A note before we begin: I wrote most of this post in those strange, suspended days before this morning’s devastating election results. As I sit here now, trying to reconcile my small personal joys with the weight of what’s happening in our world, I find myself cycling through waves of anger, grief, and a deep, gnawing worry about what comes next.
Chuck Wendig articulated it perfectly this morning: “What I know is that I don’t know. What I know is the things I thought I knew, or that I believed were true, really aren’t, and that once more I exist in need of a word, perhaps a German one, that expresses both the act of being shocked and a total lack of shock at the exact same time.”
Part of me wanted to scrap this post entirely – it feels almost frivolous to talk about movies and recipes and foliage when so many of us are grappling with real horror and uncertainty in our lives. But. I find myself clinging to these small moments of light, these tiny victories and simple pleasures. Not as distraction, but as defiance. It’s saying: yes, we’re hurting, we’re scared, we’re angry – and we’re also still here, still cooking dinner, still telling stories, still finding ways to nurture ourselves and each other. Sometimes maintaining our rituals and celebrating small joys becomes its own kind of resistance when the larger world feels overwhelming.
So I’m sharing this post, written in a different emotional landscape than the one we’re in now. The world feels heavier today, darker. But we have been here before, and we know how to hold each other through the long night. We always find our way back to the light.
31 days of horror movies! For those who haven’t been following along, I committed to watching and reviewing a horror movie every single day in October. TLDR; my favorite viewing last month was SHE WILL. My brain is now approximately 75% jump scares and spooky soundtracks. I’m simultaneously proud of once again completing my annual challenge and ready to watch nothing but Japanese lifestyle videos on YouTube for the next month.
I watched a handful of these films while I was visiting my horror-averse sister; because she sat through a few of them with me, I promised rewards of Bridgerton marathons and cake. I actually adore scandal and gossip and melodrama and sparkly beaded frocks so I enjoyed it more than I thought! (I will say though, it could use more vampires and werewolves and eldritch horrors from beyond.)
Cooking & Eating
After a month of microwave popcorn and bowls of soup squeezed in between movie viewings, I’m getting back into proper cooking.
For many years, I have pooh-poohed quinoa as gross and pointless. Turns out all you need to do is flavor it. Whatever you’re seasoning it with, add some more. Then, a lot more of that. I stirred some lemon juice and lots of homemade pesto into some hot quinoa, and it was absolutely delicious. As an aside, “hot quinoa” sounds like an Urban Dictionary entry. Also, I don’t use a recipe for pesto; it’s basically every herb I’ve got in the garden (basil, sage, fennel, chives) + whatever nuts I have (pumpkin seeds, almonds) + garlic + lemon juice + olive oil + parmesan.
After working with sourdough for the past four years, I finally got brave enough to begin adding extra junk to it. I just made a garlic + parmesan loaf and a pickled jalapeño + sharp cheddar loaf, and they were insanely good. (This is the sourdough recipe I use, but I have been experimenting with higher hydration.)
I have been making this Thai coconut shrimp soup at least once a week for the past two months, and it is marvelous. I also made a kabocha squash soup that I garnished with cilantro, and that one bowl of soup turned me into a cilantro lover.
While I was visiting my baby sister in Indianapolis, we spent an afternoon in Carmel and went to a small-plates style restaurant called Divvy. I love little bites of all kinds of things; it is my favorite way to eat! Highly, highly recommended.
Reading
Finally catching up on my nonfiction TBR pile that got neglected during movie month. Currently, I am reading:
Fiction-wise, I recently finished the following three books…
Snake Oil by Kelsey Rae Dimberg Three women’s paths collide at a wellness company when its charismatic founder starts losing her grip on her billion-dollar empire. Not wellness horror per se, more like a wellness thriller, but I feel like it’s taken the best and strongest of all the concepts and ideas written about in the past few years and honed it into something really enjoyable.
She’s Always Hungryby Eliza Clark A delightfully weird and darkly amusing collection of stories about hunger in all its forms, from body horror to alien flora to the all-consuming desires that make us human. There is one story that is alternately so dumb and absurd that it’s actually brilliant. Like many collections, there are hits and misses, but overall, I thought it was a hoot.
The Bog Wife by Kay Chronister Wherein siblings deal with their supernatural family inheritance in Appalachia and the ancient bargain they made with their cranberry bog. This weirdly reminded me of my childhood love of The Boxcar Children – both tap into that deep satisfaction of seeing siblings create their own world and systems of care, even in (or especially in) strange circumstances!
I saw proper autumn foliage for the first time in I don’t know how many years! It was glorious. This photo was taken just outside my sister’s house as the leaves were only just beginning to fall.
We did not have much luck growing tomatoes or zucchini this year, but we learned we can grow unlimited eggplants, serrano peppers, and okra! Next year I am planting ALL of the peppers!
The relief of falling back into routines. Yvan’s broken foot this summer really threw me off in more ways than I realized. I’ve begun waking up early again and journaling my dreams, and I didn’t even realize how much I had been missing that little morning ritual. Also, the more frequently I write about my dreams, the better I get at remembering them, and my dream life is starting to feel all the more rich and vivid for it!
A new ceramic cooking skillet. My old one was so gross. I want to cook ALL the eggs now! And a salt grinder (I’ve just been pouring directly out of the Morton’s container my whole life, hehehe.)
When friends say something nice about you! I was mentioned in the very excellent Hauntology Now! substack last month, and I was so humbled and surprised. What a lovely thing!
Currently Inspired By
My new tea shelf! Now that Yvan is on his feet again, he was finally able to finish this project. This means all of our teas are out of boxes and in plain view now, so we will remember to drink them!
Caitlin McCarthy’s Goddess Oracleis a moonlit treasure chest overflowing with mystical beauty and arcane wisdom – a brilliant gem for art enthusiasts and practitioners of the unseen alike.
The prolific and insightful art writing of Elizah Leigh, whose keen eye and thoughtful commentary continually inspire me to look deeper and write better.
All the things I’ve been gloriously wrong about lately (quinoa needs seasoning! cilantro isn’t evil! Bridgerton could use some eldritch horrors but is still fun!)
The quiet pleasure of creating order from chaos, whether it’s recording dreams, or reviewing 31 days of horror films
Finding my way back to these rambling little life updates.
The necessity of fierce determination and tender care for the times ahead.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
from Ruth Marten’s Foutain’s & Alligators series, #4 (as seen in The Art of Darkness)
More than once over the past few months, I heard myself mumble despairingly, “I don’t think I can take another Florida summer.”
Even though I have lived here practically my whole life, I know deep in my soul that this is not where I am meant to be. (I’m certain that my soul is meant to be on the misty Pacific Northwest coastline or in a quaint New England town.) And yet, for the foreseeable future, Florida is where I must be. How to reconcile this?
This tension between where we feel we belong and where circumstances have us living is a struggle I know I’m not alone in facing. As I write this, I’m exploring the idea of “making peace with place” – trying to understand if it’s possible to find a way to thrive and find joy in our current location, even if it’s not our ideal. Can we truly make peace with a place that doesn’t feel like home?
I don’t have the answers, but I’m compelled to examine this conflict between my reality and my desires.
from Ruth Marten’s Foutain’s & Alligators series, #1
I was born in Ohio and lived there until the summer after my third-grade year. I know we had “seasons” there, but being indoctrinated in the hellscape of Florida summers for most of my life must have scoured all the experiences of cool temperatures and crisp air from my memory: the only season I can recall growing up in Milford Ohio is summer.
