Last year, after I came back from Congo I felt weightless and changeable, and this year I’ve been thinking about that time, and times like it. When we moved to North Carolina. Just like that. Packed everything up and left, just me and Jesse and our cat and our mismatched stuff. The feeling of leaving the state where I spent my childhood, the feeling of living in a place where we knew no one and no one knew us. Right before we left Florida, I cut off all my hair. I came to North Carolina with a pixie cut and no one here knew I’d had long hair most of my life. My memories of that time are all buoyant and sunshine coming through star-shaped leaves. I have to remind myself I still live in that same town, and the beach has not changed, the weather has not changed (much, though I swear it’s getting hotter). It’s just me. It’s just me who has changed.

* * *

Flux:

I’m beginning to think I live in six-month cycles. That nearly everything that has been certain about the past six months is coming up for review. Maybe it’s just the new year. I said at the beginning that I felt 2009 was going to be a change year, and so far it has not disappointed. Perhaps it’s Africa, the fact of the Congo, its existence, the flowers there and Fiston’s clean shoes walking over the dirtiest roads I’ve ever seen.

I’ve felt isolated this year. If the second half of last year was characterized by community, the first half of this one has been characterized by its lack. Friends are a habit, and at times it seems our friends have fallen out of the habit of us. We’ve been sick, we’ve been out of town, we’ve been busy–and now that we are not sick and are in town and are not busy, we find that people have formed new habits and we are no longer among them.

This is probably melodramatic. But I don’t mind–I gravitate toward the melodramatic, the sad songs, the long movies.

Jesse and I went to an outdoor concert Friday night to see Third Eye Blind. It rained during the opening act, and we huddled together under our umbrella, and as the main act took the stage and the rain stopped, I listened to the words of songs I’ve been hearing for years, songs that meant something to me when I was 16 years old, songs from albums we listened to together when we were teenagers. And I felt like anything was possible. I could go home and pack my things in old boxes and we could load up and move to California, and we could walk through the Haight on sunny Saturdays and eat burritos and buy funky sunglasses. And we could live in a tiny apartment in Berkeley and sit under the redwoods and think about important things like what we would cook for dinner. And we could drive on roads lined with eucalyptus trees, watch Shakespeare plays in outdoor amphitheaters where strings of white Christmas lights glowed like little stars in delicate tree branches.

And it felt good. It felt lovely to be there, with Jesse, the battleship behind us and the river to our left, listening to music that stretches far before Wilmington, far beyond it. Sometimes it feels good to be in a state of flux. Sometimes it feels good to have roots, to feel connected. And sometimes it feels good when those roots wither, when I’m weightless and anything is possible.

In the next six months, odds are good that things will settle, return to earth. The rhythms of last year will probably resume themselves. We will not move to California.

But I think there are things set into motion that I will not understand until I get more distance on them. And I am changing. There is Congo, and the way it has creeped under my skin, the way going has provided more questions than it answered. I think in six months, in a year, in another six months after that, I will look back on that concert, and I will know that I felt the echo of a change that hadn’t yet happened, that I knew as soon as “Motorcycle Drive By” started that something was ending, I just wasn’t sure what.

Appenzeller cheese tartlet. YUM.

On Sunday, I turned twenty-seven. Jesse calls twenty-seven “the year of significance” because seems like in movies something big always happens to the main character in his or her twenty-seventh year.

Friday night, Jesse and I ate stir fry and then walked around the outdoor mall where all the rich people shop. I had birthday money and Williams and Sonoma was having a big sale on Le Creuset. I walked away with a giant blue pot, the most gorgeous Dutch oven I’ve ever seen. Saturday evening, I spent nearly three hours in the kitchen, cooking a Julia Child chicken recipe with a mushroom cream sauce in my Le Creuset, roasting Brussels sprouts, and making Appenzeller tartlets.

