Gas Station Chronicles

Who knew you could find an entire life in gas station merchandise? (*Note that "you" is ambiguous in the story.) 

"I love how gas stations arrange their merchandise," my friend Lee said. "In just one aisle you can find cards, condoms and painkillers."

I laughed. "It kind of tells a story. You spark some magic with the cards. That's why you need the condoms."

"Then your girlfriend breaks up with you. That's why you need the painkillers," my friend Ella chimed in.

"And here you have birthday candles. That's what you get for buying shitty gas station condoms," Lee said.

We turned down the next aisle: pet food. I held up a bag of Kibbles & Bits and Meow Mix. "Now that you have the kid, the next step is the pet."

"Or maybe you can no longer afford real food," Ella proposed.

I sighed. "So now your life is really going downhill. Looks like you better stock up on trash bags. You're homeless."

"BUT then you get a job as a mechanic," she said, holding up a bottle of WD-40.

"Phew. So now your life is turning back around."

"And that brings us to the snack aisle," Lee said. "Just in time to host a football game with your friends."

Too bad the Patriots lost to the Broncos.

Next time you're bored, stop by a gas station. Just a tip: Cumberland Farms sells any size beverage for just 99¢, 24/7. 

Defying Winter

The winter is one of my favorite times to visit the Cape. Especially in our neighborhood, which is filled with lots of seasonal families, the roads are so quiet. Driving down the roads at 5pm, there is only the rare front porch light illuminating the street. I think that is why the stars are best in the winter.

People ask what we do when we're at the Cape, and the truth is, we do what we do during the summer. We swim, we run, we cook, my mom and I consignment shop, just with some slight adjustments.

Yesterday and today, we defied the cold front and continued on with our summer routine. Mom and I tried shopping for costume pieces for my winter musical, In the Heights. Unfortunately, the musical takes place in July in New York City, and as much as I love sweaters, that is the last thing anyone would want to wear in July. We came away with a bra, appropriate for any season. 

We cooked from our new summer cook book, "The Black Dog Summer on the Vineyard Cook Book." 

Last night we cooked seared tuna on a watercress salad. We didn't intend on having a theme, but somehow everything on this dinner plate ended up being Asian. The soup had a ginger thai broth. The tuna was seared with sesame seeds and Trader Joe's Sesame Asian dressing. The rice was Asian rice. We got it because it was colorful when it was dry...it didn't cook up quite as colorful. 

For breakfast this morning, we made Eggs Over Grass--a  clever name for an eggs benedict dish. My brother Owen's friend Hayden was kind enough to let me photograph his plate, even though they had been waiting for breakfast for about an hour and a half. I will definitely plan out the order in which I prepare this dish next time.

(Do you know they actually pay people to take photographs of food? Maybe if my theatre career doesn't work out...)

  I had never made or tasted eggs benedict before. I also had never poached an egg. You just boil water in a pot, crack the egg in the water, add about an 1/8 of a teaspoon of white vinegar per egg (you can poach multiple eggs at once), reduce heat and let the egg simmer for 3-5 minutes (depending on how runny you like your yolk).

The hollandaise sauce was good too. That was also pretty easy to make. 

And finally, for dinner tonight, a salad topped with basically everything we had leftover in the fridge: kale, watercress, scallions, celery, carrots, mushrooms, tuna, grated cheese, asparagus and Sesame Asian dressing. Artificial lighting just doesn't do the food justice on my amateur phone camera. 

Our final winter defiance of the day was our New Year's plunge into the ocean. It was great to see people walking the beach as we ran to warm ourselves up before the plunge. Sometimes I feel like people forget the beach is open. They were a great audience as we stripped down to our bathing suits and dove into the waves. Some took pictures and some clapped. We ran back to our car with a quivering, "Happy New Year!" 

Yesterday we breathed in the new year. Today, we dove right in. 

