Lemon, Mint, and Rose Tea Blend


How to try and mend a heart.

Take a road trip. See new faces. Relocate, as many times as you have to. Read. Don’t read. Lose concentration. Let someone think whatever they want without trying to resolve it. Let that ruin other opinions because it wasn’t your poison, anyway. Practice yoga. Stop practicing yoga. Practice halfheartedly. Practice half-assed, wholeheartedly.

Laugh a lot. And then, a little. Stop thinking about the other person’s feelings when you are standing up for your own, once. And let that be an unfortunate relationship, if it has to be, because at least it expressed itself somewhere.

Slap a name on a mailbox. Eat too much ice cream. Dye your hair. Buy a real bed. Collect rocks. Take pictures. Get lost in them. Get lost in the world around you, which is full of pictures, if you think of it that way.

Go out sometimes. Don’t, sometimes. Most of the time. Part of the time. All of the time. Fast. Hear what people say a lot about hindsight. Know it may not be ideal to realize afterward, but at least you did end up seeing it.

Wait for it. The day when it weaves a bit back together. Know that it will come in time, even if it feels that too much time has passed. Even if it isn’t here yet. Even if you never got to even see a glimmer of that. You do not get to decide. Your heart does.

Ask it. Ask it how. Acknowledge all that you have done and all that you did. Tell it you did those things because you wanted it to heal. And when you feel helpless to really mend it, give it

the why


Because it matters. Because it doesn’t deserve to break every damn day. Because it is meant to feel light again. And you may have tried all these things you thought were right, but weren’t, because you are not it, so how can you know for sure. But you did it because you wanted it to mend, and now you are asking because it matters because it mattered because it is time because it deserves to be because no one has to live that way, especially not your beautiful heart

[even if it feels no one sees it, or everyone does, but keeps on keepin’ on] and then, pause

with a warm cup in the late summer evening, sunburnt with shades open, even at night, to let the moon in. Crushed mint leaves and dried rose petals, lavender and spindly twists of lemon, cool verbena and smashed cinnamon sticks.

Whirring fans and beams of light through the windows. Blinds tingling with the movement of air. Thumping dump trucks too early Tuesday mornings. Little fellas chirping in the trees. Thumbs twiddling, awake a little earlier than you need to be most days, waiting for the moment to arrive

.
.
.
.
:
.
;

Iced Matcha!


Matcha, matcha, matcha.

Somewhere, in the space between primary colors. Honeyed hot water and ground green tea whisked with bamboo.

Wrists flicking, we move with an M or a W. Crackles as the warm liquid pours over.

A lid, and another lid. Shake.

Green speckles on white. A storyline, splashed here and there. Unplanned polka dots.

Another cup of ice. Strain. Creamy coconut striations.

Rings from rims, remnants from pitstops en voyage. It’s a process, I suppose. Even if points A and B are not delineated in terms of distance from blue to yellow. Hot to cold. Acidic to cream.

There can be beauty in the blots that splotch along the way.

Atlantic Beach Pie


Pre-Post Script: It is most likely that, if you are reading this, the following is not about you.

Staying honest, I had never heard of Bill Smith until his name showed up before the words, “atlantic,” “beach,” and -the real eye-catcher- “pie,” under my thumb. Wasting time on social media.

It starts with an ampersand,

&

I love you, and

I know now that I will miss you.
Days will pass and I will think
of you, and I will be many things
for a time, but it will clear
as things do, and I will remember
the moment I last saw you
before all of it will arrive

(and stay a while)

before passing, and I will think
how I wish I could be there
again to tell you back then
how

I love you
and I know now

that is the most important thing.

Eventually, we [ ] again. And also eventually, there is pie again.

Sugared saltine crush glued golden with butter and heat. Citrus and sweetened condensed milk custard. Couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Cream. I decided Cool Whip. Dollop of fluff, and then salty. That part comes across first. Debating, I suggest you sprinkle that last ingredient for yourself.

It could be like anything else you have had to decide upon because it was probably the best you could do at the time, and nobody gets to understand it better than you, and it doesn’t really matter who sees what because it is yours until you let it move on to wherever else it is supposed to go when it no longer belongs to you + its remnants end up crumbs from way back when

because it’s okay if it was delicious at a point in time & perhaps when you are ready it can just mark a trail of how far you have traveled like crumbs do, anyway, if you want them to.

Absolutely Bomb Peanut Butter Cookies [gluten free, dairy free]


Pretend you identify as female and you own a romper with underwires. They poke and prod. They do not bend. Your move.

There is a place in the fabric where you can see a little bud. Do you leave it? Do you tug.

And when you tug, don’t you feel better. Nothing gets to state your shape. You get to shape what you encounter. Click: here.

Because it turns out, I lied to you last year. I just learned this PB recipe is best.

