A Satisfying Spice

Dish courtesy of Sunbird Kitchen.

Tokyo turnips with xo sauce, chili oil, toasted quinoa and nasturtium flowers. It’s like stepping into a hot bath. The chili oil burns my mouth at first, but I let it linger on my tongue. I breathe and feel my sinuses clear. The juicy Tokyo turnips give respite from the spice. I sink in deeper. The Hinona Kabu turnips taste similar to radishes, and pair well with the nasturtium flowers. They add a peppery flavor, which compliments the subtle saltiness of the xo sauce––a caramelized shellfish and meat sauce. Surprisingly the xo sauce is my favorite part of the dish. After I finish eating, I wipe my mouth. My lips feel slightly numb, but I don’t try to neutralize the spice with dairy. It’s a satisfying spice.

This summer I’m lucky to be working at Sunbird, a local café in Orleans, MA that serves intentional dishes for mindful eating––carefully selected ingredients, thoughtful preparation, and considerate presentation. The kitchen sources their ingredients from local farmers–the turnips in the above dish are from Chatham Brews Inn (CBI) Farm in Brewster–and the menu changes depending on what’s in season. Above is a new dish I tried last week, after chatting extensively with one of the chefs about the turnips and the kitchen’s plan for them. Through inquiring about, tasting, and selling the food we serve I’m learning to trust what ingredients a chef pairs together. In many of my past experiences as a customer at restaurants, I've been particular about how I want my food prepared, what ingredients can be left out, and can I please substitute this ingredient for that one? Although I would not voluntarily add chili oil to the dish, my experience with the dish wouldn’t have been the same without it.

Dish courtesy of Sunbird Kitchen.
Meatballs with harissa yogurt, ricotta salata, dill, and mint. A Moroccan-inspired dish––harissa, dill, and
mint are all common in Morocco. It's not as heavy as meatballs and marinara, and the aftertaste reminds me
of spicy chorizo sausage. The dill, meatballs, and ricotta salata compliment each other well.

Through my work at Sunbird, I'm rekindling a joyous relationship with food. I respect the entire experience of a meal, from selecting the ingredients to washing the dishes after. Inspired by my work at Sunbird, I’ve been experimenting in my own kitchen a lot this summer. Here are some highlights:

1. 

   Lettuce, garden veggie burger, crumbled smoked gouda cheese,
   cucumbers, sautéed carrots and kale, hummus, Braggs dressing.  

   Melted gouda cheese on a garden veggie or portabella burger. Just trust me.
2. Mixing fresh veggies with sautéed veggies adds interesting temperature and texture to a salad.
3. Fresh mint counterbalances spicy and fishy flavors.
4. Herbs are most flavorful when kept raw. Thank you, Sunbird Kitchen.
5. Fresh mint and dill compliment each other.
6. Pickled turnips.
7. Braggs dressing, sesame ginger tofu, and sea beans. The combination of flavors reminds me of sushi.

   

   Lettuce, sesame ginger tofu, sea beans, cucumbers, egg yolk,
   hummus, parsley, Braggs dressing. 

8. Fresh parsley on hummus. It echoes the traditional tabouli and hummus combination. This is best when hummus is the main feature of the dish––otherwise the hummus can overpower the dish.
9. Fish sauce. I've had it in three different dishes this summer: the butter turnips from Sunbird, kimchi from Sunbird, and crispy brussels sprouts from The Canteen in Provincetown. It's salty, spicy, and satisfying.
10. Poached egg whites. Smoked egg yolks. Fried eggs. Omelets. Sunny side up eggs. Scrambled eggs. I've tried them all this summer.

Lettuce, cucumbers, granny smith apple,
scrambled eggs with kale, carrots, sesame ginger tofu.

My latest creation: Brown rice toast spread with fresh avocado. Topped with two fried eggs,
sautéed mushrooms and onions, salt, pepper, and fresh rosemary. I was proud of this one.


Brown rice toast. Mango and strawberries.
Omelet with goat cheese and sautéed mushrooms, onions, and rosemary. Topped with fresh rosemary.
It's photo worthy because the omelet actually stayed intact when I flipped it. 

When I take the time to cook, arrange, eat, and reflect on my food, I'm less likely to jump for the next flavor. I sit back and appreciate what I'm tasting. I’m present. I’m satisfied.

Reasons to Celebrate

*All photos are credited to Ali Brodeur.

It was Day 2 of hiking with my friend Ali in the White Mountains. We were about an hour and a half into the hike, and were yet to see a sign for the Fishin Jimmy trail. We figured we'd have a snack at the junction, but it was taking longer to get to it than we thought, and I just thought a fallen tree was a moose. Finally I saw what I thought was the trailhead.

"Celebration junction!" I cried. It's a tradition Ali learned from her prior basketball coaches, who she hikes with a lot. Whenever you come to a junction in the path, you shout, "Celebration junction!" and click your hiking poles together or clap. It's a morale booster. It turns out, though, that what I thought was a trailhead was actually just a sign for a stream. We decided to celebrate anyway, and from that point on celebrated at every landmark we recognized from our White Mountain guide book.