Breathing in the New Year

29 minutes into the new year, and I have already heard the ocean, ran the sands, and breathed the salty air. After toasting with sparkling pomegranate juice in wine glasses, my family piled into the car--my mom and I still wearing our big comfy sweaters and fuzzy socks--for a midnight run on the beach. Sometimes there are others we find parked in the parking lot of Nauset Beach, but tonight it was just us. We felt our way along the path to the sand, our eyes adjusting just in time for us to dodge around the wooden benches and poles. There was no moon tonight, but the stars were bright and promising. 

The sand was iced with snow. It crunched beneath our feet as we ran. I love the cold because it makes me feel like I'm running fast. My stride length was nothing to brag about, but it sure felt like my legs were turning over quickly. I will choose to believe that they were.

I could have run forever like that, beneath the stars with the ocean cheering me on, the cool sea breeze blowing in my face. The whole time I ran with my neck craned up and swiveling like the lighthouse light that passed over us every minute. I think the feeling can be summed up in Mary Oliver's poem, "The Storm." 

The Storm

By Mary Oliver

Now through the white orchard my little dog

     romps, breaking the new snow

     with wild feet.

Running here running there, excited,

     hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins

until the white snow is written upon

     in large, exuberant letters,

a long sentence, expressing

     the pleasures of the body in the world.

Oh, I could not have said it better 

     myself.

Out there by the ocean, with no one around, it is impossible not to want to leap and spin and throw your arms out like an airplane and pretend to fly. In fact, it almost feels like you can. 

To fully welcome 2014, we did twenty jumping jacks and a fourteen second sprint. We returned to the car with our rosy cheeks and foggy glasses, our hearts beating, our minds clear, and our spirits invigorated. 

Happy New Year, everyone! 

A Few Shimmering Moments

I remember the years when the days before Christmas dragged on for an eternity. At the beginning of every December, I would create a paper chain, and every morning I would rip one off. As the chain shortened, my anticipation heightened. My mom used to buy the chocolate calendars too. I remember the year our dog Chloe ate mine (yes...every one of those 25 chocolates), and my brother Owen had to share his with me. One year I actually realized how gross those chocolates were, and a year or two after that my mom stopped buying them.

The days before Christmas don't drag on anymore. Especially with Thanksgiving being so late this year, it was here and gone before I think either Owen or I really got to appreciate the full essence of Christmas. We both commented that we struggled to get into the Christmas spirit this year, but there were moments this month that shimmered.

One such moment was when we decorated the Christmas tree. Since Owen and I were born, my mom has gotten us a new ornament every year. I like looking through my pile and thinking about the stage I was in when I received the ornament. I have two monkey ornaments--I really loved monkeys for awhile. Another year I got a set of these fantastic purple disco balls, in tribute to Taylor Swift's sparkly dresses. I have one hanging in my room, and sometimes when it's sunny outside it catches the light just right, and my room is cascaded in purple polka dots. One of my favorite ornaments is a wooden Madeline doll clutching a Christmas tree. It reminds me of the mornings I would wake my grandma up at 3am to ask her to read me a Madeline story. The Christmas tree also reminds me of the years when Owen and I were small enough to sleep underneath the tree. We would pull out our sleeping bags and lay beneath the branches, waking up with pine needles on our eyelashes.

Another moment was the eve of Christmas Eve. My family and I joined my uncle and his family for service at Grace Chapel in Lexington, a non-denominational, multicultural church. My seven-year-old cousin Annie, who lately has been resisting the fact that she is no longer four-years-old and therefore cannot get away with what she used to, was insistent on sitting on my lap throughout the service, and then on being lifted up to read the lyrics on the projector screen whenever we sang a song. After realizing that she was too tall to be lifted up on someone's shoulders, I let her stand on my seat. Every song she sang her little heart out, her arms around my and Owen's shoulders. Owen was not in the best of moods that night, yet even he found it hard not to lighten up around her exuberance.

And finally, there was my little cousin Nathan, also seven-years-old, but on my dad's side of the family. On Christmas Day night, he crawled into bed with me at my grandmother's house, still full of Christmas energy.