Weeks of being conscripted into summer camp arts and crafts and snacks with the Brownies, more weeks of vacation summer Bible school with my neighbor’s kids (I suspect summer camp was an excuse for my mother to get us out of her hair; no one in my family was religious.) Fireflies, sandboxes, and my mother’s small garden of snapdragons. I spent weekends at my grandparents’ house with my sisters, learning to ride a bike and reading stacks and stacks of books. This all happened in the heat and warmth of the summer. Curiously, I have no memories of autumn or winter.
My grandparents moved to Florida just before my fourth-grade year, and they brought their daughter, a single mother, and her three children with them. Growing up, we never lived more than ten minutes away from our grandparents, and I suspect that’s because, while yes, my mother was theoretically a fully functioning adult, she was also troubled in many ways and not actually a very responsible adult.
I spent my elementary school, junior high, high school, and college years in the same beachside town we moved to in 1985. I lived there until I was 28 years old. At this point, I moved from Florida and all my ties to the place. It was a bad move.
from Ruth Marten’s Foutain’s & Alligators series, #792
In 2011, the bad scene of that move to NJ culminated in my leaving to return to FL.
I initially landed in Orlando and lived there for about a year because that’s where my sister and best friend were, both having escaped Daytona’s skeezy orbit. But as luck would have it, I began dating someone who lived less than ten minutes from the house I grew up in, so back to Daytona, I went.
The timing worked out well because not long after that, my mother was diagnosed with cancer and died a year later. After that began my grandfather’s rapid decline, and my grandmother followed a few years later. Yvan and I lived together throughout this process, and we would have loved to move away (neither one of us sees ourselves as Florida people), but of course, I couldn’t leave the grandparents with no one else there to care for them.
from Ruth Marten’s Foutain’s & Alligators series, #2
Now the shoe is on the other foot. Two years ago, we finally left the Daytona area, but it was to move only two hours north (still in Florida, UGH) for the sake of being closer to Yvan’s aging parents. Having already been through this with my own family, I’m acutely aware of the bittersweet nature of this time. It’s a harsh truth that we’re essentially waiting for loved ones to pass before we can pursue our relocation dreams.
But this realization comes with a crucial understanding: we can’t put our lives on hold. We can’t live as if everything will be better somewhere else, sometime else. We have to find a way to live our best lives now, right where we are.
It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of “someday” thinking. Someday we’ll move. Someday, we’ll be happier. Someday, we’ll start living. But life is happening now, in this place, at this moment. Putting our lives on hold not only robs us of present joy but can lead to regret and resentment. So, how do we make peace with a place that doesn’t feel like home? How do we find contentment and purpose in a location that doesn’t resonate with our souls?
from Ruth Marten’s Foutain’s & Alligators series, #1614
Cheesy as it may sound, I’m trying to create a little list. While pondering these strategies is a start, the real challenge lies in putting them into practice. Here’s how I’m trying (emphasis on trying) to implement each one:
Find beauty in your current environment:
🐊 Keep a “Stupid Sexy Florida Beauty” journal: Each day, I try to note one beautiful thing (okay, that’s a stretch, I’ll confess I have downsized this to “nice thing”) I’ve observed, no matter how small. Sometimes, it’s as simple as how the light filters through the lacy grey tangles of Spanish moss or, say, the vibrant colors of a sunset reflecting off a retention pond. Listen, we work with what we’ve got.
🐊 Explore local natural areas: Florida has some stunning springs and nature preserves. I’m making a list of nearby spots to visit, even if it’s just for a short walk or a brief looky-loo.
🐊 Embrace the night: Since daytime can be unbearable, I’m re-learning to appreciate Florida’s nighttime beauty. Taking a walk around the neighborhood to gaze at the stars or say hello to the moon, or sitting on the porch during a thunderstorm can be magical.
(Re)Create a sense of home:
🐊 Declutter and redesign: I’m gradually going through each room, removing items that don’t resonate with me anymore (goodbye, excess skulls) and introducing elements that do (hello, cozy Shire-inspired nooks).
🐊 Create a “home away from home” corner: I’m designating a small area in our house to represent my ideal place. It might be a reading corner with pieces from PNW artists or a New England-style writing nook. I don’t know what that means really, but it’s very autumnal. In my imagination, anywhere north of, say, North Carolina is this perpetual, enchanted October otherworld (which I know can’t be true because I lived in New Jersey…but how quickly we forget!)
Engage with local community and culture:
🐊 Start small: I’m setting a modest goal of one social interaction every few months. Which doesn’t sound like much, but that is the best this introvert can do! We have actually made a few friends in the area (huzzah! and thank you to former Jax-resident Shana for the introductions!)
🐊 Explore local food scenes: Every place has its culinary gems. I’m making it a point to try one new local restaurant or food truck each month.
🐊 Virtual engagement: For days when leaving the house feels overwhelming, I’m looking into online communities centered around local interests or issues. Local gardening groups, knitting groups, whatever. I will probably never meet these people, but it would be nice to have some local-feeling camaraderie.
Plan trips to places that resonate:
🐊 Create a travel fund: We’re setting aside a small amount each month specifically for trips to places we love. And maybe eventually go on our honeymoon to Japan! Which…is probably going to be a lot like Florida, whoops.
🐊 Weekend getaway list: I’m compiling a list of drivable destinations (like Savannah) for quick escapes when we need a change of scenery.
🐊 Bring vacation home: After each trip, I’d like to incorporate an element of that place into our daily lives. It might be a new recipe, a decor item, or a habit we picked up.
Shift perspective through creativity:
🐊 Write fictional vignettes set in Florida: By imagining fantastic or intriguing scenarios in my current setting, I’m trying to see the place through new eyes.
🐊 Photography challenge: I’m challenging myself to take beautiful or interesting photos of my surroundings, encouraging me to look for beauty in unexpected places.
Practice gratitude:
🐊 Daily, I try to note one thing I’m grateful for about our current situation. It might be as simple as “I’m grateful for air conditioning, this ice-cold gin gimlet, and having cultivated a viciously grim sense of humor” on particularly hot days.
Implementing these strategies is an ongoing process, full of two steps forward and one step back. Some days, the only thing I manage is not cursing the sun. I know, lordy, how I know, that Florida isn’t all beaches and bikinis and whatnot; it’s actually kind of a weird, creepy place, and I know I am not the only weirdo here.
So this is less about loving every aspect of where you are and more about finding ways to thrive despite the challenges. It’s about creating pockets of joy and meaning, even when the overall environment doesn’t resonate with your soul. Pockets full of moss and lizards and little creamed-colored seashells that whisper terrible things in ancient marine languages when you hold it to your ear.
from Ruth Marten’s Foutain’s & Alligators series, #893
Making peace with place often requires a shift in perspective. Instead of focusing on what’s missing, we can choose to see the unique opportunities our current location provides. For me, living in Florida means I can be there for family during an important time. It means I can explore a state that many only dream of visiting. Moreover, this experience of feeling out of place is shaping me. It’s teaching me resilience, adaptability, and the art of finding joy in unexpected places. These lessons will (theoretically?) serve me well, no matter where I eventually end up.