Ali and I said many cheers on our hike. We toasted with brownies, PB&Js, and cinnamon raisin bagels. We took selfies at every lookout and high-fived at each summit. The hiking trip itself was a sort of junction celebration. We both just finished a successful first year at college––schools that we chose, and we're both happy with our choices.

I think about how anxious and nostalgic I was last year at this time. I still feel the nostalgia when I come home to visit, especially when I go back to see my high school's shows, but I long for my high school life less and am better able to appreciate what I had while embracing where I am now. Last summer, I celebrated my graduation from high school. This summer, I'm celebrating the present moment. There may not be a wooden sign nailed to a tree, but I'm still finding many reasons to celebrate. 

Basking with the Daffodils

I raise my face to the sun with the blooming daffodils on campus. I just had a rejuvenating meeting with my advisor regarding course registration for next semester and negotiating the dynamics of my interests in Communication, English, and Theatre. After much deliberation, I have decided to major in Theatre, with a double-minor in English and Communication––and I want to shout it to the world. Amidst my planner filled with pencil marks is a clearing––a better sense of how I want to shape my education at college, the work I want to produce, and the world I want to be a part of. I crouch down by the daffodils and breathe in the spring air.

Packing My Suitcase for the Future

After going almost nonstop since four o'clock this morning and turning in my English essay 15 minutes before it was due, I finally had the opportunity at five o'clock this evening to sit on the hill, drink Happy Belly tea, eat some of Mom's homemade cookies that arrived in the mail today, and read heartfelt quotes from Brian Andreas' book, Trusting Soul. The book is filled with rough sketches of people and quotes about uncertainty, change, growing up, and other ideas related to trust and the future. In the introduction to his book, he writes,

The future is what you bring with you & you get to choose. I think of the stories & drawings in this book as the things I have chosen, the suitcase I've packed for the future. It's only the essentials, because I know you'll bring stuff, too. I packed the lilt of a voice, the curve of a neck in laughter, the glance between people who have wrapped up in each other in the soft night. I've put memories of my grandparents & other made-up people because it seemed like they'd be fun to have around. I've thrown in more than enough packages of love & play & chocolate because the future can always use extra of those & I sneaked in a few unexpected gifts, simply because there is no greater joy than an unexpected gift to a trusting soul. (Andreas) 

The things I try to include on my blog are what I've chosen to pack for my future––pictures and quotes and musings and questions and stories and moments that fill me with inspiration and joy. I try to avoid rambling complaints or conclusions that end with bitter emotions, because these aren't what I want to bring along with me in the future. I'd rather leave them behind.

What's even more fun than packing the suitcase is opening it up and sharing it with others, which is why I get such joy out of posting. It's a space for the collective relish of big questions and small moments.

So for you, today, I'm sharing a picture of the autumn trees on campus and one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver.

Morning

Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.
Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum.
The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.
The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.
Then laps the bowl clean.
Then wants to go out into the world
where she leaps lightly and for no apparent reason across the lawn,
then sits, perfectly still, in the grass.
I watch her a little while, thinking:
what more could I do with wild words?
I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her.
I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.

***

What will you pack in your suitcase?

"...will grow and prosper wherever planted"

I’m going to college! After nearly a month of stressing about where I’m going to go next year, I am excited to announce that I am officially a member of Denison University Class of 2019. I think I knew where I wanted to go these past few weeks, but I had to come to the decision on my own terms in my own way––with thorough contemplation, heavy analysis, and lots of symbolism.

My college mascots: Clifford the Big Red Dog (Denison's mascot is "Big Red") with the ever-faithful Olaf the Snowman, donning a new Denison pin. The two of them remind me of Snoopy and Woodstock. 

Up until yesterday afternoon, I was torn between Denison University in Ohio and St. Olaf College in Minnesota. I had several moments when I nearly decided on Denison, but then I panicked at the thought of actually committing to one place. 

I always imagined myself at a place like St. Olaf. St. Olaf is me in a college––group conversations about favorite soup flavors, warm sweaters, cozy spots by the fireplace, an Olaf stuffed animal, homestyle meals, a dry campus, heavy on the arts, and not so big on sports. Looking on the Facebook page, nearly every student was into the arts in some way, and that was enticing and comforting.

I never imagined myself at a place like Denison. I only applied because I attended the Reynolds Writing Workshop there the summer before my junior year and it’s my stepdad’s family school. I figured if my other colleges didn’t work out, I could see myself being satisfied at Denison. Denison is opposite of who I’ve always defined myself to be––more into sports, the more “typical” college experience (I certainly didn’t have the “typical” high school experience going to a small, project-based charter school), Greek life, and more outward with their accomplishments (as evidenced by their active outreach and promotion). 

