Caraway

     Let's have an ending to things.

     Caraway is a lesser known spice, and it's hard to describe. At its best, it adds depth and a subtle hint of other to a dish, deepening the flavor of lighter spices like basil and oregano or lifting the flavor of heavier ones like paprika. It is subtle, but can overwhelm other parts of a dish if used incorrectly.

     Ever since I first used caraway, I loved the stuff. It's great as a spice, but I liked it more for its other characteristics, the temperament of the spice if you will, more than for its taste. Caraway requires craft to use. It is powerful and temperamental. It is subtle but difficult to mask, and wherever it is found, it adds a depth to its environment that is difficult to quantify.

     We all have heroes. Mine just happens to be found in the spice cupboard.

     Earlier in the year, I wrote a post on simple things being used to add inordinate joy to our lives. That was based around a symbol I discovered when I was very young, the symbol of candles. Typically, candles are found in romantic settings, and don't get me wrong, they're great there. But they're also found in quieter restaurants, used on holidays, and brought out in the evening when the twilight's warm enough. Candles, then, are used to show that something has worth. They add significance and depth. They make the situations they're found in special.

     I want my life to be special. There's no avoiding that. Normality is not an ideal I could ever stomach, so I struck out on my own and created my own way to see, touch, and change the world. Part of that was trying to learn an emotional language, something that everyone inherently understood. If I could understand that, then I could bring all of my latent manipulative nature to bear and use what I had learned to influence and improve the world around me.

     That language exists. Symbolism and the meanings behind gestures is part of it, but mainly it is the language of small things. Small gestures carry a truly disproportionate amount of weight. Holding someone's hand means far more than clutching at their fingers. Bringing someone a hot meal says more than the most prolific of get-well cards. A bar of chocolate can be given to a friend, a significant other, or a parent, and every time it will carry a unique and powerful message.

     This language is incredibly intuitive and remarkably well-known, but we use it less than we could. We all know that chocolate helps when a friend is hurting, but how many of us have ever made sure they had a bar at ready hand when they needed it? It can take hours to prepare for a date, but buying champagne flutes and filling them with sparkling cider before watching a movie will create memories just as strong. Through small and simple things, enormous feelings and ironclad trusts can be created and revealed. It is far easier to speak the language of symbols than to muddle around in our native tongues.

     I began with the language of candles, a comforting symbol that can be used to create a warm and comforting or deep and meaningful situation in equal measure. I moved on to the idea of caraway, which I do believe I created the meaning of. If that is the case, then caraway means a subtle but strong resolve to bolster all those around you, avoiding recognition but inspiring trust, and always seeking to find balance and support others rather than overpowering them. Caraway is overpowering when used too liberally, but as a supporting spice, it can give its dish depth and significance beyond anything it could have been if it were left out. As a symbol, it strives to do the very same, and encourages us to embrace the small and simple things that show depth rather than trying to distinguish itself among others.

     My church believes in the idea of service, and furthermore believes that all members should support all they can as best they know how. The symbol of caraway is rooted in the idea of how it relates to others, and I believe that the core of it, the idea that we should try to improve our surroundings without seeking for our own glory, is something that would vastly improve common relationships. What if you knew that everyone you met would willingly help you, as best they could, if you asked for it? I believe that we'd all be just a bit more comfortable, a bit less on edge, and able to trust each other a little bit more.

     Caraway is a small shift in the spicing of a dish, but its power is unmistakable nonetheless. As a symbol, the idea of emulating that and trying to help while staying as quiet as you can about it increases the genuine nature of your gestures, which increases their ability to impact others. A gesture that everyone hears about can be used to emphasize yourself, to set yourself up before all the world. A gesture that no one is ever aware of, however, is something between you and the receiver, and is appreciated more because of the personal nature of the gift.

