I could

I could write about the process of having a bathroom redone and begging neighbours to use their toilet and shower while a fine layer of whatever horror is hiding in the bathroom floor sifts down to the kitchen surfaces below in a fine and steady pace.

Or I could write about how winter has somehow returned in full force and the accompanying winds are blowing over our house with a maddening wail that never stops.  Seriously, it’s like that chapter in Little House on the Prairie where she describes the constant howl of the wind driving women to kill themselves with the noise and the constant dust.

Or I could write about our prenatal class which is turning out to be a very expensive meet and greet and not much else.

Or I could write about being almost at the end of this first pregnancy and some lofty ‘what I learned’ moments that make me sound like I am calm and prepared.

Or I could write about pelvic pain and falling asleep drooling in my chair and discharge and excess hair growth and all the related glamour of pregnancy.

I could.

The thing about being pregnant, much like getting married, is that it is a private decision and process gone through very publicly.  Pregnancy much more so than weddings, but I think you see my point.

The thing about being a writer is that every moment and life experience is fodder for textual documentation and consumption.  Every life moment is an opportunity to connect with someone else that will read my take on the mundane and either find something relateable or not.  Again, private moments and feelings and reaction documented on a public stage.

I love writing bits for this space and while I have shared some bits that might be considered in the realm of ‘too much information,’ I haven’t shared much about either my wedding or my pregnancy.  Sure there are bits here and there and a few funny (hopefully) and cynical and maybe even honest observations but on the whole I have kept the core of these events to myself.

Maybe it’s because of the private/public nature of these events.  Being pregnant offers one up to the public eye more than any decision I have made thus far in life.  Writing about it in detail would open up yet another avenue.  I’m not really up for that.

Despite my complaints this pregnancy has been by the book, physically speaking.  No problems or concerns beyond the usual ‘charming’ niggles of growing a human.  Psychologically, on the other hand, it has been a bit of a battlefield. A private and often terrifying battlefield looming ahead.  There's no getting away from it.  You're going over the top with no guarantee of how it will all go down.


I could say my decision to move abroad with no plan or valid visa was a courageous leap of faith. Or driving into a blizzard with a motorhome to join the circus alone with no real plan beyond driving took courage and resolve.  Or eating the food in Morocco was a real test of bravery.

This trumps them all.

I could write about how I am finding the courage to face each day as I get closer and closer to the fateful day of the big push and becoming a mother.

I could.  I probably won't.


I will say, I could really go for a bath.

Ivy Women

I was the third granddaughter to get married.  
I was the third granddaughter to carry the ring down the aisle.  
I was the first to carry her mother's ring down the aisle.  

I was the first granddaughter to get married.  
I was the only granddaughter.
I carried her ivy down the aisle.  
The same ivy she carried down the aisle, and after, to each garden. 

After, I left the ivy at her grave.  The same grave I took ivy from after she died.  



photo by Genevieve Nisly

To thine own chocolate be true

I decided to finish the cake on a Demon Day.  Most people call it PMS or hormonal days. For me it's a Demon Day because when hormones, the housewife itch and my dramatic Sicilian tendencies mix, my husband hides in the lounge watching Formula 1 at unnecessarily loud levels.  If he has to cross my line of sight, he does it quietly like a mouse trying to get across the room with a sleeping cat (tail twitching) laying right in front of the mouse hole.  He's smart.  He's adapted.  It was the perfect day to make chocolate ganache from scratch. 




Let's back up.  The reason I decided to finish this particular cake on this particular day is because of our wedding.  On our wedding day I didn't get to eat my wedding cake.  I had the two ceremonial bites during the cake cutting portion of the evening (and also managed to drop one of those bites down my cleavage, a moment forever captured on the wedding video. Our vows didn't make it on film, but the classy cake cleavage was captured in full Technicolor with accompanying narration).  By the time I made it back to my table, the piece of cake waiting for me had been cleared.  


Last year for our first anniversary I made a small replica of our wedding cake.  I figured we had redone our wedding photos, redone our honeymoon, why not redo the cake fiasco.  I was also a little sad that, again, I would miss out on my wedding cake since the top tier was in a freezer in Cleveland and we were in London.  Dammit! I was going to have some cake!!! Last year it went relatively swimmingly, the frosting was a bit crumby, but it was brilliant. And so large and rich we had to cut it up into chunks to freeze.  We ate the last bit a few weeks ago.  