“Tartlets” has become a new favorite word around here. First of all, because the word is just so fun to say out loud (go on, try it!). It sounds even better when said three times in a row. I don’t know why. And second of all, because they were really good. They’re basically little baby quiches, with a homemade crust (lard and butter!), sweet cooked onions, prosciutto, and the tangy Appenzeller, which I’d gotten at Harris Teeter for super cheap (the other blocks were going for $8 and $9, and I got this one for $2, but it had to be used right then).

Dinner was glorious. Who knew enamel-coated cast iron could be so exciting?

Sunday was our last Congo team meeting before the trip. More on that later. The afternoon was shopping for Congo odds and ends—bug spray, hand wipes, medicines of all varieties.

Then, we had a birthday dinner at India Mahal with some folks from small group. The girls sat at one end of the table, the boys at the other, and us gals talked about a trip to Spain, and I have no idea what the boys talked about, and we ate plates of curries and stacks of naan and paratha and everything else, and it was just so pleasant to be surrounded by friends, talking about travel, the sun still hanging on as we paid and walked a few doors down to the little Mexican grocery. A few of us went back to the Paschals’ place and watched a movie. Brandon and Kara brought me gummy bears and chocolate.

I don’t know how significant the year will be yet, but it sure has started out fun.

That bit about the flashcards—I remembered that this morning as I sat on my couch, listening to Beta Radio, drinking green tea with honey I bought at the farmer’s market last week. I had been reading a book but had set it down, and I was just sitting there, with my tea and music, feeling happy and present.

Because that, I think, was what I really learned from the flashcards: to not be present. If an activity isn’t naturally productive, make it productive.

Last night, we had Warren over for dinner. Sharon and Story are visiting family out of state (no, I haven’t killed the garden yet, though one of the cucumbers and some of the broccoli plants aren’t looking so great…sorry, Sharon). Earlier this week, I’d read through half the new issue of Bon Appétit and had come across several recipes I wanted to try.

See, another thing I’ve realized is that while I cook all the time, I have stopped challenging myself in the kitchen, and it’s that challenge that I really enjoy, it’s pulling off a difficult meal, the sense of accomplishment. I mean, I enjoy cooking the standards, too, the meals I know will turn out, but sometimes it’s fun to live a little dangerously.

Well, last night I made a chicken dish with a sauce made with roasted garlic, white wine, butter, cream, and tarragon. On the side, a salad of rice, corn, avocadoes, poblano chile, yellow bell pepper, zucchini, cilantro, and a lemon juice dressing. And buttermilk biscuits.

Everything turned out perfectly. I’m not just saying that. It was perfect. The chicken was tender, the sauce tangy and creamy, the salad delightful, the biscuits like fluffy little pillows.

Sharon called as we started eating, and Warren stepped away from the table to take the call. While he was gone, I took my first bite of the chicken and then whispered to Jesse, “I don’t want to brag or anything, but this is stinking good.” And he said, “Yeah, I hope this is going on the list of ‘Things to Cook All the Time.’”

The recipes weren’t complicated. In fact, they were downright easy. They weren’t challenging in that way, but cooking that meal took my full attention—getting the three things to come out on time, cooking all three simultaneously, the biscuits being a last-minute whim, making sure everything was chopped and ready, the stirring and the tasting and the adjusting. I was fully present in the kitchen, and then I was fully present while eating what I’d made. Enjoying it. I left all the dishes for this morning.

No flashcards necessary.

And this morning, a quiet sleepy Saturday with eggs and leftover biscuits for breakfast, Jesse heading out to golf with guys from the small group, and me, sitting on the couch, listening to music and drinking tea, remembering me at fifteen, remembering last night’s meal, the garden having been watered this morning and book work to do later on. But that moment was just what it needed to be, nothing more, and it was lovely.