While it’s natural to dream of other places, I recognize it’s crucial to live fully in the present, and by making peace with my current place, I open myself up to unexpected joys and growth opportunities. So yes, I may never fully embrace Florida’s sweltering, sticky, butt-and-boob-sweat summers. I may always feel a pull towards the charming small-town Stars Hollows or the Derry, Maines (just kidding about that one…sort of?) But for now, I’m here. And here, I am trying to find beauty, create meaning, and live fully. Home is much more than just a place. It’s the feelings we create, the life we build, and the perspective we choose.
My grandfather, and probably grandfathers the world over, used to say, “Wherever you go, there you are.” Even if I wind up in the perfect little cottage, high on a bluff, with a bunch of old-growth forests over the ridge and listening to the eerie tremolo of the loons from an ancient lake in my backyard (I am combining all the places I want to live into one extra amazing place here), I’ll still be me with all my wanting and yearning and seeking. Who knows, I might not be happy anywhere. But I am especially not going to be happy in a place where I am not. So I might as well try to make it happen in the place where I actually am.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I approach the highway entrance, a stretch of road I once knew like the back of my hand. But something’s not right. As I prepare to merge, my stomach drops. The once-gentle ramp has transformed into a nightmarish rollercoaster track, rising at an impossible angle. It looms before me, winding ominously with loop-de-loops that defy both gravity and reason.
My car feels suddenly fragile, like a toy at the mercy of this monstrous road. I creep forward, the gentle slope I remember now a vertical wall of asphalt. Other vehicles zoom past, their drivers seemingly oblivious to the Escher-like construct ahead. I grip the wheel, knuckles white, as a voice in my head screams that I can’t do this, that I’ll never make it.
The merge point, once a simple maneuver, now feels like threading a needle while falling from the sky. My breath comes in short gasps as I face this warped version of a once-familiar route.
At least, that’s what happens in my dreams.*
Growing up, I watched my mother’s world shrink as she refused to drive. I became her reluctant chauffeur, ferrying her from place to place, my resentment growing with each mile. I swore I’d never let fear trap me like that. I’d drive. I’d be independent. I’d be free.
And for a while, I was. I moved away to NJ in my 20s and 30s. But suddenly, those comfortable roads where I’d lived most of my life were replaced by a labyrinth of highways and exits. My world shrank to the space between work and home. The fear of accidentally ending up in New York City – a maze of honking horns and aggressive drivers – paralyzed me. I imagined myself trapped on a one-way street to Manhattan, unable to turn back.
(I remember renting a U-Haul for the move to NJ while still in Florida. As I maneuvered that behemoth off the lot, I told myself, “If I can do this, I can do anything. There’s no reason to ever be afraid again.” Oh, how naive I was.)
Life brought me back to Daytona when my grandparents’ health declined. I found myself on familiar ground once more, my anxiety easing as I navigated well-known streets. It wasn’t my favorite activity, but it didn’t terrify me either. Then Yvan came into my life, taking the wheel more often than not. I let myself relax into the passenger seat, my driving skills slowly atrophying.
But life, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor. Our move to North Florida thrust me into a world of more intense highways and meaner drivers. For two years, I haven’t driven at all. And then we got a new car – a fresh source of anxiety, a new machine to potentially damage.
Now, as I write this, I’m trying to distract myself from an imminent reality. In ten minutes, I have to drive Yvan to a follow-up appointment with the orthopedist. He broke his foot and suddenly I’m thrust into the driver’s seat again. The appointment is on the other side of town, and I am TERRIFIED.
As I sit here, dreading the drive ahead, I realize that at the heart of my fear, beneath the surreal nightmares and sweaty palms, lies a simple, almost absurd truth: I’m terrified of being honked at.
It’s not the potential for accidents or the complexity of navigating unfamiliar roads that paralyzes me. No, it’s the impatience of other drivers that makes every journey a gauntlet for my nerves.
I imagine their frustration building behind me as I cautiously check my mirrors, as I slow down to read a street sign, as I hesitate before making a turn. In my mind, their horns are always poised, ready to blare out their judgment of my driving. That sound – sharp, loud, accusatory – rings in my ears long before it actually occurs. It’s the sound of my inadequacy, broadcast for all to hear.
This fear transforms every other car on the road into a potential critic, every intersection into a stage where I might fail publicly. The irony is palpable: my caution, born from a desire to drive safely, invites the very reaction I dread. And so I creep along, a bundle of nerves disguised as a car, hoping against hope that today won’t be the day when someone’s impatience boils over into a cacophony of horns.
But the dread of driving doesn’t just affect me when I’m behind the wheel. It casts a long shadow over my entire day. Take today, for instance. I’ve known about this appointment for days, and it’s been like a dark cloud hovering over me, growing larger as the hour approaches.
This morning, I woke up with a knot in my stomach. The drive isn’t until 2 PM, but already, at 8 AM, I’m completely useless. I try to distract myself, to be productive, but my mind keeps circling back to the impending journey. Every task I attempt feels like wading through molasses. I can’t focus on work, I can’t enjoy a book, I can’t even carry on a normal conversation without my thoughts drifting to the drive ahead.
It’s not just driving, either. I’ve experienced this paralysis with other dreaded tasks – important phone calls, difficult conversations, deadlines. The anxiety becomes a thief, stealing hours or even days from me. A 10-minute phone call at 2 PM can render my entire morning a complete wash. It’s as if time stops, trapping me in a limbo of anticipation and fear until the dreaded task is done.
And so I sit, watching the clock tick closer to 2 PM, my productivity and peace of mind held hostage by my own anxiety. I wonder how many hours of my life I’ve lost this way, frozen in anticipation of fears that often prove to be far worse in my mind than in reality. My palms are already sweating. My heart races. In my mind, I see those dream loop-de-loops superimposed on the real roads I’ll have to navigate. But I am not my mother – I will drive.
Unable to focus on anything else, I’ve spent the last hour panic-writing this blog post, desperately trying to distract myself from the impending task. It’s a temporary balm at best. Soon, I’ll have to close my laptop, grab those car keys, and face the road that terrifies me.
But first, another trip to the bathroom. The panic poops have kicked in – that lovely bonus feature of my anxiety that ensures I’ll be as physically uncomfortable as I am mentally distressed. Nothing like a bout of nervous diarrhea to really drive home the point that I’m terrified of driving (does anyone else get the panic poops? They are AWFUL.)
I really don’t know how to end this indulgent, whiny bit of writing other than to say it’s time to leave. I have to go now. Let’s hit the road. IF WE HAVE TO I GUESS.
* I also have driving dreams where my feet stick out through the bottom of the car, like Flintstones characters. Another one is that I am driving, except I am sitting in the back seat, and I have to navigate and handle the steering wheel from around the empty driver’s seat.
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Tonight over on YouTube, I shared some peeks as to what I did with myself throughout the month of July while I was on my social media break. A little vignette here and there when I otherwise might’ve been wasting time doom-scrolling or falling down useless rabbit holes or being influenced to buy something I definitely did not need. And probably feeling pretty crappy about all of it. Every time I felt tempted to log on, I did something else – anything else! – and this YouTube video is a bit of a cluttered montage of those various random things and activities over the course of the last four weeks.
If you like looking at food, I did a lot of cooking this month! I also shared some current reads, a bookshelf tour, and a little jewelry tour!
This video doesn’t really explain why I sometimes feel compelled to disappear from it all or what I get out of or take away from these breaks, but if you are interested, I wrote all about this a few days ago.