I recognized myself at St. Olaf. I didn’t recognize myself at Denison, and that was scary. By going to St. Olaf, I was more sure of what I was going to get, of who I would be. I couldn’t see that so clearly at Denison. From what I gathered, Denison was more diverse in student interests, and while I knew I would find some of "my people" (people into the arts) eventually, it wouldn't be as easy. By going to Denison, I feared that perhaps I was trying to be someone I wasn’t, trying to fit into a more university-style campus (although it has just over 2100 undergraduate students and is by no means a large school). 

Yet there was something exciting about Denison. Before I visited three weeks ago, I was really excited to go on the trip, and I couldn’t understand why. While there, I didn’t find “my people” right away and I was worried about being able to find my place. Yet I liked walking around campus. It was more sprawled out than St. Olaf was. I felt free. It felt like college. I remember feeling somewhat out of body at Denison, as if I was watching myself from afar. I sought out help at the IT office to fix my water-logged computer. I sang karaoke at the coffee house with a Denison student. I talked for almost two hours to another prospective student on the plane ride home, and didn’t even know his name until an hour and a half into the conversation. 

If you’re getting lost in my yo-yoing pros of St. Olaf versus Denison, then you understand a taste of what’s been spinning in my mind these past few weeks. Ultimately, I knew that I could be happy at either school, but that each school would offer me something slightly different. I was trying to figure out what I wanted. 

So let’s backtrack to Sunday, the first major step in my college decision. I woke up feeling deflated and helpless. My inability to make a decision was clouding my focus and making it difficult for me to be present or accomplish anything. I was anxious to get out of the house and get a change of scenery. I messaged my friend Maiel, who is always ready for an adventure, and asked her along for the journey. 

We originally planned on hiking Mt. Monadnock, but as the morning slipped away, that plan got downgraded to Mt. Wachusett and eventually Walden Pond in Concord, MA. We both still had our full hiking gear, complete with backpacks, plenty of water, a day’s worth of snacks, first aid supplies, sunscreen, bug spray, and hiking boots. We were both eager to get away from civilization, which was harder at Walden than if we were climbing to the top of a mountain. We ventured deep into the woods though, eventually finding a stream and following it into an open field by another pond. We sprinted across it, feeling full of life and also slightly rebellious. Ignoring the “No trespassing” sign, we wandered around the pond, and eventually just lay in the field debriefing about life, which naturally for me, involved talking about college.

“The way you’re talking sounds like you want to go to Denison,” Maiel said. 

“I don’t know, I can’t make a decision,” I said, and we soon started our trek back home. On our way, we came across railroad tracks.

Maiel, who also enjoys symbolism, took a poetic approach to them. “You know, railroad tracks are kind of romantic,” she said. “They represent the confinements of society. Society tells you to stay within their rigid path.” 

Continuing with my rebellious feeling, I plopped myself down in the middle of them. (I recognize that to most, my “rebellious” actions of the day may sound pathetic, but they were freeing for me.) Maiel sat down next to me, and we started throwing rocks at the tracks, first one by one, seeing if we could bounce them off the track, and then by the handful, letting them fall where they fell, every rock another decision that we weren’t going to give a damn about and just let happen. 

“Alright, now what you’re going to do is take this big rock, and throw it up into the air,” Maiel said, drawing a line with her foot in the tracks. “This side is Denison, and this side is St. Olaf. Wherever the rock lands, is where you’re going to go to college.” She hid behind the fence a good ten feet away so I wouldn’t impale her with the symbolism, and I threw the rock.

But the story doesn’t end here, because the rock fell on the St. Olaf side. (Besides, while I may have been feeling freer than usual, I’m not someone who can just let what could be a coincidence make my decision.) 

“How do you feel?” Maiel asked.

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “I could be happy at either place!” 

And I ran off the tracks and we continued our journey home, venturing off the trails some more, climbing trees, and trying to get as much outside ourselves as possible.

As we started making our way back to the car, I plopped myself down in the sand by the pond. “I don’t want to go home until I make a decision,” I said. “At home, there’s too much external influence. My mind is too cluttered.” 

I was absent-mindedly playing in the sand for awhile when–"Stop!" Maiel shouted.

“What?”

“You just made a D in the sand,” she said.

“Really?”

“You were starting to make an O, and I was about to say, 'I wish D’s and O’s didn’t look so similar,' but then the O went away and you started to make a line and then you made the D.”

A slightly more defined version of what I drew. 

“I think it’s Denison,” I said, suddenly feeling sure.

“Really?”

“Yes. But I can’t go home, because I know I’ll start second-guessing myself. I need to stay out of my house.” 

We went back to her house and made dinner, and characteristic of me, over the course of the next few hours I started questioning my decision. It was 10:30 at night, and I was once again feeling stuck. 

“I’m not leaving your house until I can call my mom with a decision about where I’m going to college next year,” I said. 

“Do you need some wine? Do you need to get drunk to clear your head?” Maiel joked.

“No. I need fresh air,” I said. We went outside on her porch and I leaned over the railing, trying to imagine myself at each school and seeing how I felt, like what Mom used to make me do when I couldn’t figure out which stuffed animal I wanted to buy in the store.

“What’s your soul telling you?” Maiel asked after a few minutes.