So as this anniversary approached, I prepared to do it again.  The actual baking went fine.  I make it a few days early as it only gets better with age.  It was the assembly that went tits up. In fact I woke up that day with sore tits, I should have known it wasn't the day to mess with chocolate and cream.  




I retrieved the fancy French chocolate I decided on for the ganache and got to work. Breaking it up with my mezzaluna knife, I was feeling very smug and assured in my ability to make this concoction from scratch and memory. The melting and gently folding begins and right away something is wrong.  The chocolate is melting in a gritty fashion.  Hmm, well, it is French, maybe it melts gritty and then emulsifies in to a beautiful smooth ribbon. 


No, it starts to release oil.  Oil!  What the F**k!!  All my domestic bliss and superiority begins to disappear and I start to feel the ugly cry bubbling up.  I take a few deep breaths trying to contain the completely irrational crying jag that is about to start.  It's just chocolate.  I sprinkle in a little powdered sugar thinking it is like whipping up double cream. Nope.  More oil is released.  Maybe a little raw cocoa powder.  Nope.  It begins to look more and more like something you would find in a diaper than in a beautiful chocolate stout cake.

F**K!!


At this point I start to think about how everything I attempt recently has failed and this is just one more thing to add to the list. This isn't really true, I have actually been having a run of good fortune, but what is a meltdown without letting those irrational hormones take the wheel?! With that ride comes some tears.  Why not? At this point I have lost all sense of reason. 


 F**k it!!


I pour out some of the oil in our kitchen sink,  praying it won't make that particular fixture any worse and let the chocolate slide (slide, like a big oily sh*t) into the glass measuring cup and then into the fridge thinking maybe it will cool and solidify into something usable, but at this point, pretty sure it is just going to be a cold lump of sh*t.  


I retreat to the bathroom to try and get a hold of myself before I lose it and start throwing stuff around the kitchen.  Pete is still sequestered in the lounge with one ear pricked for the pounding footsteps of his wife on the stairs so he can jump to and be the supporting husband.  He's already attempted the half hug, 'there, there' move which only makes me more frustrated because it is just pointing out that I have become completely irrational when I really just want to ignore that fact.  


Back to the fridge.  The chocolate sh*t has released more oil which is now cooling in a halo of yellow fat.  F**K!!!  


After throwing some utensils around in the sink I decide to head out to the offie and see if they have anything to offer to fix this situation.  I am routinely surprised by their offerings so I am moderately sure they will have something.  


Not today.  Today is not the day.  They have cake mix, but no frosting.  They have everything you might need to concoct an elaborate Indian feast, or just a meal with every known legume, but these Turkish brothers have nothing in the way of cocoa solids or even Betty Crocker frosting.  They have the fancy paste food colouring and three different kinds of yeast, but no baking chocolate. 


They do have Nutella.  I grab a small jar, the Sunday paper and at the last minute some chocolate bars from the candy rack.  


I hand over the change and walk outside.  The sky opens up and I walk the 500 yards back to the flat in pouring rain, dropping everything at least once.  I slam our front door with an expletive and the sun bursts forth.  


Back down to the kitchen I root around in the baking cabinet and find a small bag of baking chocolate that is probably past its 'best by' date, but what the hell, and break that up with the cheap chocolate bars I bought on impulse.  I'm going to give it one more go before I resort to the Nutella.  That's when I discover I have a huge glob of oily chocolate on the collar of my sweater and the inside of the apron.  Another glob on my neck.  


That's it.  Just pile it all on.  


At some point I have the fleeting thought, again, that this is just indicative of the past year, but, again, actually it isn't. There is a limit to the melodramatic. (Progress!) And again, I remind myself that while this past year hasn't been the best of my life, it hasn't been one f**k up after another either, even if it feels like it in this moment.  


I check the chocolate sh*t in the fridge one last time in a desperate hope.  It has released even more oil.  Where is it all coming from?  What kind of chocolate is this?  


With all patience and sense leaving me, I throw the cheap chocolate and the old chocolate into the pot with a bit of double cream and dare it to burn.  Just give me an excuse to really lose it.  As I move it gently around the pot (because even in my distress, I somehow have the patience to treat the chocolate with care) it becomes a beautiful smooth ganache.


That puts me in my place.  Who did I think I was, showing off with fancy French baking chocolate? 