For whatever reason, WordPress has stopped sending email notifications, but just because you are not notified doesn’t mean I’m not writing! I hope you’ll check in every now and again.
Both the video and the blog links can be found in my bio.
P.S. I struggled coming up with a thumbnail idea for this video, and then I remembered how I cut my finger on this creepy antique baby doll’s zipper at one point during the month. I think she cursed me. But the curse then jumped to Ývan, who broke his foot a day or so later.
P.P.S if you are someone who does not like to watch videos, please know that I always put together a pretty robust description box, which includes links to everything that I talk about (and there are A LOT of links!) Feel free to peruse that instead! You should also give the video a like anyway, which then gives me some dopamine. Which is the whole problem with all of this nonsense, isn’t it?
LE SIGH.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these little life updates, and as we’re sliding past midsummer, it felt like the right time to share some thoughts and recommendations with you all.
It was almost a year ago that I learned of my father’s passing. It was complicated. But whomst among us doesn’t have a complicated relationship with a relative? Both of my parents were complicated situations for me. My father and I hadn’t spoken in two decades, but his influence on my younger self during one pivotal summer in Houston still echoes through my life in unexpected ways. From word games that sparked my love for language to a treasure trove of Heavy Metal magazines that forever altered my perception of art and storytelling, those memories have become a strange sort of inheritance.
As this anniversary approaches, I’ve found myself seeking comfort in the small rituals of everyday life – tending to my garden, discovering new scents, and losing myself in music. It’s funny how the things we surround ourselves with can become anchors in turbulent times, isn’t it?
So, I thought I’d share some of these anchors with you today. A bit of this, a dash of that – the odds and ends that have been keeping me grounded and inspired lately. Consider it a belated midsummer offering of sorts, from my strange little world to yours.
SUNFLOWERS
I’ve got a bit of a confession to make – and it might surprise you! Despite my love for all things dark and spooky, my absolute favorite flower is… the sunflower. Not very on-brand for someone who writes about gothic literature and horror, and dark fashion, I know, I know. And I know you know. I struggle with this disparity a lot, and it spills over into this blog quite frequently.
There’s something undeniably magical about these towering golden giants, these brazen yellow blooms, their faces turned unabashedly towards the light. They’re like nature’s own version of a Rorschach test – to some, they might represent pure, unadulterated joy. To others, they’re a reminder of the delicious contrast between light and dark, a symbol of life’s stubborn persistence in the face of entropy.
Plus, let’s not forget their slightly creepy ability to track the sun across the sky. It’s like they’re a botanical army of solar-powered sentinels, always watching, always turning. Sorry, had to make it weird. So there you have it, friends. My not-so-dark secret is out. Anyone else out there have any unexpected favorites that don’t quite fit their usual aesthetic?
TWO INGREDIENT BAGELS
So: two-ingredient bagels. No, no, no, I have not joined the ranks of the protein-obsessed gym rats or the preservative-phobic crowd, nothing like that. Sometimes you just want a bagel. Not those sad, freezer-burned discs masquerading as bagels from the grocery store. And definitely not the overpriced, underwhelming attempts at bagels that Florida tries to pass off as the real deal. Sorry, Florida (Bagel) Man, but you’re no Local New Jersey (Bagel) Man when it comes to bagels. And sure, I could spend hours crafting an authentic, complicated bagel recipe. But sometimes, you want a bagel without feeling like you’re auditioning for a baking show.
Enter the two-ingredient bagel: just flour and Greek yogurt. And seasonings and toppings, so it is not technically two ingredients, I suppose. It’s not terrible! It’s not going to win any awards in New York, but when the bagel craving hits, and your options are limited, it’s a surprisingly satisfying solution. I make extra to slice and freeze, and it’s a nice treat when you find a bagel buried at the bottom of the freezer underneath the frozen peas and the dubious pork chops!
I DON’T BELIEVE IN SEASONAL FRAGRANCES, BUT I DO BELIEVE IN SUMMER PERFUMES
I’ve always scoffed at the notion of seasonal fragrances. I wear what I want when I want! You can’t tell me nothin! Resinous incense and mossy stone castles and suffocating spices year round, please!
…Yet here I am, a prisoner of the merciless Florida hellscape, finding myself yearning for fragrances that offer respite from the relentless heat.
It’s not so much about capturing a bottled atmosphere as it is about survival. Those earthy autumnal and woodsy winter perfumes that once brought such cozy comfort and delicious decadence now feel like a weighted blanket in this sweltering humidity. They cling, they smother, they overwhelm – much like the soupy miasma of these endless summer days.
Instead, I find myself drawn to the ephemeral and the ethereal. I reach for scents that evaporate almost as quickly as they’re applied, leaving behind only the ghost of a proper perfuming. Fizzy floral effervescence, a fleeting joy in the sticky air. Crisp, soapy musks offer the illusion of a fresh start, even as the humidity threatens to undo their work. Citrus and ginger provide zingy, zippy zhuzh, their bright notes cutting through the muggy haze. And those elusive spa-like fragrances – all gauzy lavender threads and misty eucalyptus veils – conjure a spectral coolness that’s more memory than matter.
These aren’t summer scents in the traditional sense, with their sunscreen notes and tropical fruit medleys. They’re more like… olfactory air conditioning. These subtle, refreshing fragrances I once overlooked now feel like small mercies, in a season that shows no mercy.
Elizabeth W. Té smells like a gorgeous glass of Southern sweet tea
Jones Road Shower is good mostly because it reminds me of BPAL’s discontinued Danube, which smells like sinking to the bottom of the coldest, bluest swimming pool on the hottest day of the year, and seeing the sun’s glimmer wavering through the rippling water and thinking ha ha ha, screw you, sun.
Kyoto from Comme des Garçons is actually my all-time favorite, number one, anytime, anyplace scent. It’s the scent everything has to measure up to, and so far, nothing has ever surpassed it. It smells like a cool shadowy prayer in a dark forest temple, and it is especially nice on brutal summer nights.
LOUDERMILK, LISSIE, MOTHER, CHEESDUST
I recently traveled to Philly, where I spent a much-needed long weekend with my Best Good Friend. We, of course, did some urban exploration and perfume shopping and conveyor belt sushiing and some long drives in the countryside, and, weirdly enough, a surprise visit to Warby Parker for very gleefully ridiculous new glasses! (Ývan thinks I look like this guy in my new specs, but everyone else is pointing to her.) But the best part was just vegging out together, doing nothing. We basically barricaded ourselves in their living room for a solid 24 hours, binging the entire season of Loudermilk, decimating an unholy amount of Herr’s jalapeño popper cheese puffs in the process. My fingers are probably still slightly orange.
A blonde musician showed up in one of the later episodes, and it hit me: isn’t that the singer from the 2017 Twin Peaks: The Return? Isn’t that Lissie?! I was obsessed with that Wild West song, and then I was obsessed with her PERFECT cover of Danzig’s “Mother” forever, and now, thanks to this show about the misadventures of misfits in AA, I’m equally fixated on her song “When I’m Alone.” And also the beautiful kimono she is wearing in that scene!
The funny thing is, it’s over a decade old at this point. Isn’t it weird how you can re/discover music like that? One minute, you’re stuffing your face with cheesy puffs; the next, you’re having a moment with a song from 2011 that you never knew you missed out on way back when, but now you love it like you’ve loved it forever.