Monday: Tennis
Tuesday: er…
Wednesday: Push A. in stroller around the block
Thursday: Mow back yard
Friday: Gardening
Saturday: Gardening
Sunday: Gardening
Monday: Gardening

(Yesterday, in case you were dying to know, I spent twenty minutes on the stationary bike in my bedroom—which Jesse fixed last week for me. The “up” button went bad and made the bike go to the hardest resistance setting, a setting I had absolutely no intention of ever using. So, after the bike spent months as a clothes-draping piece of ugly furniture, Jesse diagnosed the problem and replaced the button with a new one. One less excuse…)

All the flowerbeds in the back yard were buried under a carpet of weeds, which I ripped out with my bare hands. Okay, fine, I wore gloves. But, still, I spent literally hours kneeling on mulch and grass, tearing at stubborn weeds that have been growing better than anything else planted in my yard so far.

Once I cleared the beds, I fertilized the azaleas and the roses, sprayed weed killer on the front yard, and tried to ignore the sound of weeds laughing at my feeble attempts at their destruction. We’ll see if the weed killer did any good. I have a feeling it didn’t. The back yard is au naturale, since that’s where we’ve got the veggie garden, so there the weeds live in happy protection.

Ah, the veggie garden. Last year’s was a dismal failure. And that’s not an exaggeration. This year, Sharon has decided she’d like to join my sinking ship, so we’re planting a joint venture in the garden spot from last year. We’ve done an initial weed-pulling pass and have bought most of our plants. Mom and Dad came down to help us till a bigger plot and plant the whole lot of it—pole beans, tomatoes, zucchini (including a fancy Italian heirloom variety I’m particularly excited about), squash, cucumber, lettuce, bok choy, broccoli, bell peppers, jalapeño and two or three other seasoning peppers, a billion types of basil, parsley, cilantro, and other stuff I’m probably forgetting. (Oh yeah, some marigolds and sunflowers for pest control. And beauty!)

We’re trying to do this thing right. We’ve got soil testing kits, and Sharon’s been reading all sorts of gardening websites. We’re going to set aside a couple mornings a week specifically for intensive gardening, and I’m hoping the extra attention will be what the veggies need to thrive. She even bought Story these adorable golashes and her own set of pink plastic gardening tools. Too cute.

So, hopefully this year my yard will provide a place for heart-disease-preventing physical activity and vegetables.

But we’ll see about that last one…

Let’s back up. The past few days have been a whirlwind—fun, nearly every moment of them, but packed. Thursday, I got up early to clean the house, wash linens, make the guest bed (er, futon), pick up a pork tenderloin and some good balsamic vinegar from Harris Teeter, and prep said tenderloin so it could marinate for the rest of the day. I watched A. for the afternoon, playing outside with him and the family’s Australian Shepherd, feeding him peas, and singing to him while stacking blocks. Every time I finish singing him a song, he claps, grins, and says, “Yay! Yay!” I have no idea how I managed that, but let me tell you, with that reaction, I’m singing all the time now. Sometimes, when I forget the words to “Hush Little Baby” (I can get started, but then I forget what order things are supposed to be given…) or run out of alphabet- or farm-themed songs, I resort to Elton John.

Thursday afternoon, about a half hour after I came home from watching A., Beth and her mom Cheryl drove up and we commenced the requisite hugging-and-squealing phase of the visit, which we followed with a house tour (about thirty seconds is all it takes to see the whole thing) and conversation in the living room. We then started dinner, popping the tenderloin in the oven and starting in on the mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts, green beans, and bread. Jesse came home and we poured lemon Italian soda into champagne glasses and got out the tablecloth and had ourselves a nice little dinner. Jesse ran out to the store afterward to grab ice cream, which I’d forgotten earlier, and we had brownie and hot fudge sundaes. We stayed up late playing card games and something called Speed Scrabble (fun, fun, fun).