     We can choose to improve the lives of everyone around us, if we are willing to watch for those who are hurting and to help where we can. If we are also willing to be absolutely silent on the matter and avoid recognition where we can, those receiving help will know it to be genuine and value it all the more. If we want to go above and beyond, we can use the universal language of symbols to craft messages that are universally understood and instantly taken to heart.

     Symbols and other small gifts can mend broken hearts and lift broken spirits. It doesn't have to be complicated, expensive, or even all that well thought out. The important thing behind a symbol is the intention it expresses, and when that's being used to help get someone back on their feet, a simple bowl of soup, loaf of bread, or bar of chocolate can work wonders in reminding them that people care.

     It's better to serve others than to work for our own personal glory. It's better to use more meaningful messages when we can by using universal symbols to communicate. It is better to be abnormal when normal isn't good enough. These are all things I believe. These are all things I have believed for quite some time now. And now that I'm heading back home, these are all things that I'll be called on to do once again.

     I'm not going to lie, the idea of heading home scares me. The Old World was painful, and I'm best at running away from pain when it gets that bad. That's what I did when I came out here.

     Now I'm heading back in, with the knowledge that nothing will be different except me. I have become better than I was since I came to college. I've learned a great smattering of useless things. I created a bread recipe. I've been joyful for the first time in a long time.

     I think I'll be able to hold on to that joy. My life, when I get back, will avoid much of the pain that led me to come out here in the first place. It should be possible to maintain that joy.

     That being said, even if I don't, it's not so much of a price to pay. I've run from that world once, I can do so again if needs be. And the truly important thing, the thing that matters more than whether I've happy or miserable or anything, is whether I follow my moral code and the idea of caraway. Being miserable isn't so much of a price to pay if you can ensure the happiness of all those around you. And I've got about a thousand coping mechanisms when the chips are down, so if I need to, I'll just light some candles, grab a bar of chocolate, and take a bubble bath.

     Sure I'm scared. But I can cope. Besides, there's more than just my feelings at stake here, Going home gives me the chance to capitalize on what I learned at college and hopefully become permanently better than I was.

     If I can become better, then I will face whatever I need to to do so. And if I need to do it while burning candles and chewing on caraway just to keep myself grounded, then so be it.

Conference

     The very first General Conference after I come to BYU, the den of whirlwind dating, focused around marriage.

     I am not amused.

     Despite that, I did enjoy conference. I went in with a question, like you're supposed to, and I got an answer, like I was promised. I went looking for an extra chapter of a moral code, and that's what I got. Most of it's in general tenets, like "Do not disguise who you are" and "Don't let something you don't understand jeopardize what you do know." I've pieced together a moral code out of disparate fragments before though, and with three pages of notes like that, I'm certain that I'll be able to cobble something together.

     I especially enjoyed Elder Anderson's talk about hearing the music. The topic of true conversion's not something I think many people appreciate, and it's not something I see lived very often at all. The idea of wanting your heart to be changed, literally changing the motivations for all your actions to altruism, is not something that is exactly common, and it's interesting to see a conference talk devoted to it.

     On top of that, we've got President Uchtdorf's talk refuting the idea the Mormons believe that they can earn their own salvation. This idea's actually wildly important and, according to a missionary buddy of mine, shows up ALL THE TIME in anti-Mormon literature. I've heard this refutation before, but never put this well.

     It's interesting to see how President Monson's not dealing with any brimstone style talks. He's leaving the refutations and arguments to the other authorities, and he's been talking about the quieter, gentler side of the church instead. There's something to the idea of focusing on the positives and letting your actions speak for themselves. It's a more peaceful take on preaching, and it highlights the peaceful side of our church.

Things As They Really Should Be

     It was a required assignment that we read and post about Bednar's Things As They Really Are speech. If you happen to dislike homework posts, this would be a great time to skedaddle.

     I'm actually very glad that I was a slacker in writing this post. I read Things as They Really Are early in the semester, and I wasn't all that impressed. I've know for going on forever now that online relationships could create real feelings, and I've personally seen more than a few gamer addicts. It felt like Bednar was stating the obvious when he said that overuse of media was dangerous.