Anyway, I’ve been playing Lissie non-stop since I got back. It’s like my brain is trying to recreate that perfect moment of kinship, junk food, and unexpectedly poignant television.
REVISITING MY STEPHEN KING PROJECT
In early 2020, the world is still blissfully unaware of what’s coming, and I am armed with a Google Docs spreadsheet and a mission. The goal? To immerse myself in the Stephen King universe – reading the unread, re-experiencing the familiar through audiobooks, and diving into television and film adaptations I’d somehow missed.
For 80s horror kids, he was practically a god. The master of terror, the guy who could make a clown in a storm drain or a voice in a closet the stuff of lifelong nightmares. But if I am being thoroughly, painfully honest – as an adult, reading him can sometimes feel like listening to your out-of-touch dad try to be “hip.” You love him, but occasionally, you just want to gently suggest he stop talking before he says something so embarrassing you could die.
That said, there’s still this undeniable magic to his work. It’s comfort food for the horror soul. When he eventually shuffles off this mortal coil, I’ll be devastated. More upset than when my own father passed. Stephen King’s been more of a constant presence in my life, for better or worse.
Anyway, I’ve been picking up the threads of this project lately, diving into the Mr. Mercedes books and related stories. It’s been… interesting. There’s still that undeniable King charm, the way he builds a world and populates it with characters that feel both wonderfully and uncomfortably real. I’ve always loved the way he writes the relationships–the interactions, the dialogue, the bonds– between siblings, for example. I first read IT thirty-seven summers ago, but I still get shivers when I think of Bill and Georgie Denbrough. But there are also moments where I find myself thinking, “Oh, Stephen King, no…! When was the last time you talked to a 44-year-old woman? And have you EVER spoken with a Black teenager??”
So that’s where I’m at with the project right now. Detecting with Bill Hodges, solving crimes with Holly Gibney, and watching Stephen King try to navigate the modern world with varying degrees of success. It’s a strange experience, this literary time travel. Part nostalgic joy, part critical assessment, all wrapped up in the complicated emotions of revisiting a childhood hero with adult eyes.
As I sit here, writing these words, I’m acutely aware of the passage of time. It’s been a year since I learned of my father’s passing, a man I barely knew yet whose influence echoes through my life in unexpected ways. The games we played then shape the words I write now. The Heavy Metal magazines I pored over still influence my aesthetic sensibilities. And that tiny bird I cradled during the Harmonica Convention? Perhaps it was the first stirring of the caretaker in me, the same part that now tends to sunflowers and crafts imperfect bagels. Maybe that’s a stretch. Maybe I just like flowers and bread.
(Totally unrelated–I also like creepy antique dolls. The one above was a birthday gift to myself last month.)
As I navigate this midsummer, with its oppressive Florida heat and the bittersweet onslaught of memories, I find myself grateful for the small joys: the scent of lemon and ginger on my skin, the cackles shared over junk food and trash television, the rediscovery of a singer-songwriter that speaks to my soul. It’s funny, isn’t it? How life can be simultaneously mundane and profound, filled with both small pleasures and big questions. I’m learning that it’s okay to contradict myself sometimes, whether it’s in my fragrance choices or my relationship with authors I’ve loved since childhood.
As we head deeper into the feverish, overheated, and everlasting days, I’m looking forward to more unexpected discoveries. And Halloween! Always that. Summer can fuck right off straight into the sun.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
Dionysius the Areopagite Converting the Pagan Philosophersm Antoine Caron
I post a lot of goofiness all over social media, but it doesn’t always make its way to my blog. So here is a little round-up of what I have been thinking about or observing lately, as told through various imagery and anecdotes.
Are you like that, too? Do you look at a painting or photo and illustration and give it an entirely out-of-context silly or surreal backstory? Or attach it to a bit of conversation you had with someone, or overheard or made up entirely in your head? I do that a lot. And I do mean a lot.
Anyway, I just saw someone post on Facebook last week that the eclipse “looked cool, but it’s not worth the hype,” and I don’t know why that’s so funny, but I was laughing so hard I fear I may pee myself. Not worth the hype, dummies! You can all go home now, I guess!
Give yourself fun pep talks with weird wizard advice, like, “When the instrument of sleep leaves the space of nourishment, begin the work.”
Which sounds way more magical than “I need to move the mattress out of the dining room so I can concentrate on writing again!” I want to write more, but because we are redoing our flooring and doing some renovations, our guest room mattress and related furnishings are currently in the dining room, and all of that precarious chaos is too anxiety-inducing for my brain to focus on working with words. Gimme my spaces back, please!
I still haven’t listened to Beyonce’s new album, other than her rendition of Jolene. It was fine, and I am sure the album is fine, and I should probably listen to it because it’s culturally important and so on, but first, I feel like we need to fix Jolene. I got my sisters on board with this idea over on Facebook, and we are working on it. That’s one of Mary’s contributions in the second image.
Someone commented on her FB page, “Oh, you mean Jolene, like the Dixie Chicks wrote it.” Oh, no, no. Jolene, if Circe and Mr. Rochester’s first wife had written it. Jolene, if Eileen Wuornos and Loreena Bobbit wrote it. No offense to anyone’s version, but no one is addressing the real problem here.
I also listened to three or four new songs on Taylor Swift’s new album, and it bored me tremendously. I know my baby sister reads this blog and will be sad to hear that because she is a huge fan, and Melissa I am sorry. There was not enough torture in the tortured poets’ department. There was like, zero torture. I feel misled.
“Isabella and the Pot of Basil” {1867} By William Holman Hunt
“Listen, that’s between you and your pot of basil,” is a thing I am going to start responding with when people are trying to tell me shit I don’t need to know.
I have been irrationally angry at whoever was just before me in library holds line for Diavola. They took the whole two weeks to read that book! Come on, man! But my holds for both Diavola and The Familiar finally became available (at once, of course ) and so far they do not disappoint! I usually read about 10 things at once, but because the queues are so long for the both of these, and I will not be able renew them, I am focusing on them exclusively …no great difficulty there, they both drew me in immediately and entirely.
Pemberton-Longman, Joanne; Professional Jealousy
I have been writing and sharing on the internet for a long time. Both personal blogs and social media, as well as more widely read websites. But. As a writer of things, I could never say something like, “y’all liked my X thing so much, I’m back with another!” I mention this because it was something I saw over on fragrance reddit this week. Man. I don’t know. That seems wildly, toe-curlingly cringe to me. When I read that, I was stricken with the most intense fremdschämen.
But there’s an admirable audacity, too. Like… you truly believe people enjoyed the words you wrote. I love that for you. I want that, too.
On Tuesdays we wear gold. And hearts and moons and eyes. Light aloeswood incense. Find a perfectly preserved moth behind a picture frame. Listen to the owls’s hoot fluttering through the wind chimes. Slurp a scalding soup of bitter greens. Plant a crimson sunflower seed. Tuesday stuff.
Vertigo, Leon Spilliaert 1908
A joke, but it’s a recurring nightmare from another life; a joke, but it’s a voice from the moon in the dark; a joke, but it’s a beckoning finger from a broken mirror; ha ha haa ahh ahh.
The Vegetable Gardener, Giuseppe Arcimboldo
I forgot the word for “vegan” and was like, “You know…vegetable edge lord?” VEGLORD, if you will.