Friday morning, Jesse left for work early and Beth, Cheryl, and I had a lazy morning at home. We took our time getting up and getting ready, and then we set up a waffle bar for breakfast. Aunt Joannie got me this fabulous waffle maker for Christmas, the kind you flip over to make two waffles at once, and it’s red and shiny and, apparently, it makes The Best Waffles Ever. I took my mom’s suggestion and separated the eggs, beating the whites separately and folding them in at the end, and the waffles were light and fluffy but with perfectly crispy outsides. Yum. We improvised a blueberry-lemon syrup and we whipped cream and served the waffles with strawberries and macadamia nuts. Beth had brought a tea called Lady Grey, and we drank nearly a pot of it as we sat around the table, making and eating our waffles, and talking—so much talking!

Beth and I have known each other our whole lives. Our parents lived next door to one another in Nitro before we were born. Then we showed up, three months apart, and we’ve been friends ever since, even though both our families left West Virginia when we were children, even though we’ve not lived in the same state since we were four. Beth is kind and mild mannered and smart. In college, she majored in chemistry and French, and now she works in a hospital pharmacy, in a place so clean she wears a hairnet and cannot wear any makeup for fear it might flake off and contaminate someone’s IV bag. That fact alone puts her job into the category of Jobs I Will Never Do, but Beth does it because she’s not as vain as I am and has a very lovely complexion anyway.

Beth and her mom had to leave in the afternoon, so we took leftover veggie soup to the church and had lunch with Jesse before they headed out of town. After they left, I did a little copyediting and then went shopping. Because it was Friday and because I had a gift card and because it was warm enough to wear a skirt and flip flops, and that made life oh-so-good. At the mall, I found sales and managed to leave with $10 still on my gift card, and I drove to Ulta to pick up some makeup I was running out of (no hospital pharmacy for me) and I kept the windows down, which made my hair unhappy, but I didn’t care, because it made the rest of me happy and my hair is unhappy so often that its desires cannot be taken too seriously.

And then that evening I nearly forgot that Jamie Oliver’s new show was on, but I remembered in time to see three-fourths of it (so good!) and found the rest of it on Hulu today. (You can watch it there if you didn’t catch it.)

That brings us to yesterday, when we got up early and left for Charlotte to help Joannie move in to her new apartment. It’s in a fantastic part of town with a shopping center across the street that has a Target, a Harris Teeter, a movie theater, just about every kind of restaurant you could want, and dozens of other shops, including one that rents out audio books. Lovely! Mom and I cooked chicken fajitas for dinner and we drove around the area to see what we could see and we cooed at Joannie’s cats and tried to reassure them everything was fine, even though they were not quite sure what was going on. Jesse and I left after eight that night and made a wrong turn, which meant we pulled into our driveway about four hours later, just about cross-eyed with fatigue. And Oliver and Gracie were waiting at the door, meowing for dinner, which, they made clear to us, was far too late for their liking.

However, as I was going to sleep on Friday night, I realized to my great horror that I had neglected to pack my makeup. Now, for some of my friends who have abundant natural beauty, this would not be a panic-inducing realization. Moi? I had nightmares (literally—dreamed all night about makeup) and resolved not to go to the Saturday sessions at all unless makeup could be procured. Yes, that is the extent of my vanity. I’d rather leave home without underwear, or clean socks, or even a hair dryer (okay, the hair dryer would be upsetting too).

This is how you know you have a true friend. You call her at 6:30 on a Saturday morning at a marriage retreat (which she’s also attending with her hubby) to tell her you’ve left your makeup at home, and the first thing out of her mouth is, “Do you want to use mine?” and the second thing she says is, “I’m packing it up right now for you.” Kara Shaw, I swear, is an angel. I promised her one of my kidneys, should she ever find herself in need. (And what’s even better is she does Mary Kay, so she has really awesome makeup.)

Sunday, I decided to put forth serious effort into the whole “day of rest” concept. I didn’t check my email once. I stayed in bed after I woke up, then I got out of bed to read and then fall asleep again. Jesse surprised me with a scavenger hunt with rhyming clues that led me to Jelly Belly jellybeans (my favorite), a dozen long-stemmed roses, and a sweet card. Fight? What fight? He’s the best.