     I was wrong, and I've changed my mind.

     Bednar's thesis is that overuse of media de-emphasizes the role of our physical body in our life. He's right, I've seen that. You ever watched a addicted gamer play? They don't stop. They never stop. Left to their own devices, they will get what minimum of sleep they need, eat what is easily available around them, and occasionally get up to go to the bathroom. If they are particularly considerate, they will also shower and change their clothing.

     Bednar sees this as extremely debilitating. He believes that the human body has potential and significance beyond what we need to play games all day, and he believes that by misusing or de-emphasizing the role of the body by watching the world through a screen rather than living in it, that that potential is wasted.

     Given that my brother is a literal genius who spends many of his waking hours in League of Legends, I think I agree with Bednar.

     This entire semester's seemed to revolve around gaming. I think it's trying to tell me something. Something along the lines of "OH MY WORD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? JUST RUN!"

     I may not like it, but that's the addict in me talking. Everything from my research paper to the speeches we focused on in writing class to the recurring problems of my roommates revolves around gaming. I've seen how bad gaming addictions can get in the past. I think my life is trying to warn me not to get sucked in. Which is good advice, no matter how you slice it.

As You Were

     "Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving." Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full Of Sky.

     This quote was on my mind because people from the Old World are visiting, and because I'll be heading home soon. Don't get me wrong, the person visiting is a great friend and it'll be terrific to see him again, but I've begun to worry about the Old World seeing me as exactly the same person as I was when I left. I'm not. When I come back, I will be better than I was.

     I've thought about this practically since I came to college. Life in the Old World hurt, and part of my reasons for coming out here early was because I was done with that life. I wanted to be something different, so I found a place where no one knew my name. And it worked. Life is good now. But now I've got two weeks before heading back to that life, and I'm far more worried about that than I am about finals.

     Again, life in the Old World hurt. Too much crap going on that couldn't be fixed. And absolutely nothing has changed since I left, so I'm heading right back into that. On the other hand, there's stuff that'll be a hundred times easier to learn at home, so if I want to continue getting better, that's where I need to go. I don't know that there's a way to avoid this, but that knowledge doesn't stop me from dreading it.

     I just hope that I've learned enough to stay on top of things this time around. I'm planning a rather drastic life overhaul, and if I can pull it off, it'll be worth everything I have to endure along the way. The Old World isn't the place for this, but it's better than the New World. New World doesn't provide the space needed to learn.

     I know this is what needs doing. I know that everything I'm worrying about cannot be avoided. And I know that coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving. I am coming back better than I was. And I'm hoping with all my heart that that'll be enough.

Elbow Grease(Narrative Review)

     This is not the sort of post that should be read. It's far too meta and y'all shouldn't have to go through that. It's a homework post, and anyone reading this has already had enough of their own college homework. Seriously. Just stop. Don't keep going. Noooooooo. This is not what you should be doing with your life. There are flowers and chocolate and dating and reading or even homework to do. GO. BE FREE.

     So. You have chosen pain. Well. I cannot save you now.

     I had a weird night a couple of weeks ago and finished about seven pages of writing, including the narrative. I swear this isn't always how I always do papers. It was a fluke, I decided I wasn't tired, and I ended up writing the narrative in about an hour and a half between two to four in the morning.

     This is why you should never ask writers about their process. You'll learn far more than you ever wanted to.

     That being said, this assignment played to my strengths. Descriptive language and stories are what I'm good at. I spent some time as a kid learning how to write, and I'm just going to give a shoutout to Druidawn Creations whenever you find something I've written that you liked. On top of that, I've heard this story ten thousand times, and I've had to tell it more than once. Eventually you pick up a few points in the telling.

     I hadn't really drawn the connection between the two stories I told though. I mean, they were both on a beach, and of course I realized that. But they're actually really similar, if you look past the deadly nature of one and the relatively inconsequential impact of the other. I don't often tell the crab story, but I think I'll start tacking it onto the end of the tidepool one when I can.

