me.
She was describing someone in her life and though it had nothing to do with me, the account sounded increasingly familiar.

Familiar,
yet strange at the same time.

Then I realized why.
I was staring at a likeness of my past self, only from the opposite angle. Perplexity - I hadn’t considered a possible reaction to behaviors like mine. But there I was, sitting by my friend, listening to every detail of her confusion.

Eye-opening.
The patterns I’ve been observing these past few months, the lessons I’ve learnt, the thoughts I’ve been writing down suddenly all came together. What occurred to me is not a new thought, but it’s the first time it’s complete, therefore liberating.

Why? Gunder wondered aloud. Why would anyone act like that?

I laughed finally, after all the days of not being able to find humor in the story. I laughed, overwhelmed by embarrassment.

Why? I repeated after her, That’s a very good question.
I can only speak for myself, Gunder,
but I suspect it’s a similar situation with your friend.

Simply put: I was afraid.
I was at a point in my life where I felt so beaten down, I could not bring myself to trust the good that came. I did not believe it would come to me, so that even when it stood right in front of my face, I denied its reality. I needed to be persuaded. I needed assurance. But how can we demand chance to prove its worth to us, especially when we don’t feel ourselves worthy of its blessings?

All the while,
I had looked put together, as if I knew what I was doing and what I wanted.

But I really didn’t know.

***

It’s shocking, how effortless it is for me to reconcile with these feelings now.

The funny thing is, Marc told me once during our tango private,
Everything should be easy. If it’s not yet, you are still not doing it right. All the difficult things now will one day be really easy, and that’s how they should be. You will look back and wonder why you had spent two years learning that one move.

***

This entire week,
I’ve been walking around with an ironic smile I cannot suppress.

What was all the struggle for?

A lightness had come over me. I find I no longer have to fight for air. It’s been increasingly easy to breathe as time passed by, but at last it feels natural.

I am laughing the way growing children do, when they finally understand the monsters that had terrorized them are only pets of imagination. Memories of what I did and didn’t do send me squirming, but the discomfort is surprisingly pleasant. It tickles really, and reminds me that I’ve grown up enough to be embarrassed by past fears.

***

Emilia once gave me a poem.

A Ritual To Read To Each Other

If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

— William Stafford

***

Don’t forget the lessons you’ve learned, Gabriella told me last night at the Milonga. Wherever you go, remember what I said. We forget too easily.

I will feel binding fear again, I know. I will be tempted over and over to allow insecurities to paralyze me, to muddle my signals. Such is the human condition. Still, I want to memorize this moment of clarity, and try to remember how powerless fear is when I refuse to feed it with still more fear.

The monsters are only in our heads.

***

What monsters?

***

Lost in conversation, Gunder and I almost forgot about our food. We remembered in time, but only according to me.

Gunder took a bite of the fish. It’s hot and dry, she said.
And I’m sorry, the vegetables have turned into mush.

But they were perfect together, parched fish moistened by tender veggie pulp. The way mistakes work out.

I am still feeling dazed from our exchange, and I miss the taste of our dinner. Since I don’t know how to replicate the accident without another conversation as captivating, I decided to go with the concept of fish and vegetables to create a new meal: Sushi-grade tuna, marinated in ginger, garlic, soy sauce, vinegar, sesame oil and a pinch of sugar. Served with a side of wasabi cream cheese mashed potatoes.

***

The morning I left Gunder’s apartment for my bootcamp, it was a little before seven. The sky was still gentle and I could see paths of sunshine descending through leaves.

In the afternoon, when I returned I found a dandelion near her place.
With one breath, I scattered all of its seeds to the breeze.

Later, while waiting for my bus,
a man beside me caught a firefly between his fingers.
He studied its neon green flashes until he grew bored,
and finally let the poor thing go.

Before heading home, I passed by Freedom Plaza,
where couples danced tango outdoors in the night.
There, a stranger gave me flowers he had picked from the sidewalk.

On the late night train back to Philly, I let the motions rock me to sleep.

6/8/09 - A Wreck.

9AM, Results Gym, D.C.
Twenty or so of us were sitting on the studio floor. I scanned the room and couldn’t help noticing the well-defined muscles of those around. It gradually occurred to me that this 8-hour boot camp might just have been designed for fitness professionals.

A day-long training session at this intensity. I should have guessed.
We went around the room introducing ourselves. Everyone there was a full-time trainer; some even run their own studios.

So What do you do? Our instructor asked me, the youngest of all.

I’m trying to be the best tango dancer I can be, I said, somewhat intimidated. All eyes were on me now. I had to laugh, amused by the surprise on their faces. Suddenly, I became aware of how random my presence seemed at this gathering.