“It’s telling me that St. Olaf is comfortable and is warm sweaters and my cousin Rachel and an Olaf stuffed animal. And Denison is scary and new and exciting.”

“And what do you want?” she prompted.

“Denison.”

“Really?” 

“Yes.” 

I left as quick as I could after that, anxious to call my mom before the doubt kicked back in. I called her in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, not wanting to risk the doubt that might sink in when I got home. I told her my decision, my tone scared, confident and excited.

That night, I felt the lightest I’d felt in a long time. I found my Clifford the Big Red Dog stuffed animal in the attic (Denison’s mascot is “Big Red”), and threw on my Denison sweatshirt. I danced, skipped, and ran around my neighborhood twice, smiling so much it hurt and crying because it was the first time I could really see my future. I laid on the grass for awhile, looking at the stars, and slept a sound 10 hours that night.

And then I woke up in the morning, panicked. All day Monday I was mopey and unsure. I started reconsidering St. Olaf and was leaning more towards there, even though we had a “Denison celebratory dinner” with burgers (Ohio has lots of farms and therefore good, grass-fed beef) and fries and chocolate shakes. On Tuesday, I went for a run with my childhood friend Coltin around Walden Pond and then out to breakfast, and I talked both of our heads in circles about which school I wanted to go to. We went back to his dad’s house and he was fixing his car. There was part of me that said I should get back home to work on memorizing songs for the musical Rent, but there was part of me that just wanted to stay and watch him work on his car, because that was new and exciting. There wasn’t much for me to do though, so I ended up leaving.

On my way back, I passed a flower stand and decided I really wanted flowers. What I originally wanted was magnolia flowers, a la the line in Carrie Underwood’s song “Crazy Dreamer,” “Hello you wild magnolias, just waiting to bloom.” But magnolias grow on trees, and even if I had the space to plant a new tree, the flower stand didn’t have any magnolia seedlings. I realized what I really wanted to do was plant something, so I went to O’Connor’s Hardware Store and bought a packet of wildflower seeds.

It’s then I made my decision. I would go to Denison, where I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to get. I chose this particular packet of wildflower seeds for two reasons: one, because it didn’t specify the types of flowers that even could grow, and two, because of the line on the back of the packet,

"The large selection insures that many varieties will grow and prosper wherever planted and reseed themselves each year." 

I, too, will grow and prosper wherever I’m planted, and I like the idea that I’m not sure what I’ll look like in full bloom.

I bought the seeds and drove home blaring Taylor Swift’s song “22." Luckily no one was home. I ran upstairs to my room, grabbed my checkbook and Denison acceptance packet, looked up how to write a check, and got out of the house as fast as I could to drive to the post office to mail my $300 deposit before anyone could get home and see what I was doing.

When I got to the post office, I slowed down my brain enough to fully recognize what I was doing and accept that. I didn’t want to make a rash decision, although I was purposefully keeping myself moving forward to stop myself from going into another circle of indecision. I asked a nice man at the post office to look over my deposit check and make sure I signed it correctly, and he told me to add the two 0’s over the 100 after the words "Three hundred" to indicate that it was $300 even. After quadruple-checking the check and enrollment card, I sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the blue mailbox where I couldn’t reach in and change my mind.

Turning around, I saw a girl I used to sing in the choir with that I hadn’t seen in years. 

“I just mailed my deposit into college!” I said, eager to tell someone.

“Where are you going?” she asked. 

“Denison University!” I exclaimed. She was the first person I told.

“Congratulations! My friend’s a junior and he was just touring there today,” she said.

I drove to Bedford Farms ice cream to get sugar cones because we had chocolate coconut-milk ice cream and chocolate Jimmies at home, and I wanted a celebratory ice cream cone. The girl behind the counter gave me six cones for free, because she couldn’t find a button for “just cones” in the register. I gave her a nice tip, and then turned back at the door to say, “I just enrolled to college!” 

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Denison University!” 

“My friend will be a freshman there this fall and will be playing baseball!” she said. I was ecstatic––two people within a half hour who knew someone either attending or looking to attend Denison.

I wanted to share the joy. I drove back past my house to Market Basket to get a gallon of chocolate ice cream, and then finally drove home. I nonchalantly put the ice cream and cones away, and asked my stepdad where I could plant some wildflowers. I planted my seeds, digging my hands in the dirt and getting it under my fingernails, usually not one to enjoy dirty hands but loving the fresh earth scent. When my mom finished with her client, I gathered my family in the living room and announced my decision, and we all had ice cream cones. Shortly after I went for a walk and called my dad to tell him, and as I was finishing my walk I passed my childhood friend Bella’s house. Eager to tell someone else, I knocked on her door but didn’t wait for her to let me in.

“I’m going to college!” I shouted. I stayed for dinner and we hung out for almost two hours, which we haven’t done in a long time.