Today was spent on errands and laundry and a Jamie Oliver recipe (my favorite) for dinner. Oh, and did you know? It snowed here Friday night. When we were in Myrtle Beach. Gah! The good news? It also snowed in Myrtle Beach. What a sight—to stand on a hotel balcony and look at the ocean, waves pounding a beach covered in a blanket of the purest snow. We couldn’t stay mad.

Simona’s hair is light and wispy, wavy in just the right way, and it always looks perfect, like a halo. I once saw her after she’d spent the day at the beach, and her hair had taken on a windswept look that stylists spend hours creating for movie stars in movies about coastal romance. When I spend the day at the beach, my hair stands straight on end, the frizz propping up the rest of my hair in what I can only describe as Wind Tunnel Chic (well, without the “Chic” part). Simona speaks in an almost-whisper, with such a calming voice I always feel like everything will be just fine, if only because she is in the world. She talks about spirituality, about reality, about Congo and Darfur, and she quotes literature and tells me about philosophy, always having the decency to pretend that I already knew the complex concepts she’s outlining for me, listing off philosophers as if I know exactly who she’s talking about and might chime in with a reference to the philosopher’s third book, which I just happened to have read last week (when she talks about Kierkegaard, however, I do get rather animated). And in return for her brilliance, I tell her about my book, the fits and starts and endless rewrites, and she does not think my existence invalid because I don’t have a full-time job with benefits.

Visha’s hair is straight and strawberry blonde, and she’s got this wonderful radio voice, distinctive, a little husky, memorable. She’s spunky and fiery, but incredibly and unfailingly reasonable. She knows how many female directors have been nominated for Best Director in the Oscars, and she has trained two very large dogs into thinking that she—petite, adorable Visha—is bigger than they are. I think she’s magic. And funny, dear heavens, have I mentioned that Visha’s hilarious? If you know her, you already know she’s got a sharp wit, but you also know that she’s unendingly kind. Though I’ve given her plenty of ammunition, never once has she used that humor to make fun of me or to make me feel anything other than entirely good and happy. She cries for people with Alzheimer’s, and she pulls off the side of the road to care for dying dogs hit by cars that long ago sped off. She works at a bookstore, has read probably more books than said bookstore has in its inventory, knows all about experimental film, rails against injustice, defends the defenseless.

How lucky I feel today, not only to have such friends, but to have hours to run down my phone batteries with them, to listen to them and to talk about writing with them, to find out what they think about plot and beginnings and the plight of the MFA workshop. The three of us are trying to do the same thing, really, to struggle with the words on the page, to find the balance between art and life, to find where the line is and to cross it.

First, let me begin by saying how much I absolutely adore you. Really, I do. And this year doubly so, because I was so bummed at being all alone for Thanksgiving, and then you came along, December, with all your non-Thanksgiving-themed merchandise, music, and festivities—and, with the hope of seeing family at the end of the month. You showed up just in time.

I love how gaudy you are. None of those muted fall colors of Thanksgiving, the depressing browns and mustard yellows that only reminded me of how wrong it felt to be celebrating without our families. How I welcomed your candy-apple reds and neon greens! How I loved setting out the little dancing mouse Becki gave us one year, how adorable I found him, all red-scarfed and holding a string of flashing lights. I love our mismatched outdoor decorations, the kitschy joke ornaments indoors, the multiple nativity scenes.

And the TV! Movies and shows so bad we’d never dream of watching them at any other time of year. But during you, December, they’re lovely and make us think about being nine again. I even like your music; Jesse and I sing loudly and off-key whenever we’re driving, and it just lifts the mood. (Though I’ll admit to changing the station when anything resembling “The Christmas Shoes” comes on—even I have my limits.) I can’t forget the food, either. I’ve eaten my weight in your goodies, and my blood sugar complains, but do I listen? No, I think not.

But, December, it occurs to me that there is only so much celebrating one month can handle all on its own. And this year, we may have reached that limit.