But I was there for a good reason, if not a conventional one. I explained that I want to take my dancing to the next level, and I know I simply have to be stronger. I came to learn how.

***

In comparison, I was not in shape at all.
These men and women performed exercise after exercise like machines. One woman called herself an old lady because she was nearing sixty, yet she was jumping up and down, pushing and pulling herself this way and that, making me feel like the real old lady in the room.

Two hours into training, I was already exhausted. I struggled, but my classmates were kind. They helped me along and encouraged me when my body just couldn’t accomplish what theirs could easily do.

It takes time to build up, One of the men kept telling me.
I embarrassed myself. Falls, face plants, my non-existent arm strength. I discovered however, that if I could put my ego aside and ignore the burning cheeks and the racing heart, I could direct the energy instead to internalizing advices given to me.

The truth is, it took me some time to get over myself. But I do not mind training with people who are far better than I am. In fact, I prefer it because now I know where I am aiming.

***

Lunch break.
Emily invited me to join her and some other trainers. Each of us sat with our Potbelly sandwich, grateful to restore our bodies. And when there is food, there is usually also the sharing of stories. I quickly found out that some of them were graphic designers, attorneys, computer engineers in their previous lives.

So how did you get here? I wanted to know.

A story universal:
they simply realized they didn’t like what they were doing, the life they were leading and the sacrifices they were making. They realized, and decided to do something about the status quo. For many, the change came first with the return of physical activities because they had missed moving their bodies. The more they engaged themselves, the more they recognize fitness as a passion. It was then a matter time before they saw it as a career path they could pursue.

In some cases, it was difficult to make the transition. Particularly those, who had made great investments of time and money on their previous routes, were met with strong resistance from the people around them.

I had a lot of debt from law school, one woman told me. It was a very expensive way to figure out what I didn’t want to do.

An initial mistake maybe, but she didn’t allow its cost to stop her from breaking away. These people knew they wanted the change, and they let nothing hold them back. Nothing. They spoke of the better quality of life: continued education, work that captures their enthusiasm, and time again to spend with loved ones.

I sat among them, happy because they are happy now.

The sandwich I ordered was called A Wreck: ham, turkey, salami, roast beef and swiss cheese piled between wheat rolls. An appropriate meal for the day; an appropriate name for its aftermath.

This morning I woke up, acutely aware of the geography of my muscles. I feel them all. Every boundary is laced to another with soreness. I don’t think I’ve ever understood my own anatomy so well.

***

Our focus is functional, the instructor told us. The purpose of our training is to maximize strength and minimize injuries in real life.

Traditional exercises set certain rules, such as when squatting the knees do not pass the toes, and movements tend to be restricted to one plane at a time. The problem is that this is not how we really move outside of the gym. Such exercises do not strengthen us for our actual needs.

We usually focus on sagittal movements in classical training, but rarely in real life do we get to only walk in a straight line, she said.

This is why we train ourselves to move in all three dimensions.
This is why we train like we live.

6/4/09 - Garlic Ginger Lamb.
Served with turmeric couscous. My anti-inflammatory lunch.

I injured my right ankle a few days ago. A minor sprain, but enough to compromise my movements. Maybe instinctively, I should know to take the night off from dancing, but it wasn’t an easy decision. Only after a while of being sandwiched between my roommates’ threats and sweet talks, could I finally see the sense in their advice.

It’s tricky to figure out when to take a break.
I want to push myself as close to my limits as possible, without speeding beyond and falling over. My nature is to keep going until everything about me gives out. And I had paid repeatedly for this stubbornness. It took me several rounds of losses to see that I was the one holding me back. My impatience to move forward in fact, undermined me.

I still haven’t mastered the art of gliding near the boundaries. But at least now, with some guidance, I recognize a moment’s pride is not worth the long-term damages. I want to be dancing in my later years, not crippled -
Emilia and SJ reminded me.

We rest, so as to march the distance ahead.
My mother often tells me (and herself).

***

At a milonga before I started taking private lessons with Damian, he helped me with cleaning up. As we stacked chairs on top of one another, he turned and studied me for a second.

Such a hard worker you are, he said.
For tango, I told him.
He smiled, For tango.

This is week 2 of our training. We are making good progress.
I am well aware that I need to tame my mind to keep moving at this pace.
A mental challenge as much as a physical one.

In the beginning of every class with Damian, I get nervous that I might have forgotten lessons previously learned. Ironically, the jitters more than anything, prevent my body from recalling what it knows.

I tense up, I stumble.
(But I am supposed to move in these stilettos like a cat!)
And the more I think about it, the worse it gets.