I’m writing all of this today, the day after, because I needed the time to process it all for myself. I didn’t post my college decision on Facebook yesterday, or tell all my friends and family. I didn’t wear my Denison sweatshirt to bed or drink out of my Denison mug. It would’ve been too overwhelming. I actually avoided packing a lot of red for my New York trip this week. I had my initial excitement, and now I need to process it. It reminds me of how I felt after my first date freshman year. I had my initial giddy excitement when I was first asked on the date, and then afterwards I was more quiet but feeling very content and fulfilled. That’s how I feel now.

I had another moment of self-doubt last night, questioning whether I'm trying to be someone I’m not by going to Denison. I don’t know what I’m going to get at Denison, like I don’t know what’s going to grow in my wildflower garden. And I feel okay. I will bring my sweaters and stuffed animals and love of theatre to Denison, but I will also be given the space to grow in an environment where I'm not surrounded by my familiar tastes. 

I usually like being in control and knowing what's next, but I also like what happens when I’m out of control. I let myself be free and let what happens, happen. It’s how I fell in love this year with a boy two years my junior. It’s in those out of control moments that I surprise myself. I venture outside of who I’ve defined myself to be, and I grow. 

Time to Fly

It's been over a week now since my high school's winter musical, "In the Heights," ended, and I'm still listening to the soundtrack, wishing that I could hear the voices of my fellow cast members sing the songs instead. Even after four months of listening to the same music, I'm not sick of it. I'm sick for it. I would give anything to be back in Washington Heights.

"Post-show depression" is not uncommon for myself, or any actor. After spending four months working with a cast, connected with characters, lost in another world, it can be hard to come back to reality. I find love is more natural on the stage. I'm so much more comfortable on the stage. Life is so much easier on the stage.

And then there comes the time to leave it all behind. And suddenly everything I've been working on for four months–the relationships I've worked to developed, the notes I've strived to hit, the accents I've perfected–is gone. As Prospero reflects in Shakespeare's The Tempest, "We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounding with a sleep." Many people link Prospero with Shakespeare himself in The Tempest (Shakespeare's final play), particularly in this monologue. Shakespeare spent his entire life creating illusions that disappear at the end of the final act. The magic of his plays exists not in the text we hold in our hands but in the life the actors bring to them, and that life is not tangible. At the end of the play, we are left with a few good memories that may eventually fade and some props for keepsakes. How can one not come out feeling depressed?

This show in particular is a hard one to let go of. It's a story about community and home, and being able to share this story with a group who I have found a home with was an incredible experience. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the story, In the Heights focuses on the Latino community in Washington Heights, New York. The playwright Lin-Manuel Miranda commented that it was one of the first plays where Latinos weren't portrayed as servants or in a gang, but in their relationships with each other. Everyone in the story dreams of getting out of the barrio and making something of themselves. Ultimately, they realize they have been home all along.

Above is my much-loved script, dog-eared and bookmarked and filled with scribbled stage directions and character notes. Even my friend Alex, who never ceases to find amusement in stealing my things, knows that my script is not one to be tampered with by others. I remember sitting at the lunch table the day I got my script, highlighting my lines and music for my dream role: Nina. 

Nina Rosario is the one who makes it out of the barrio. At the start of the play, she is returning from her first year at Stanford University with some surprising news: she dropped out. The girl who always seemed to have it together, who "always made the grade," and who spent her whole life trying to go farther, feels like she failed. And she doesn't know how to tell everyone.

Nina is the most close-to-home character I've played so far. My prior leads–Ms. Wiz in The Wiz and Rizzo in Grease–required me to stretch my acting to become someone almost completely opposite of who I am. Nina is more genuine, and I found the line dividing myself from Nina to be very thin. I understand the pressure to succeed, the pressure to make it look like you have it together, the stubbornness to admit you don't know what you're doing. I felt it nearly every moment with this show. Nina's role is more vocally demanding than the roles I have had in the past. Mandy Gonzalez–who originated the role on Broadway–has a killer belt, and every time I listened to her sing, I felt self-conscious that I could never perform Nina as well. Every show, there is some prop or costume piece that helps me connect with my character. For this show, it was a butterfly.

My first exposure to the butterfly was this journal I purchased a few years ago with the proverb, "Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly." I didn't think much about the symbolism behind it, though, until my friend Liv gave me the butterfly Alex & Ani bracelet for my birthday in November.

Like every Alex & Ani bracelet, there was a brief description of the symbolism of the charm. The butterfly symbolism read as following: "A regenerative species, butterflies consistently transition from caterpillar to cocoon to butterfly. Giving us faith in change, the butterfly is associated with unwavering grace, soulful insight, and eloquence on our journey. Channel the energy of the butterfly and emerge brilliantly from your own transformation." 

When I saw Mandy Gonzalez wearing a butterfly shirt on Broadway, I knew the butterfly was my symbol for Nina. "It all makes sense!" I thought. "Nina is transitioning to find her place in this world. I'm transitioning to find my place. And I must transition to find my voice through Nina." Thus began my butterfly obsession. After browsing through every store in the mall and thirty different internet sites, I finally commissioned my stepdad, who's an artist, to paint one for me. 