I spoon the beautiful brown silk on the first layer, slice off the top of the second layer and suddenly all is right with the world (or so it seems after devouring the largish piece I sliced off).  I still have the buttercream to throw on and if last year is any clue, it won't be pretty, but it's out of a tub so at least I don't have to worry about it separating or going runny.  I don't have enough for a pure white coating but I have a new palette knife so at least it will be evenly spread.  And really, half the reason I am doing this is to have an excuse to use the palette knife. 




Three hours from the start and the cake is done and sitting under a tent of cling film.  I read the morning paper, Pete escaped the worst of the meltdown and the sun is shining.  




Perspective.  
A few years ago I wouldn't be able to tell you the difference between chocolate ganache and chocolate frosting.  I had a better chance of correctly identifying an obscure wrench than a palette or mezzaluna knife, let alone know how to use either.  


Lately I have been in a rut.  In writing, in life, in cooking.  Flying on auto and too distracted to do the work and remember what it was I really enjoyed about cooking, loving, writing.  


The cake was fabulous. 
From beginning to end.  

Another year, another adventure

7 years since we met

6 years living abroad

5 visas between us

4 years of PhD hell

3 years in Greenwich

2 years married

1 statement started it all…

"You have a stubby thumb”

Photo by Genevieve Nisly Photography

The wheel turns...

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

Pesky Photos

This past Valentine's Day I finally finished our Wedding Album.

This sounds impressive. In reality it was just a matter of choosing some photos, stopping by the local photo shop and ordering some prints.

It really should not have taken as long as it did. However, you may recall I had a severe, almost allergic, reaction to my wedding photos which lasted over a year.

Our anniversary re-do shoot went a long way towards curing the reaction. However, the wedding isn't going away and it was time to deal with the photographic evidence. It wasn't exactly what I wanted and I still have some regrets about the way the day went, but that's the way the cookie crumbles, right? Weddings are what they are and those who choose to have one will always have stories. This next statement may upset a few of my readers, but I am sceptical of people claiming to love every moment of their wedding. I think it is more a case of rose-tinted hindsight in an effort to not seem ungrateful or whatever. But that's just my view through my puce-tinged hindsight. (I kid, I kid.)

About a week before the Day of Hearts, I pulled down the box of wedding proofs and started flipping through the hundreds of photos.

To my surprise, it wasn't a painful experience at all. In fact, I managed to find quite a few that I actually really liked and could stand looking at for more than a few seconds.

But this post isn't about the miraculous-changing-wedding-photos. It's about time and perspective and mental clarity. I think. We'll see where this goes. (Just in case it goes a little off course, I'm scattering some not-too-shabby wedding photos to keep you interested/distracted.)

A few weeks ago I stated that my life was fantastic. Fabulous, even. I probably scared a few people off with such a gloating statement. I wasn't gloating, I was reaffirming. Sometimes I have to remind myself of just how great life can be. It is so easy to get stuck under the little things. I get very stuck.

That's not to say that we haven't worked for this life we are enjoying. Yes there is privilege in that we were born in the 'developed world' and we were fortunate enough to have the opportunity to endure higher education. That isn't unique, really. I am not unaware of our privilege, but I do tire of constantly feeling and being apologetic for my situation in an effort to not seem shallow or unaware of the state of the world.

I'm over it. I do my part for the planet and the human race where and when I can, but I am over feeling apologetic for the life and lifestyle I enjoy.

However, it is still a bit of a yoke around my neck.

I am spoiled with a romantic backstory and sometimes I get stuck in thinking that it affords me continued cinematic experiences. I have a tendency to wait until the perfect moment arrives to act. I waste a lot of time waiting for the planets to align and a booming voice from the sky or more likely a peppy voice from an impossibly cute, yet hilarious, anthropomorphic woodland creature to tell me, "This, This is it. This is the perfect moment."

Too dramatic?

I have used up my quota of cinematic, storybook moments. This past year was a lot of realising that those cinematic moments are directed. They are not spontaneous. Even our romantic backstory was directed, in some form, by my best friend. Fate, serendipity, chance, what have you, played a minor role, but Magen, a fair bit of alcohol and a lot of paperwork did the heavy lifting.

I have come to the conclusion that it is time to get back to work. I needed a break. My head and body were done. I needed to re-boot. A few things were lost in the re-boot and a few discovered.

Mainly, I discovered the experience of achieving Doctor-hood completely cured me of career ambitions. In some ways it seems a waste. In others, it was a means to an end.

In the course of my studies, I created the opportunity to run away to the circus, climb a web, stand on the back of running horse and, my most desperate childhood desire, ride an elephant as a showgirl under the stars of a big top. My husband had the opportunity to step into the cage and take a gorgeous tiger through its paces. A dream he didn't even know he had until that moment.