Something I tried to sneak into each of my books was at least one instance of an image that had been shared and memed all over the Internet without credit. Something that you see people repost all over the place with “artist unknown.” I want people to know there were actual human artists that created these works! I wanted it in black and white, something that couldn’t be lost to 404 errors and lazy reblogs.
If you enjoy these musings, or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I am going through a weird time. I’m reading a dozen things and not paying attention to any of them. I have been halfheartedly knitting the same socks for two months now and somehow not making any progress, and I was just realizing that I haven’t tried any new and fun recipes for a long time. We eat soup and salads daily because I just feel like I don’t want to be bothered with the whole business of cooking. Don’t get me wrong; we’re not turning into ascetics over here; these are exceptionally loaded soups and salads; nothing minimalist about them (like that kimchi stew in the image above) but still…it’s a lot of the same thing, over and over again. And I’m …kinda fine with that? Which worries me for some reason that I can’t put my finger on?
I feel like…I’m not looking for the New Thing anymore. I guess I was forever trying new things because I was always looking for the holy grail of *something.* And there’s something that always felt necessary and vital (to me, at least) in that pursuit of that Best Good Thing, whatever that might be. But could it be that somewhere along the line, I found it? And if so, what was it? And why don’t I feel satisfied? But also, why don’t I feel like looking anymore? Why don’t I feel like doing anymore?
I guess that’s what I’m struggling with: whether these feelings I am experiencing right now are of being content? Or is this more like..stagnating?
Another thing I feel like I have sort of given up on is Instagram. Or I guess I should say, I have stopped trying to be good at it. I struggled with this last year, but it turns out the weirdest, most counterintuitive thing is what helped me. For three years, I have been posting perfume review videos on TikTok, and until the end of 2023, I kept it mainly on that platform. I did talk about perfume from time to time on Instagram, but not too often because people aren’t really into it, and those posts got very few views and engagement, and it just generally made me feel shitty about myself. I shared the TikTok reviews in my Instagram stories only because it cut off at the 30-second mark, and it was only on the app for 24 hours or so, and then it was gone.
But a friend encouraged me to post these video reviews on my main Instagram feed because many people don’t have TikTok and don’t get to see them. I waffled about it at first, knowing that these are the exact things that would flop when I post them because it’s a niche thing, and not many folks/friends share that interest. But I gave it a shot. And I do think it made some people happy. But I was right; the perfume video posts on Instagram are all very unpopular duds.
Here are some numbers. I have 13.4K followers on Instagram. Most things I post get around 100 likes on average. That seems a little weird and low, but I am used to it by now. Sometimes it’s more than that, but between the vagaries of the algorithm and people in general, I have no idea why or how. My perfume videos, which I now share as reels on Instagram, get about 20-25 likes on average, which is awfully pathetic. But you know what? I kept at it for the past two and half months, and while the numbers have not increased or changed, my attitude about it did. I’m used to it. As pitiful as it sounds, I have adapted and become inured to those butthurt feelings of rejection and moved on, so all in all, I am actually glad that I started doing it. I’m sorry if it’s not what people want to see, but oh well! So now you could say I am actively leaning into being bad at Instagram. The above image is from my Lorenzo Pazzaglia Van Py Rhum perfume review. If “slutty bloofer lady” is your vibe, you may dig this one.
Wow, all of these sounds like a bummer, and it all sounds like dumb, petty problems. I wouldn’t disagree if you said so. Of course, other things are going on with me, too, things that are much more of a bummer and a whole hell of a lot dumber… but that’s too much for this little blog. Let’s move on to something nice.
We are celebrating our two-year wedding anniversary this week! With yard work! How romantic! The constant threat of a letter from the HOA keeps us on our toes; we are a corner lot on the main road through the neighborhood, where a prominent founding member of the community once lived, so I feel like we are under extra scrutiny. We have a lot of trees on our property, and the leaves are falling perpetually, matting up in the shady areas and killing the grass, so it requires constant vigilance and dedication to keep on top of it.
And the thing is…we are neither vigilant nor dedicated, and I think I can speak for Yvan in saying that what we lack in vigilance and dedication, we make up for in simmering resentment about all of it. We just want to let our lawn do its thing! And in a neighborhood without an HOA, that would be fine. But that’s not where we live, so we both took off work on our wedding anniversary to rake leaves. We could be mad about it, but we’re gonna have a little picnic lunch and make the best of it. Recommendation time! I know I have mentioned these before, but they are probably my favorite thing in the world: these Duluth Trading Company gardening overalls. Pair that with a tie-dye UV protection tee shirt, a Garfield bucket hat, and my neon blue ponytail; I definitely cut a colorful figure when I am out in the yard, even if I am grumpy and scowling the whole time!
We went to a local brewery yesterday for an early celebration, though, so it’s not all manual labor and aching limbs… we celebrated with a tipple, flipping through a seed catalog, and ignoring each other in favor of our books because we know how to party!
I guess February is a little late to chat about New Year’s goals, but I somehow forgot to talk about it at the beginning of the year, so here we are. This year I made four goals for myself, and my face is the featured image for this section because I’m thinking real hard about my goals, okay?
Start downsizing my book collection. The goal here is NEVER to load fifty boxes of books onto a moving truck again. I am slowly selling the things that I know I will never read again over on Pango, and I’m doing okay, I think; I’ve already sold 60 books! I upload new titles every week, and I run sales every weekend, so if you are looking to supplement your bookshelves with some weird and spooky titles, go give my Pango shop a little peek.
Figure out how to do Downward Facing Dog. Sure, I could say, “Start doing yoga every day,” but that’s a very broad and nebulous goal, and it’s easier for me to focus on one very specific thing. Since January I stretch for about five minutes every morning while waiting for the kettle to boil, but here’s a confession. I’ve been working on the version of this pose that exists in my mind, but I only just this second looked up how it’s supposed to look and how to do it. Classic Sarah!
Get back to taking the time in the morning to write down my dreams. I have been doing this on and off for twenty years, and I fell out of the habit right before we moved,
I have begun writing fiction. It’s all I have ever wanted to do in my entire life, and I’ve come at it through my writing in every way: from the side, underneath, essays, poetry, interviews, articles, blog posts, and reviews–every kind of writing BUT fiction because I’ve just been too chicken to try! So I try to get as close to it as possible through all these other writings! It has been super scary, and nothing might ever come of it, and I am trying to be okay with that. To clarify, it’s not the thought that it won’t be published and people will never read it that’s giving me pause; it’s just…I’m not sure what my end goal is here. My writing has always had an end goal: post it up on the blog or review site, send in the article for publication, submit the chapters for the book deadline, etc. I have difficulty thinking about nebulous projects (see “yoga,” above.) I mean, I guess at this point, the point is practice and building writing and thinking about writing muscles that I don’t know how to use, but beyond that…what then?
A few more recommendations before I toddle off to bed early because YARD WORK…
In the first several episodes of Harlan Coben’s most recent Netflix adaptation, Fool Me Once, Michelle Keegan’s lips are practically blue, and I don’t think this was intentional, but I want the look. The hydrating shine lip balm from MOB in sheer black is super, super close.
Not a recommendation per se, but I know that me and a thousand of my close friends need this sweater from Batsheva’s Fall 2024 Ready to Wear collection.
This headband and wristband combo for washing your face (I hate it when the water splashes up your arms! Thanks for giving me the head’s up on these, Shar!)
While it says it is a noodle basket/colander, I love it for washing and straining vegetables and leaving them to dry while making a meal.