And for Valentine's Day, my mom bought me two pairs of butterfly underwear. (Considering I had four nights of performances, I did a load of laundry every night to make sure I had clean underwear for every performance.)

I cannot remember loving a character more than I loved Nina. I worked tirelessly on her character, trying to find my voice in her songs. I will always remember that Saturday rehearsal when the music director approached me and said, "Something changed. When's the last time you listened to Mandy Gonzalez?" I told him it had been over a month. "You can tell. That was fucking gorgeous." And then I remember the Monday after that when I went to my voice teacher and she ripped apart the song, which I know ultimately made it better. I will always remember that moment on stage when I started crying during one of my songs because I connected with Nina so much, and I felt her pain. 

Every character I have ever played has taught me something new. Ms. Wiz helped me be confident. Rizzo taught me that no matter who I meet, I can always find some way to connect to them. Nina helped me find my voice, and I am so grateful to the casting team for giving me the opportunity to perform this role.

Tomorrow I have auditions for the spring play. It's time for me to take flight from Washington Heights, but I will always wear my butterfly charm as a reminder to let my voice be heard. 

Elvis Alive and Shrugging Shoulders

Blues musicians, newsboy caps, long hair and tattoos. Bar stools and comfy cushions. String instruments I've never seen before. Shrugging shoulders and eyes closed, he feels the music––sings about a lasting love, a little boy sitting on his mother's knee. Yard sale tables and chairs, collaged and painted and glossed over from three different homes. Chinese lanterns, apple picking baskets, and a blue and green water pail. I sip "Elvis Alive" in a jar, pick apart my "Adventurer" filling bowl like I would a pomegranate. I love color in my food. I love the red beets that dye the corn pink, the avocados sliced like cantaloupe, the bright steamed kale, the curly cue legume sprouts like green baby heads with a single curl in their hair.

After a stressful week of school, all I need is good food and a quirky place––Life Alive. It's a small vegetarian restaurant in downtown Lowell, and it never fails to leave me fulfilled––both mentally and physically. It's a place where I just want to write, but never know where to start. I think I need to pick a corner to write about every time I go. There's too much to capture all at once. Life Alive is someplace you go on a date, or after a workout, or just out on a Friday night by yourself with eyebrows red from waxing while you wait to pick up your younger brother at a party. It's someplace you want to dress up in gauchos and tie-dye T-shirts and bandanas. And the best part? Every table has a ceramic pitcher of water, like the bread baskets most restaurants serve. I like the ceramic pitchers better.

Behind the Scenes

I park at the lodge down the street from the theatre. On average, it only takes me two tries to park now. I put my red Denison water bottle in the side pocket of my backpack, throw it on my shoulders, and warm up my voice as I walk. I know the front entrance is closer than the back door, but I always go through the backdoor. 

Anyone can use the front entrance...only the cast and crew can use the back entrance. I like to take advantage of this. 

I walk into the dressing room, find my costume hanging on the rack.

Amidst all the chaos on the counter, I find a spot to set my makeup. 

I've never had a real dressing room before. Sure, most of the lightbulbs surrounding the mirror may be burnt out, but I feel like a movie star. 

Over the course of the hour, the rest of the cast floats in. Next to the clock is Gerome the Squirrel. Apparently he has made an appearance in many Academy Playhouse productions. Fantine dedicates "I Dreamed A Dream" every night to him. 

7:15 comes around and we report to the stage for vocal warm-ups and notes. The barricade boys practice lifting Eponine after she dies, just for good measure. We review the cart crash scene to make it look like Fauchelevent actually got ran over by it, instead of casually placed underneath. The boys practice tossing the flag without hitting anyone in the audience.

7:30 now...10 minutes until pre-set for those who enter stage left. We file downstairs, chattering about how many people are in the audience, quoting Spongebob Squarepants, obsessing over Harry Potter. Thénardier grabs his pre-show Cliff bar. Everyone takes dibs on revolution cupcakes. Our costume manager glares at us from the corner, just daring us to get chocolate frosting on her King Richard's Fair costumes. 

In the past, I was always so serious about being in character from the moment I put on my costume until the moment I take it off. But with this performance, I've come to realize that it's okay to relax a little. In fact, I perform better when I do. It's also okay to bend some of the "rules." When I would perform in my school productions, the performance would take up my entire life during dress rehearsal week. I hardly talked to anyone to save my voice. I didn't eat dairy for a week (it's bad for your voice). It was the only thing on my mind all the time.

But I can't do that with 28 performances...at least not without sacrificing my sanity. I have learned how to balance a performance with my everyday life, something that is essential if I ever go on to perform professionally. Most of the adults in the cast work full-time jobs before coming to perform. Somehow they manage.

8:00 now. Our stage manager calls for "places," which means I still have about fifteen minutes until I need to go upstairs. Only now do I turn within myself and focus on my character. I touch up my makeup. Quietly keep my voice warm. Go to the bathroom. Have a mint. Drink water. Adjust my mob cap. 