Depth

Sometimes, when the parched wind blows around the rocks and prickling trees of Colorado, I close my eyes and breathe deep, trying to capture the sea wind of a life once led. I try to remember the drenched air, sweet and rich as golden honey. I remember the brine of the ocean and the terrifying thrill of seaweed wrapping around my ankles. Then I open my eyes again. And I sigh.

            I was young back then, still a child. My innocence has given way to a prickling cynicism, but I remember being young, idling away the hours picking wild, ripe blackberries in empty gallon jugs. I still remember my grandmother’s blackberry cobbler, though I can make it myself now. I haven’t forgotten the dense forest, with thick moss blanketing the trees and ground, and bashful pink huckleberries hiding in the shade. I’ll never forget building forts of driftwood on Double Bluff, or the deep, still tide pools there.

            But there are stories I can’t remember. I can’t remember slipping on the hardwood stairs and breaking my favorite snow globe, or bawling when I wanted to head home and my grandparents took me a way I didn’t recognize. I don’t remember our garden, or the compost pile, or what our quiet stretch of the deep woods looked like. I don’t remember looking up from the bottom of a tide pool, eyes open, quietly, peacefully, drowning. Those stories were told to me after.

            As I can’t remember this story, even though it’s my own, I’m going to have to elaborate on some of the particulars. I don’t mind much. After all, it is my story, and I can do with it as I please.

            The beaches of Washington are a mix of fine sand, hard rocks, and crusted pads of dried seaweed. Sometimes, water collects in deep pools, attracting clams, crabs, and small fishes into a fragile ecosystem that can literally wash out with the tide. When I was a kid, the beaches were my second favorite place in the world, right after a huckleberry bush that I could crawl into the base of and snuggle up and eat berries from. The beaches were more of a treat, a place where my mother could go to drop us off to play with other children, expending our youthful energy on thoroughly useless and wonderfully enjoyable pursuits. My brother and I could spend hours splashing in the surf, stacking the ever-present driftwood into makeshift forts, and generally making fool of ourselves as only small children can. Meanwhile, my mother could take some time off and talk with other parents who also had small, rambunctious children. It was idyllic. If the halcyon days of my youth are awarded retroactively, as Calvin and Hobbes suggests, then I am sure these were some of them.

            Here I have to take a few editorial liberties. Again, these aren’t my own memories. I know this story because my mother would tell it whenever I felt lost in the world, when I wasn’t sure why I was here or where I was going. When I was when I was a leaf on the wind, this story was an anchor in a storm. Nevertheless, I can’t remember walking into the beach’s dunes. I can’t remember looking down into the deep, still pool, watching the fishes slowly turn. I’m not sure if I slipped, or if my childlike innocence lead me to toddle straight in. I only know that when my mother found me, I was at the bottom of the pool, eyes wide open, looking up. My mother doesn’t know how long I had been down there. I was smiling.

            While I was off falling into a watery grave, my mother was chatting with another mom with young boys. This was my mother’s chance to unwind, and get time away from the over-enthusiastic hassle of small children, however adorable my young self undoubtedly was. But this time was different. My mother heard a voice. Quiet. Firm. It only said three words. “Go get Noah.”

            Thankfully, my mother isn’t the type to ignore something like that. She hastily excused herself from her conversation and ran. I was nowhere to be seen. Se crested a hill. I looked up from the bottom of a tide pool, fishes swimming all around me, grinning.

            The way she tells it, she yanked me out of the water, called for my brother, and we left. She toweled me down before we got into the car, as not even a near-death experience entitles you to get seawater on the car seats. Breathless, she asked me, “What happened?”

            Still grinning, I looked up and proudly said, “I eat the fishies!”