I’ve written before about how I can’t stand the feeling of not wearing a bra, but I also hate traditional bras with pokey wires and pushuppityness. Last year, I finally found something perfect for daytime, which sort of swaddles and flattens (which may not sound ideal, but I love it), but everything for sleeping seemed too restrictive. This cropped tank from Girlfriend Collective doesn’t really provide any kind of support, but it turns out that it’s exactly what I want under my tee shirt for sleeping.
If you enjoy these musings, or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
This past weekend included a three-hour drive through the scariest thunderstorm to the dreamiest little hideaway. Back to the stomping grounds that were never properly ours, a dream that never quite came true for us.
Even though we desperately wanted to move away from Florida, we thought, for the longest time, well, if we *have* to be here, we’d sure love to be in this particular part of Orlando. With this little ramen place, and this little record store, and this corner coffee shop. With my best friend on this end of town and my sister and her swimming pool just ten minutes away and so and so forth. But the timing was never right. I had family responsibilities in town at that time. And then folks started moving away from Orlando, and then we had to move to another part of Florida for other obligations and responsibilities. By then, it was too late.
But we had a free weekend, and we found ourselves reminiscing about a place we never knew as well as we would have liked and for some friends we hadn’t seen in a while. So! We planned a brief Orlando jaunt close to all the places we loved best We rented a cute Airbnb. We met up with some friends for soup dumplings, we met up with other friends for board games and beers, we went out for sushi, and then the next morning we went out for coffee and stopped by our favorite nursery for some garden treats before heading back.
I guess you can’t go back, and you definitely can’t-can’t go back to somewhere you never lived in the first place. But still…it was good to see you, Orlando. For those interested in such things, I shared a “what I bring in my travel bag” over on TikTok!
Baby-me in my mid-twenties wanted to start a food blog with tons of gorgeous bread photos but it turns out I couldn’t even make a decent no-knead loaf. It wasn’t till my 40s that I learned patience with sourdoughs and the no-fail certitude of plush buttery enriched doughs that I had the confidence to revisit making just a regular old yeasted loaf of something.
This is a whole wheat oatmeal flaxseed loaf using a recipe from Minimalist Baker. It rose perfectly, it’s nice and sturdy for toasting, it’s exactly as I envisioned, and I did it! Only took me twenty years! Gonna start that food blog now; people are definitely still reading those, right?
Bad days, man. Sometimes I think I’m getting better at handling them, but then sometimes, I have no idea what I’m doing. But this day is over. And I made a pretty good mushroomy fauxganoff meal, even though I wanted to order tacos and queso. I planted serrano and melon seeds. I’m having a nice little foot bath, and I’m trying a new whiskey that a lovely friend got for us. A stupid day doesn’t have to turn into a stupid evening. I’m gonna knit some muppety stitches and do my grandma knee strengthening exercises and read something deliciously creepy and be glad that I am alive in this world to have any kind of day at all. Am I doing this right? Any of it? Will I ever know?
P.S. I am fine. Most of my bad days consist of being very agitated and working myself up to a tizzy. I’m working on the “not working myself up” part. Hee hee, but, if I am being Very Real here, I will confess that my most of my agitations are for very bratty reasons. I consider it a good day if I can work on personal projects alongside Day Job things, and on days where work-work is nuts and becomes my entire focus, I get SO CRABBY. These are super privileged, very entitled crabulations and cranks, but I can’t help it.
I WANTED TO FINISH KNITTING MY BLANKET BUT MY BOSS KEPT YAPPING: The Sarah Elizabeth Story
I’m trying to keep better track of what goes into my guts and fuels my bod and my brains. This may be very triggery and I don’t want to freak anyone out, but I’ve become fixated with and terrified of the idea that as soon as I turn 49 in two years, I’m going to wake up dead.
I remember that happened to Michelle McNamara (46) and Julie Powell (49) and maybe for different reasons, but I don’t want that to be me. And you can’t foresee or control these things, I realize that, but there are some things I can control and I at least want to know that I tried my best. So logic dictates that if I do not eat at least 20 kinds of vegetables per day, I will literally die.
This not-at-all upsetting multiple ongoing existential crises brekkie thoughts brought to you by zucchini and enoki miso soup, eggy salmon rice, and lots o’ pickles.
This pattern is the Anthology throw from Curious Handmade, and it was so good for using up the gazillion scraps and scraggles of sock yarn I have amassed.
It broke my eyeballs and turned my joints to jelly but it was actually an easy-peasy project and I’d probably knit it again while my traitorous old body disintegrated around me. I will eventually gift you a pretty blanket with my skittering skellington hands and hopefully, you’ll be too enchanted to scream?
….it’s here!!
Or, well, at least my author copy is. The books haven’t hit the warehouse yet, so advance copies won’t be sent out for awhile, and regular old copies won’t be available until the publishing date of September 12th. But anyway…it is HERE! I know I keep saying this, but I can’t believe I even wrote one book, let alone three, and yet here they all are!
Please be sure to place your preorders! Preorders are important! And etcetera! I don’t want to do the whole song and dance about it but they’re important, they really, really are!
and don’t forget…
Pre-order your copy of The Art of Fantasy by August 1 from any retailer and be one of the first 100 readers to receive bonus goodies! Details here.
To be honest, I started this blog post about three weeks ago, and about five minutes into it, I got bored and thought, “ok, done now!” and gave up. Today I’m realizing that there’s not really been any more of the personal-in-nature, lifey-bits on this blog (I’m guilty of putting all of it in my newsletter now), and maybe I actually need to buckle down and finish this. To make it look like a real person lives here, I guess.
Anyway, I had totally forgotten what the title of the blog post was about, what was I referencing? But now it’s coming back to me, and actually, no one gave me that culantro. I bought it by accident when I thought I was buying stemmy spinach. We’ve found a very low-key, no-frills local farmer’s market somewhat nearby, and in the last few months, I’ve been stupidly excited about our visits loading up on herbs and veggies for half the cost of what we might spend in the grocery store (I need that extra money for books and perfume!) It’s just a few stalls of produce; there are no artisanal bread or cheese sellers, no coffee stalls, nothing fancy like that. Just a few people selling fruits and veggies.
Instead of going there with all kinds of plans and recipes in mind, I’ve decided that I will just show up and see what looks interesting and grab it! And then figure out what to do with it on the fly during the course of the week. I’ve sort of fallen into a rut over the last few months. Not without good reason, I guess. I was writing a book and working toward many deadlines, and it was easier to make a lot of simple meals, salads for lunch, and easy brothy soups for dinner. I didn’t have to think about it too much, and I didn’t have to expend a whole bunch of energy. Now I’ve got more time on my hands, and I am realizing that I really miss experimenting!
So what did I do with all of that culantro? First, if you’ve never even heard of it (I had not), it’s an herb that is similar in taste and smell to cilantro, but it looks quite different, and the taste is a lot stronger. I made sofrito with it, except I didn’t have peppers, so I used celery (!!) instead. I realize they are not interchangeable, but, eh, it was an experiment. I also made a dipping sauce for dumplings –and then realizing we had no dumplings, I had to make some of those, too–but Yvan and I agreed this would probably make a better salad dressing.
SO. The featured image for this blog post is not culantro. It’s a random flowering plant from our garden, which we’ve finally begun working on. It’s a mess right now and making me very anxious, so let’s change the subject.