8:15, I quietly ascend the dimly lit staircase to backstage, all the signatures of past performers illuminated on the cream-colored walls. At the top of the stairs, I look at the floor and think about how my character I just want to be home with my children. I think about the redundancy and misery of my everyday life. The pianist plays the familiar chords of "At the End of the Day" and on cue, I walk into a Montreuil-sur-Mer factory, ready to "graft as long as I'm able." 

This has been my night, six nights a week, since July 24th. 15 performances down...13 more to go. I have done the same thing for fifteen nights now. 

"Maybe we'll actually win the revolution today," we joke backstage.

It's crazy to think that we're counting down the performances now. I can't imagine going back to school and not performing almost every night. At least I have my school musical to keep me busy. I can't be away from the stage for too long. 

Apart from the show I performed in when I was in 5th grade––when I told my director I couldn't make dress rehearsal because of a school presentation––I have never performed on another stage before. My school stage is my home. This stage felt foreign at first. But it didn't take long for me to fall in love with it. 

Tall Like the Mountain

Photo courtesy of Melissa Morris.

The trees become shorter, but I grow taller. The pack digs into my back, my shoulders, my hips. I crawl on hands and knees, wedge the toe of my boot into a crevice. Stay low to the ground, pray I don't slip. We cross a rushing river streaming down from a waterfall. 

Photo courtesy of Melissa Morris.

One person crosses, extends a hand, and waits for the next person to go. We continue like this, extending a hand for each other. Cloud vapor melts on my face like cotton candy, rain drips down my forehead and plasters my stray hairs to my skin. The last quarter mile drags on forever.

Photo courtesy of Melissa Morris.

Finally we spot a chimney over the head of a tall rock––only 100 steps away from a warm hut and food. We are half right. The hut has food but no heat, so we eat to stay warm. Fresh salad with goat cheese and cranberries, chili and rice and green beans with cheese and sour cream and cashews. Warm pumpkin pie for dessert. Homemade bread to munch on. I fill up but still all I can think about is breakfast the next morning. 

Photo courtesy of Melissa Morris.

As an end-of-the-year celebration, my school does something called "Endersession," (it's a made-up word) in which every student selects an activity for the week. I chose hiking in the White Mountains. We set out Tuesday and stayed at a hut near the summit of Mt. Washington. Tuesday, I felt so invincible. We planned to summit Mt. Washington Wednesday, and hike along the presidential range and stay at another hut. Alas, the mountain reminded us who was the almighty. It trapped us in the hut Wednesday, forcing us to spend another night at our first hut, where we exhausted every card and improv game imaginable.

Photo courtesy of Corey Bova.

The next morning we rose to greet the first sunlight we had seen in nearly 24 hours. We rose at 4:20am, slipped on our boots and rain jackets, and trudged off into the morning mist. We raced against the sunrise (5:04am) and made it in a record fifteen minutes. We crouched behind a giant rock and watched as the sun's rays melted away the gray-blue of a foggy night, and then as it finally peaked its baby's bonnet over Mt. Washington. 

I was so happy to be there without my parents. Here I was, hundreds of miles away, taking life into my own hands and experiencing the world for myself. No cell phone or Facebook calling for my attention. No temptation to see who texted me back or who liked my status. Just me and no one else's opinion of me or expectations of me. 

I know I will find many more mountains to climb in life. Some mountains I will climb solo; some mountains I will climb with others; and some mountains I will carry someone on my back. 

Photo courtesy of Melissa Morris.

As I stood at the bottom of Mt. Washington on Thursday afternoon, I was humbled as I looked at the Cog Railway travelling the vertical distance of the mountain we had just climbed. I remembered when we had stood up there only hours previous, and I felt so tall and regal. Here I was, no longer tall like the mountain or with the mountain, but at the base, reminded of the mountain's majesty. I only have to close my eyes, though, and I will again be standing on its summit, feeling tall and capable of anything. 

Berry Tart Lemonade

Sophomore year...check. Driver's test...check. Summer, here I come!

It's amazing how you don't realize how stressful something is until it's over. As I finished my final homework assignment of the year Thursday night, I felt my body breathe a sigh of relief. But the real relief didn't come until 6:08 this morning, as I pulled out of the RMV...as a newly licensed driver. Hopefully my nights will no longer be filled with overturned vehicles and failure stamps (I actually don't even think they use those on road tests).

I took a leisurely lunch today. I had leftovers from last night's dinner––an avocado BLT flatbread with sweet potato fries. I even took the time to heat up my sandwich and fries in the oven, which is much more satisfactory than the microwave. The fries were certainly less soggy than they would've been if I microwaved them.

But the 77ºF weather and the sun made me crave something more: lemonade. But not the powdered lemonade or even the frozen lemonade; I wanted real, homemade lemonade.

Alas, I only had one and a half lemons and no lemon squeezer. I squeezed the lemons with my hands and got enough juice for one very tart sip. It was time to open the freezer, open the fridge, open all the cupboard doors, and see what I could find.

In the end, I was able to make one tall glass of something I call Berry Tart Lemonade. See the recipe below!