"Did you have a good Christmas?" I asked him.
"Yeah. Guess what?" he said.
"What?"
"I saw Santa Clause last night."
I gasped. "You did? What did he look like?"
Nathan held up a stuffed Santa Clause. "Like this."
"Describe to me what he looked like, don't just show me," I said.
He proceeded to describe the red suit and the black belt. "And I even heard his bells. I saw him. Right in the kitchen!"

He had no doubt in his mind that he saw Santa Clause, and it was touching to see someone with such a strong belief.

Reflecting on these shimmering moments, it occurs to me that a lot of them have to do with childhood or children. I've reflected on this subject a lot in the past few months, especially in my English classes. Nearly everything I wrote links backs to some childhood memory or coming of age moment. With college just a year and a half away, I have found myself resisting a lot these past few months. I haven't wanted to think about much. I've procrastinated more than I usually do. Like my cousin Annie, I too am perhaps resisting the fact that I do have to grow up and think about more mature things. How I wish I could be like my cousin Nathan, with such an adamant belief in something. I miss the Christmas Eves when Owen would crawl into bed with me so we could wake up together Christmas Day.

At the Grace Chapel service, one of the speakers emphasized that Christmas isn't about presents, it's about presence and being with those we love. I love seeing all my cousins every year, especially because that is the one time I can usually count on seeing them. But I also love it because for a few weeks, it allows me to be nostalgic and think back on some of my favorite Christmas memories. It allows me to be a kid again.

Every Birthday Begins With A Spark

When Mom asked me what I wanted to do for my 17th birthday, I didn't have to think twice. I wanted to go see Catching Fire at the movie theatre, and I wanted to have one of our famous themed dinners at home. 

In a house full of artists and writers, we are always looking for an excuse for a themed dinner. In honor of the start of school one year, we had a cafeteria style dinner of tater tots and other frozen entrees and ate on cafeteria trays. Mom even wore a hairnet. After my mom and stepdad returned from Italy, we had an Italian dinner of pasta, Caprese salad, and gelato for dessert. Grease dinner is a favorite of ours. You can never go wrong with burgers, french fries, milkshakes, and a record player.

The Catching Fire dinner was by far the best one yet, though. Considering that the Hunger Games arena in Catching Fire is by the sea, I didn't expect much more than fish and a decorated tablecloth. But I should have known my mom and stepdad...

Ranging from game from the woods to fish of the sea, we had quite the array of options. I'm just glad it wasn't a themed dinner for the first movie. We would've been eating squirrel. 

Lane snapper, straight from the sea. Just like Katniss would've eaten it. 

Shellfish from District 3. I had never had crab legs before. They taste really good in a sweet mustard dressing. The lobster was from my Pepere. It's a yearly tradition, and it fit perfectly into the themed dinner.

Roast duck. It was surprisingly flavorful. 

Nightlock berries or blueberries? Wrong choice, and "you'll be dead in a minute." But nightlock berries do come in handy when you feel like defying the Capitol. 

We may not have had the roast pig, but we had the apple with the arrow. We may not have shot it with the bow, but I would still give this a solid ten for effort.

What would a Hunger Games dinner be without the Mockingjay pin? 

And, of course, the cake. I think even Peeta would've been impressed with the cake decorating (at least maybe he would've been before most of the raspberries and chocolate truffles were eaten from around the cake). 

This painting that my stepdad did is one of my favorite parts, though. "Every birthday begins with a spark." Every birthday gives us the opportunity to start over. It gives us a spark. It is up to us to help that spark catch fire. 

A Warty Apple

I like the warty apples from Farmer Frank's ramshackle farm stand, hand-picked off a modest-sized tree. I can picture him, hunch-backed, craning his neck to twist their stems off the branches and let them fall in a wooden basket.

I like the warty apples like I like the Pinocchio-Cyclops tomato and the curvy-legged carrot. I like the warty apples like I like the chickpeas that resemble little bums, the bean sprouts that look like green baby heads, and the strawberry with the mohawk stem. I like the warty apples because it makes me giggle, like how I giggle at my English teacher with his checkered bow-tie, my friend who has paint stains on all his sleeves, and my Persian cat when she stares at me from the bottom of the stairs. 

I like the warty apple because it makes my day just a little bit brighter. 

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.