• the quotidian (1.18.21)

    January 18, 2021

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace

    Working lunch: chorizo, egg, and warm tortillas.

    Crostata test: rhubarb and red raspberry.

    Sunday dinner door-drop from my mama: incredible chicken with dried prunes and olives.

    The steers have relocated.

    David Copperfield and dishes.

    Girl’s got flair!

    All the time: talking, arguing, and thinking, and in that order.

    In town with a friend, a walk-by sighting of my husband’s work.

    DON’T YOU DARE.

    Dogsitting: killing us with cuteness.

    That’s not how you wear a mask, son.

    Sunday geography lesson, and my new rug.

    This same time, years previous: pozole, no-knead sourdough bread, doing stupid safely, homemade grainy mustard, the quotidian (1.18.16), just do it, cream cheese dip, day one, polenta and greens, snapshots and captions, Julia’s chocolate almond cake.

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  • this is who we are

    January 14, 2021

    We were on the interstate, driving home from Massachusetts (more on this later), when the news of the insurrection broke. I was stunned and horrified, of course. But I was not surprised. The President had been rabble rousing for weeks, so I’d figured something was bound to happen.

    Listening to the reports, it didn’t take long for me to grow exasperated with the newscasters and their tiresome “How could this have happened?” refrain — as though this came out of nowhere — but when they started with the somber intonations of “This is not America” and “This is not who we are,” that’s when I exploded.

    “This is EXACTLY who we are,” I yelled at my husband, “and denying nearly half of our population — dismissing them out of hand as though they don’t even exist — is stupid. If we don’t see things for how they actually are — not as we wish them to be — then we will never change.“

    A couple days later my mom forwarded a link to this video which succinctly encapsulates my thoughts. Watching it was cathartic. I’m not the only one.

    I have relatives who were in the crowd that day — they didn’t go into the capitol, they say, but they were at the base of the steps — and I have other relatives who, watching from afar, were exultant. 

    With my friends, I puzzle over the best approach. My ideas run the gamut: from mockery to serious debate, from lambasting rage to loving rebuke, from complete disengagement to silent watchfulness.

    Nothing I come up with feels right.  

    Awhile back, I heard a report on how best to engage with people who are ensnared in conspiracy theories. The solution is simple, the guy said: hours and hours of conversation in which each theory is painstakingly broken down into bite-sized chunks and overlaid with facts. It’s a tedious exercise in logic, reminiscent of the sort of conversation a parent might have with a teen (speaking from experience here), and there are two key requirements: lots of available time, and a close relationship important enough to warrant the time commitment. 

    Regarding my personal connections, I have the time but not the closeness — so, so much for that. Not that it really matters, though — the guy on the report said that it’s all but impossible to detangle someone who is committed to conspiracies. 

    Discouraging, no?

    So I try to take the long view. What can I do now that, five years from now, I will feel proud of? What about fifty years from now? I think of the future history books and try to imagine myself in them. I mean, not me as in Jennifer’s Going To Be In A History Book!, but my position in the pages. Where will I fall? 

    Better yet, where do I want to place myself?

    Thinking this way doesn’t really change anything — I’m still mystified and repulsed by these staggeringly bizarre theories — but it helps me stay open and hold my anger (of the retaliatory, unhelpful sort) in check.

    These conspiracy theories (and all the other accompanying dangerous and damaging ideologies) aren’t going away any time soon, so if you have any brilliant insights for how to cope and/or confront them, tell me. I need help figuring this out.

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.14.19), through the kitchen window, quick fruit cobbler, starting today.

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  • the coronavirus diaries: week 45

    January 13, 2021

    Up until now, Covid has felt dangerous and real, but also distant.

    Not anymore. 

    Yesterday, a healthy father of four — a man that my husband has worked with and whose family lives just a few miles from us — died from Covid. Just down the road, there is now a wife without a husband and four children without a father, and an entire community is stunned, reeling with heartbreak and rage. The collective grief hangs heavy. 

    Over the last year, it’s seemed that the people who got Covid were hush-hush about it. I figured their secretiveness had to do with confidentiality, but then a friend who tested positive posted an article about the stigma of Covid. 

    Apparently, there’s a shame component to getting the virus — people who get it are often viewed as having done something wrong and are therefore blamed for their illness. Which is ridiculous: some of the most careful, responsible people have contracted the virus while others who’ve blatantly disregarded every precaution have been just fine. 

    Bottom line: toss the shame and share the symptoms, says the article. Covid is real — and it’s random (five members of our friend’s family tested positive, and he was the only one who had a cough, and he didn’t develop a fever until after he was in the hospital) — and the more we talk about it, frankly and openly, the better we can care for ourselves and each other. 

    What with the sky-high numbers, cold weather, over-crowded hospitals, slow vaccine rollout, this new, highly-contagious strain of the virus, and now this devastating death in our community, it feels like we’re fast approaching a whole new level of the pandemic. Almost daily, I learn about another friend, or friend of a friend, who has tested positive. It’s sobering.

    No, scratch that. It’s terrifying. 

    Choices we’ve made that have, up until now, felt like reasonable risk may soon cross the line to dangerous. As a family, we’re beginning to talk about these next few months and the changes we may need to make to stay safe. 

    One small ray of hope: my older son — because he’s a volunteer for the rescue squad — qualified for the Covid vaccine. One down, one to go. I am so grateful. 

    photo credits: my younger daughter

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.13.20), full house, scandinavian sweet buns, homemade lard, the quotidian (1.11.16), cranberry bread, the quotidian (1.13.13), roll and twist, vanilla cream cheese braids, rum raisin shortbread, cranberry relish.

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