It’s a slow, rainy day today; everything is gloomy and dim. All of my favorite corners looked especially haunted, so I thought I might grab a few murky photos, light a candle, play something atmospheric, and cobble together a cozy space for writing.
Our friend Pam just left from a quick overnight visit, and I’m recovering from the gardening she helped us with this morning and the ONE cocktail I had last night. Lordy. As I am becoming An Old, I am coming to the realization that I can barely drink anything without feeling absolutely woozy and wooly afterward. I need to find some tasty mocktail recipes, except we need to call them something else because I hate the word “mocktail,” it’s just too dumb.
So Pam and I watched some great movies while she was here. Yvan is not a horror movie fan, and I don’t subject him to it, but I’ll always take advantage of having company if they swing the way of spooky movies. As a matter of fact, the last horror movie of any kind I watched was last October, yikes! Last night we saw Huesera: The Bone Woman, which came highly recommended by Andrea at Rue Morgue. An artful pregnancy-as-body-horror/dark side of motherhood story, it follows Val, a former punk-rock rebel turned somewhat domesticated wife, who is caught between what she wants for herself and what society wants for her and who is stalked by a sinister entity after she realizes she has become pregnant. I really enjoyed this one (I especially loved the mid-century modern artsy decor of her apartment!) We also watched M3GAN, and I am sure that I do not need to tell you anything about that one because I am the last person in the world to watch it, but it was delightfully silly and a lot of fun.
My Best Good Friend stayed with us a few days last week, and holy moly, I am just realizing that one. we have lived in this house for over a year now, and two. we have had more guests here in a year than we had in a decade in the old house! Despite the fact that as of April 8th, we’ve lived here for a whole 12 months, the place still doesn’t look very put together…however, BGF is quite good at configuring rooms and maximizing spaces, so they gave us lots of good ideas for temporary solutions while we are still figuring things out.
I don’t quite know what my interior style sensibilities are anymore; I never went full-goth, and creepy-cute never resonated with me, dark Victorian just feels way too extra and high maintenance and cluttered…I think I’m leaning toward something sort of Scandi/mid-century modern, but also rustic fairy tale/cottage witch and a touch of dark bohemia/shadowy eclectic…and that’s not even a thing! How do I make all of this work? I don’t know!
Well, to throw everything off entirely, during the course of their visit, we stopped by a vintage shop, and I bought this splendidly pretty, strawberry-festooned teapot/pitcher, cream jug, and sugar bowl. Where do I put it? What does it go with? There are currently no answers.
To wrap up this little update, here are some current favorite things…
an ergonomic keyboard and mouse for my poor fucked up thumb and wrist
Linghun by Ai Jiang is a heart-haunting novella on how the melancholy of loss makes for desperate ghosts among the living
the time and space dissolving synthy dreaminess of Spirit Exitby Caterina Barbieri
also obsessed with turning my billowing wardrobe into more of a Lagenlook thing, but also mori-adjacent, and also from The Shire
re: the above look, I think @kelseamori on TikTok is my inspiration
I’m wearing the shadowy forest temple vibes of Kyoto from Comme des Garçons and realizing for the millionth time it is my all-time no. 1 favorite fragrance
I have perfected miso soup (to my taste): add miso to a hot broth of dashi powder, a tiny bit of both soy sauce & Shaoxing wine
add chopped zucchini and dried, soaked, and sliced shitake mushrooms to the above
serve the above with a rolled omelet or rice and pickles, and this is my breakfast for the past two months
I am back on my cake-a-month nonsense! This time around, I am baking exclusively from Yossy Arefi’s Snacking Cakes. A recipe from this book–though I didn’t know it was from this book– was recommended to me last year: the powdered donut cake, and so far, that one, plus the espresso chocolate chip cake, above, as well as the All The Spices Cake with Vanilla Bean Glaze that I made in January, have all been winners.
I have become delightfully obsessed with Lauren Rad’s elegant sock designs, and the oatmeal-colored Cromulent socks are the second pattern I have knit up! The first pair were the plummy Tiramisu socks, which I photographed blocking on what I later realized was an inadvertent altar to Arachne! You can’t see all of the spider art on this purple wall, but in addition to the spider cauldron embroidery, there is a whole wall to the right, just out of the frame, with 5 or 6 spider-centric artworks! Now that I’ve realized this, I need to make a more intentional little space here for my knits to stretch and shape themselves in a more sacred, symbolic way (but still lowkey because I am lazily ritual-averse!)
We are to the time of year where, even though I know it is only 50 degrees out, I am just freezing cold all the time. So I wear layers upon layers of clothing. I thought I might share a few of my current over-layers that I’m piling on right now.
I am currently wrapped up in Silvia Moreno Garcia’s SilverNitrate, which is scratching my itch for characters who are deeply immersed in some sort of obsession (film or art, usually) and then there’s a connected occult or supernatural element. If you enjoyed Gemma File’s Experimental Film or Archive 81 on Netflix, you might dig Silver Nitrate.
I have also just finished an audiobook version of Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died and Josh Winning’s Burn the Negative, one being a nonfiction memoir about a former child star, and the other, a book of horror fiction about the present-day gruesome murders surrounding a former child star. I read these both at the same time without really knowing what either was about, and there were some interesting and surprising parallels. I love it when this happens, and it happens far more frequently than you might think! What was the last instance you experienced of this type of book selection synchronicity?
Time to marinate! Every month I’m selecting a quartet of fragrances from my collection cabinet and giving them a primo spot on my vanity so I can clearly see them vying for my attention! This month’s lineup includes:
—Diptique Fleur de Peau (Sarah Waters sapphic Victorian ghost lovers)
—Frederic Malle Synthetic Jungle (rubbery raincoat verdant jungle painting Stendahl Syndrome weirdness)
—Nobile 1942 Malia (a Belladonna of sadness standup comedy special scored by Grimes)
—Kiehl’s Musk (the world’s skankiest, nastiest musk, or at least a contender for the title)
And finally, I am revisiting what was probably my favorite album of 2016, the darkly euphoric electronica of HÆLOS’ Full Circle. I don’t write many album reviews here on the blog, but I was moved to write about this one; it made me feel WAYS. If a whole album feels too much to dive into, start with “Dust.”
“There is a surreal stretch at the end of an evening of good times that have carried on perhaps an album’s length or a bottle too long. A half-lit, fuzzy spell between two and three in the morning where … You’re in the cramped backseat of a car, cocktail-fevered forehead resting against the cool glass of the passenger side window, your reflection too dark to see. The palm trees are towering overhead–mesmerizing, celestial giants as far away as the distant planets–and the glimmering streetlights are stars that stretch and fade to the edges of your vision like you’re jumping into hyperspace. You want to laugh at the absurdity of the imagery, but all of a sudden, and from out of nowhere, this late night is on the other side of too late. This beautiful, astronomical onslaught is too much; it’s triggering memories more terrestrial and summoning that nostalgic, aching void that’s perpetually lurking at the edges of your experience.
I overheard a conversation recently in which it was mentioned that oftentimes one forgets that words ending in “-algia” indicate some sort of pain. So while we frequently refer to nostalgia in terms of sentimental longing or wistful affection, we cannot deny the twist of the heart that accompanies it, the grief and distress that tinges it. The pain that gives definition to these wispy, amorphous moments, this euphoria we summon and cling to for far too long on evenings like this.”