These experiences were not a waste. And as unbelievable and effortless as they seemed at the time, they required an incredible amount of work and direction to achieve.

So I am ready to get back to work.

But I have to be honest with myself.

I don't really know how to work anymore, in the conventional sense. I have been a student for so long, I don't really know how to take charge of my own work. I don't know how to direct my energy in a productive manner. I don't know how to stay on task without looming deadlines and snarky comments from advisors. I don't know how to get out of bed at the same time every day, get dressed and get to work.

I don't even know how to look for work. The last time I looked for work outside of academia it was with paper resume and cover letters sent through the mail and follow-up calls. Now it is online sites and forms, recruiters, form rejection emails (or no emails at all) and a lot of acronyms.

Admittedly, the last time I looked for work I lived in Cleveland, OH and Lexington, KY and not one of the biggest cities in the world....

Where am I going with this? How does it all link back to those pesky little wedding photos?

I don't know.

Perspective? Maybe.

Giving yourself a break? No, that can't be it.

I guess it can be about the reality of great moments.

They aren't stage managed, are they? My two greatest moments in life were very quiet and unexpected. Neither occurred on my wedding day (not to worry, one is the moment I knew Pete was for me) and in fact I didn't realise they were great moments until after the fact. And while the moments themselves were not planned there was a lot of planning that went into getting me to that place and time.

The wedding photos remind me that great life moments cannot be stage managed. However, that doesn't mean we stop planning and working. It is the work and planning that bring about the opportunity for great happiness and emotion.

The mundane stuff that happens in-between those moments can be pretty great too.

wedding photos by Genevieve Nisly

Here, There and Everywhere

Remember about a week ago I briefly mentioned I had learned a lot about being a wife over the last year?  Most of those lessons I will keep between Pete and I, but one thing I will share with you. 

It took me a year to get over my wedding. 

My wedding was beautiful and romantic and involved an around-the-world-ticket and two receptions.  However, as those of you that have planned a wedding well know, much of the wedding is about your family and a little bit is about you.  This was true of our wedding, for a number of reasons (most of which are personal and will stay that way).  So when I look back on my wedding, I don’t get nostalgic and weepy.  I feel exhausted.  Much like I did during the four-week extravaganza that was our world-wedding-tour.    

Those feelings have followed me for the past year.  We didn’t immediately live ‘happy ever after.’  A job fell through and subsequent jobs kept falling through and, as my regular readers know, I fell into another bought of depression (which I was barely keeping at bay throughout the end of the doctorate and wedding). 

As our anniversary approached, I felt a bit deflated.  I didn’t want to revisit ‘that’ day.  To be honest, I remember very little of the day.  But I did want to celebrate the life Pete and I have started to build in our little corner of London.  When we were planning the wedding, we lived in a northern suburb in a basement flat with tiny windows and a mould problem.  We weren’t going to have the wedding in Britain because we didn’t plan on being there for long.  A few months before the wedding, we moved to beautiful Greenwich.  It is a place we love and feel very much at home.  It is the place we officially started our new family and we are slowly building a place for ourselves here.  It feels great.  And, we frequently wish we had got married here. 

Which brings me to why some of you might be here in the first place.  I arranged for us to re-do our ‘I do.’  Sorta.  We put on our favourite bits of wedding gear (minus my fabulous fascinator) and had a date in our favourite place to celebrate the end of a tough year and a shift in our family focus.  This was a celebration of our new family.  Just us and our favourite place.*

And we brought a photographer along with us. 

You can see the best of the day over at our photographer's blog.  Dasha was lovely and suffered through one of the hottest days of the year to give us these great shots.  The best part?  Greenwich was teeming with people for the Greenwich/Dockland International Festival.  You would never know.  She managed to make it look like we had the place entirely to ourselves**.  Just like we felt on the day. 

I feel a new lightness in my head. I feel possibility. I have moved on from my wedding day and, hopefully, my difficult year and I will remember this week on my next anniversary and leave the exhaustion and fogginess of the 'real wedding.'




*Obviously, Africa will always be one of our favourite places, as will Istanbul. But the travel involved was a bit too much for the last minute photo shoot.  And this is about our present and future.

**A huge thank you to Dasha and Exhibit Emotions for jumping on board with a last minute request and creating such great memories for us. 

To lead a better life...

I need my love to be here...

photo by Genevieve Nisly