I’m only saying I’m sorry because it’s socially appropriate. I didn’t know. In reality, my fingers are crossed that next year finds me in the same predicament.

Thinking fondly for a moment of Yrsa Daley Ward:

what is now will soon be past

Just because you do it
doesn’t mean you always will.
Whether you’re dancing dust
or breathing light
you’re never exactly the same,
twice.

And here we are, a whole year older and a whole lot bigger and better and prouder and wholer [if that could be a thing for a second]. We sing again, and we move, and we grow, and we laugh and connect and we do good things that makes us feel good and we know now that what we sense is valid and you can hear the quiet crunch, closed mouths and crumbs, on a full moon evening; the sun setting over tea with good company. Who’d have thought we’d end up right here.

Peanut Butter Cookies that just don’t make sense. The shortest ingredient list. Sugar and eggs, vanilla and Skippy, dotted with sea salt flakes.

Lesson learned: time can even transform the things we did not focus upon. And we don’t have to understand why it works. 

Halva Spread


Memories of other things.

Spreadable. Applicable. A friend says, It is what it was. Breath on windows. Chilly nights, the telephone. Pointer fingers. Secret messages spelled in fog.

I am a prism and you are climbing a tree. Sacred space with only goodness because it is time.

A little pinch of warmth. Sweet cardamom freckles tahini flesh and salty honey dregs. For toast on quiet Sundays off spent with the person I have become in this space.

Even if days do not look as I expected. Even if I do not know how long this portion lasts.

Time ticks between the jilted slump of the contraption on my counter and the POP! of warm, browned bread and crispy crackle spread sweet salty sesame cream crunch tick tock before the next arrives because this is the story I tell myself I am ready and it is time now. As it was.

Mediterranean Lemon-Potato Soup with Feta and Kalamatas


I remember a brick of feta drizzled in olive oil. That’s it? The concept seemed so foreign. Yes. Please. Yes, please.

Simple pleasures.

Purple buds on tree limbs. A guttural laugh.

When you will never let yourself put too much honey in your tea, but someone else does for you and you do not have to stop that person.

Curling up in bed in the afternoon. Seeing the ooze of a freshly made grilled cheese that has been sliced and gently pulled apart.

Sleeping twelve hours overnight, not on purpose. Realizing you would rather be alone today, anyway. Not apologizing for what you meant. <–erasing the rest of this sentence so it looks as you see it here and now.

Geranium oil from the night before still scenting your pajamas. Sitting down in the shower for three minutes. [Light, bright blue pouring over you.]

Miniature houses and artisan lollipops. Watercoloring one rainy, Sunday evening. Safe to answer sincere and thoughtful inquiries.

Steam above the bowl. Bright, citrus waft. Warm, lemon broth dyed and speckled purple kalamata. Red pepper flecks. Oversized [Yukon] golden polka dots. Bold, salt sponge feta.

Yes. Please.

Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cream Pies


Don’t you believe in magic. Chubby fingers, a craving met in the cupboard from a cardboard box with singular packages of marshmallow-sandwiching oatmeal cookies. A voice. A statement. Always.

Who decides what is / what is not enough. When do we engage restraint. Why don’t we sometimes.

Is there a reason we feel entitled to understand? What kind takes ownership for another’s story.

Striking, the way we receive stories differently. My favorite kind of person to dispose of: the one that thinks they know better than you about you. But really, in the telling and retelling of certain stories, I have come to reflect that there is a sense of ownership for this kind of listener. Also: a lack of accountability for the interpretation. Of course. Because it was projected onto you. To them, it is still about you. Even when their portion of a story becomes Other.

No longer yours.

Mind-boggling, isn’t it, to think of all the ways that we collide. How we can stray from what felt right. How easily we can return to ourselves, and how challenging to reset all that has sprung from what was not aligned.

We are a strange group, as humans. Born into the world reliant on one another. We spend so much of our early lives being told what to do. Realignment. We might even come to expect an external redirection before considering our own. Sometimes, that’s necessary.

The external world, providing and observing and obtruding. Sometimes, unnecessary. Being told and told and told and told and so, you hide.

And then, one day. You are reminded of who you are. Colorful fields and visions. Hands arched over rocks to feel. Hair wet, eyes still sleepy, a dress to walk down the hallway and ask to look. Find: a watch that once belonged to someone who loved you and who made you feel loved, who isn’t here in form anymore. You slide it onto your left wrist upside down and you feel your chest become light and you see that the watch has begun to tick again. You sob on your way home to the one who birthed you that you feel like you are yourself again.

Then, the watch turns to 2017. Here, now. Years. It took years. What a long and a short trip home. In which: light from ground and up above meeting in the middle

-you-

and outputting this chocolate chip, chocolate chipped version of a thing your dad used to buy for you when you were a kid.

This story is mine. And it is magic.