Take the Christmas parties. For Jesse’s work alone, we will have attended three separate Christmas parties. Three! Now, if he were receiving three salaries, that would be something else entirely. Add the volunteer position he has, and that’s another party. Don’t forget the small group one next week, too.

Don’t get me wrong—I love parties. Especially those that involve overeating cheesy side dishes and visiting houses decorated in bold colors. Plus, I’ve gotten to trot out my leopard-print heels for at least one of the bashes. But…couldn’t we spread them out a bit? You wouldn’t mind too much, would you, December? Sharing some of your parties with, say, March? I know she has St. Patrick’s Day, but so far, North Carolinians don’t seem to be all about the green-without-red holidays. Except the college students, that is. And Easter’s so inconsistent. March one year. April the next. I’ve got my birthday in May, but there’s just this sad little lag between Valentine’s Day and summer. Those months could use some tinsel, wouldn’t you say? And August. Really? What is there to celebrate in August? As someone without school-aged children (or any children, for that matter), and who no longer pays tuition of any kind, August is just a dry, hot month with a whopping electric bill. I sure could use a gift exchange then.

At any rate, December, you’re still my favorite month of the year. And, yes, excess is part of your charm. So, I’ll go straighten my hair tonight and maybe experiment with purple tights and enjoy another evening of merrymaking with friends, all thanks to you. But, next year, let’s think about slowing it down just a bit, shall we? Thanks.

Love,
Erin

Friday, we got up early and went Black Friday shopping. We were in desperate need of a new vacuum, and the one I wanted came with a Sears gift card that became my Christmas present (hence the outrageous heels, which I wore nearly all day Sunday). After shopping, we came home and fell fast asleep for several hours, waking up in time to eat lunch and string lights outside. Dinner was pizza and Coke from Papa John’s (the day after Thanksgiving is for leftovers, not for cooking! So, in the absence of leftovers, it was for ordering pizza). It was fun—we haven’t ordered pizza just the two of us in a while, and even though I started the holiday bemoaning the fact that we were all by ourselves, I was at this point beginning to enjoy just being with Jesse. It’s nice when ordering pizza can feel a bit adventurous, a bit rebellious.

After dinner Friday, we put up the tree while watching kids’ movies on TV. Oliver has only climbed the tree once so far and has not managed to take it down. Saturday, we had Brandon and Kara over for dinner and a movie (I snuck the green bean casserole in, though I spared them the turkey, but really only because it was still frozen).

Over the weekend, I continued my cleaning quest, and now I’ve vacuumed the whole house (except for Jesse’s office), including the baseboards and under the stove and refrigerator, as much as I could. I cleaned the ceiling fans and the bathrooms and got caught up on my filing (major undertaking there), organized my coupons, broke out the flannel sheets. Vacuumed again. And again. If we had holiday weekends at home every month, my house would sparkle it would be so clean.

Sunday, we had a big Southern lunch at Brandon and Kara’s—fried venison, cooked carrots, and rice and gravy. I never knew you could put gravy on top of rice, but apparently you can. It was all delicious. Oh, and Kara made chocolate sugar cookies that were absolutely addictive. I found myself craving them today, and I emailed her asking for the recipe.

After church Sunday night, we went over to the Paschals’ adorable new house and ate ham sandwiches and popcorn. I helped as Kirsten arranged her study, a lovely little room that has a half-library half-coffee shop feel to it. We all basked in the fact that they live just minutes down the road. On our way home, Jesse and I started timed the trip but forgot to look at the clock when we got home. Add to this the fact that Warren and Sharon (and Story!) will also be moving to our part of town in the near future (if the stars finally align), and we’re getting that much closer to the sitcom “everybody drops in and says witty things” ideal.

So, the holiday wasn’t what it usually is. But we weren’t as alone as we might have been, and there’s still a lot to be thankful for.

I’m still jonesing for some leftover turkey sandwiches, though…