Each time, Damian would slowly warm me up and help me regain the motions until I am back to where we had left off the last session. The dance he’s taught me is somewhere in here. It just takes time to summon. I know if I can let go of the initial barrier I put up - the fear of not being perfect right away - my dance would come to me more easily.

A big part of it, is remembering to be gentle with myself.
I’ve noticed that the more I learn, the more I expect of my progress. Last night, I had the chance to re-evaluate my mindset. I saw how I’ve come to anticipate my learning to be almost instantaneous, with no room to forget.

But that’s not how it works.

It’s all up and down, you will see, Marc told me from the very beginning,
One day you’ll feel like you are on top of the world, the next day you’ll feel like you don’t know how to dance at all. It will always be like this and it’s good, because as long as you are feeling this way, it means you are still growing.

I had agreed with him. I knew this, from writing, from cooking, from every learning curve I’ve ever clambered. Still, in midst of a quest, it’s difficult to allow myself a few falls.

***

I know how it is, Damian said in the beginning of our session. I used to be obsessed with learning tango too. I’m not anymore. I’ve learned how to dosify this obsession.

What do you mean by dosify? I asked him at the staircase before heading home. I had an idea that he meant I should learn to work with the intensity in doses, so that I would not be consumed, so that the energy moves me forward rather than paralyze me. Still, I wanted to hear his take.

Ah, there are days and weeks when I just can’t dance -

Even you?
The master himself.

He nodded,
Some days, I just can’t dance. I don’t feel well. I used to be stressed about this, but now I know how to make myself relax.

He paused and grinned at me,
Always know that tomorrow, or next week you are going to come back and -, he slammed a fist into his open palm.

***

When I was a toddler, Luci once told me, I always wanted to crawl fast. I’d try so hard to move forward, that I’d end up slipping backwards.

***

I sat on the couch holding a bottle of vodka from the freezer to my foot.
(It’s SJ’s idea of an ice-pack, You know, there are two ways to kill pain.
Her eyes, all mischief.)

I think I need to give myself more space, I said, staring at our brick wall.

Emilia agreed,
At some point, it’s the pressure you put on yourself that keeps you from performing at your best.

Last summer, she spent a month and a half preparing for the MCAT. Every day, she would take 6 hours of practice exams. She was pushing herself so hard that two days before the exam, she actually came close to failing the mock.

Unnerved, she spoke to some of her friends who advised her to take a break. Don’t study at all tomorrow, they told her, You’ve been studying all summer. You knows the material.

Sure enough,
she rested
and then passed with the high marks her handwork deserved.

***

Don’t get too anxious, yeah? Damian said. I trust you.

Now I need to trust me too.

5/31/09 - Dark Chocolate Meatballs with Cranberry Sauce
& Cream Cheese Roasted Garlic Mashed Potatoes.

East of Eden reading with Emilia.

In human affairs of danger and delicacy successful conclusion is sharply limited by hurry. So often men trip by being in a rush. If one were properly to perform a difficult and subtle act, he should first inspect the end to be achieved and then, once he had accepted the end as desirable, he should forget it completely and concentrate solely on the means. By this method he would not be moved to false action by anxiety or hurry or fear. Very few people learn this.
— Chapter 21, Section 1, Pg. 238

We paused in our reading to discuss this passage.
I subscribe to Steinbeck’s philosophy, finding no contradiction between this and Hakan’s advocacy for quick and decisive actions.

The reason? Rushing is not the equivalent of going fast.
One is speed unruly, wreaking havoc; the other, movement controlled.
Sprinting in a complete state of calm - no paradox.

I read somewhere once:
When the going gets tough, the tough relaxes.

Also, I think the two ideas apply mainly to different phases.

Hakan’s,
to the turning points of decision and the subsequent launches into action.

Steinbeck’s,
to the processes of execution, where once directions are determined, patience is sorely needed.

***

A while ago, I read about an Indian restaurant that added chocolate to
its curry. The idea intrigued me. I decided to experiment with the ingredient myself.

72% dark chocolate, melted.
Mix in spoonfuls of curry powder, cumin, cayenne pepper and a sprinkle of salt to taste.
Pour the thick liquid onto the usual meatball blend (a pound of minced beef, a diced onion, some breadcrumbs and an egg), stir until well-mixed.
Form small balls and line them up on a baking sheet.
375 degrees until cooked through.

That’s how I did it this time around. The taste was fantastic, especially with the cranberry sauce and cream cheese roasted garlic mashed potatoes. Dark chocolate added a depth of flavor to the meat without turning it into
a dessert.

I would like to experiment with the cooking method some more however, to retain more moisture in the meatballs. Chocolate burns very easily, as I’ve learned this time. I’m toying with the idea of steaming, or cooking in some sort of a sauce for the next round.