Berry Tart Lemonade (Makes 1 Serving)

1 1/2 lemons, squeezed
1 kiwi, peeled
1/2 cup - 1 cup of frozen berries
Honey
Lemon water (or regular water)

Microwave the frozen berries in a bowl for 90 seconds. This extracts the juices. Blend with the squeezed lemons and peeled kiwi. The lemonade will be very tart. To water it down, gradually add water. (I happened to have a pitcher of lemon water in the fridge, but plain water will do fine.) Add honey for a sweetener. Pour in a glass with ice cubes and taste summer with every sip.

I decorated the glass with a strawberry from our garden. I tried to show its better side in the earlier pictures.

I don't know if you can see it, but a lot of the pulp and seeds floated to the top, leaving the bottom a bit more tart. The separation reminded me of the science experiment with vinegar and oil.

The last thing to do before I ate was set the table. I wiped the glass table on the porch clean of pollen, set a placemat, and set the table for one. I even set out a cloth napkin. Sunscreen applied and sunglasses on, I pulled in my chair and closed my eyes as I savored the taste of summer right around the corner. 

Happy (almost) summer, everyone!

Did you hear the people sing?

We did it. We put on "Les Misérables." "Les Mis"...the musical legend that has swept away the hearts of 56 million people in 45,000 performances worldwide since its 1985 premier...45,000 performances worldwide...42 countries...308 cities...21 different languages...the timeless tale of redemption, forgiveness, love, compassion, humanity, and self-sacrifice.


Our low-budget, lecture hall auditorium, small charter school did it. Some people may have doubted us, but this weekend, people from miles around heard the people sing...four sold-out shows worth.

The last few weeks I have been completely immersed in what I love most: theatre. With that, I have been with some of my favorite people. It was no exaggeration when people joked that we have seen each other more in the last few weeks than we've seen our family.

Today before the last show, a lot of the cast and crew spoke about what the drama program has meant to them. It was touching to see how much drama has helped so many people. Personally, it has helped me come out of my shell and be more confident. I am truly myself when I am around everyone in the drama program. This cast particularly was the most supportive and loving casts I have ever been in. Everyone threw their heart and soul into the performance. During the "Epilogue" today, I struggled to keep my composure through the last notes, as it finally hit me that it was the last time I would ever sing this song with this same group of people. Then the lights went out as we ran up the aisles for our bows, and I cried. I cried as I watched everyone going up for their moment of glory; all of these goofballs, so mature, so poised, so grown-up. They make me so proud.

This is not to say we didn't have our fair share of drama. But none of it mattered this weekend. We've been through so much together, the good and the bad, and that is what ultimately brings us closer together. Ms. Wiz taught me to be more confident. "Les Mis" taught me to just enjoy the moment. I feel so blessed to have found theatre. I feel so blessed to have been a part of "Les Mis."

Jean Valjean, I am glad you stole that loaf of bread to save your sister's son.

"A Heart Full of Love"

I love curls in my hair. I love opening night in the theatre. I love homemade oatmeal. I love dark chocolate and almonds. I love running at sunset. I love switching my contacts for glasses at night. I love the woods in the winter. I love singing in the car with the windows down. I love eating with a spoon. I love analyzing Shakespeare.

I love many things, and today was the day for loving. Today was " A Heart Full of Love" (to quote Les Mis).

My day started early today (4am) with writing, which, alongside acting, is one of my greatest loves. I worked on my submission for a writing camp. I made myself a cup of tea and worked until 6. I took out my Flintstone's bun and my curls failed––I guess wearing the stupid bun on top of my head in front of the hot junior in my driving lesson yesterday didn't count for anything. Regardless, the curls looked good enough in a ponytail.

For breakfast, raspberry and chocolate chip heart-shaped pancakes on a heart-shaped plate.

Above, my pancake with whipped cream and Nelson's Candy deluxe chocolate sauce. 

After already drizzling chocolate on mine, I got the idea to actually write on the pancakes, so I left a little note for my mom.

In my first class of the day, I analyzed Shakespeare, the romance master––although the only possible romance in the Hamlet scene we studied today was between Hamlet and his mother Gertrude, which was uncomfortable. 

School was filled with lots of treats today: cookies and Hershey kisses and the quintessential candy hearts. Student Government passed out carnations at the end of the day as a school fundraiser. 

My math test...not so romantic. But I got it done, which means I am done with math unti the Monday we come back from February vacation. 

After school, I met with my English teacher from last semester to discuss my writing camp submission. After writing itself, my next love is talking about it. I spent time at play rehearsal, went to the home basketball game for my school, where the girls won with a 3-pointer within the last five seconds of the game. I was covering the game for my school newspaper, so at the end of the game I made sure to snag a quote from the boy's assistant basketball coach, who is about 25 and very good-looking––and of course I had to shake his hand. It's just business, right? 

Then, as I left, this good-looking senior said "bye" to me and brushed my waist with his hand. 

I ended the day with two of my favorite loves: peanut butter and brownies.

All in all, a solid Valentine's Day.

What filled your heart with love today?