            This was one of my favorite stories when I was young, and the utter lack of concern when danger is about is still somewhat typical of me. Mom would tell this story whenever I didn’t fit in, or was just generally having a horrific sort of day. It never failed to lift my spirits. It took me a while to tease the meaning out of it. I’ll admit I was less impressed by the spiritual experience than a two year old probably should be. But knowing that someone’s out there watching after you helps a kid, as I know it helped me later.

            See, this story isn’t done. My family takes fairly regular vacations back up to Washington. I’ve been back to Double Bluff, and fittingly enough, there was a massive tide pool waiting for me. I waded in it. I’ve seen the blackberry bushes in full bloom, and become vaguely known by the side of the family that still lives up there. But the last bit of this story, fittingly, happens on another beach.

            My mom was visiting friends who had moved out, and I was bored, so I went walking. This beach was rocky, with small pools with just enough water for tiny crabs to scuttle, hiding underneath bunches of seaweed. I meandered, picked up a few pretty rocks, and generally enjoyed the sun on my face and the ocean air. It was only when I was heading back that I heard the screaming.

            There was a small group of first, maybe second graders enjoying a field trip at the beach. They were messing around, being kids, and some of them had found a fairly massive crab. Being children, and therefore not possessed of any functioning survival urge, they’d begun to poke at it. And one of them had been grabbed. The claws of a crab are incredibly strong, and they’re only meant to pinch one way. Once they grab you, they can’t be shaken off.

            By the time I made it to the kids, their teacher was trying to pull the crab’s pincers apart as it dangled from the child’s pinky. He was white as a sheet, white as the skin where the crab had hold of him. As I watched, the teacher stepped back and called for something to help pry the claw open. I guess the best way to explain what happened next is selective blindness. Everything close by seemed very real, while everything further away seemed to fade into the background. I heard a voice. Quiet. Firm. It only said three words. “Break the claw.”

            I’ve eaten enough crab to know how their joints work. I hesitated for a moment, as I like crabs and don’t enjoy hurting something that I know was only acting according to its nature. Then I pushed the elbow of the crab inwards, snapping it. It’s how you break cooked crab.  A girl threw the crab into the surf.

            The young boy who’d been dumb enough to get pinched was still white, and seemed to have gone into shock. I did what I could, but this was his teacher’s forte from here, and I figured they’d be better at helping. On a whim, I went back and retrieved the claw. I told the kid to keep it as a spoil of war, a trophy of sorts.

            I only thought to ask about the voice later. None of my family had heard it, despite being close by at the time. I’m not particularly spiritual, and this was the first manifestation of its type to come to me, so I struggled a bit before I admitted it. Looking back, it has a sort of poetry. First my mother kept me in the world, and then I was able to help a kid like I was have a story of his own.

Fulfilling Basic Requirements

     Right, so I heard about the required blog posts a bit late and now the next few blogs might be a bit dry. Brace yourselves.

     Rather, don't. You have better things to do. Look up Hyperboly and Half or Lackadaisy.(Hyperboly and Half's wonderful and impossible to describe, Lackadaisy is Prohibition-era rum-runners except its cats and the later art is some of the best I've ever seen.)

     I mean, seriously. You have Buffy The Vampire Slayer or Friends to watch, maybe even Dollhouse if you're feeling eclectic and awesome. We've got a museum on campus with some incredible Japanese art deco, and there's entire shelves of fiction to sink your teeth into. Talk to a friend. Give people chocolate. Don't read people's research paper blog posts. You have better things to be doing.

     If you're still with me... Well, I guess you're crazy enough that I can't really tell you what to do. Well done. Even I can't rant at you over this one. Which is saying something.

     I started the research paper when I heard about Google Blogger doing something incredibly dumb and trying to restrict certain kinds of free speech(Read: Porn) on the Blogger platform. It was very technically legal, but Google was taking it into its own hands to restrict free speech, so... Public outcry happened. Google retracted, and I wasn't left with enough material to write a paper on. I changed topics and scrambled.

     I ended up writing a paper on the debilitating effects of media. Did the reading on whether video games actually cause violence, that sort of thing. (They do, by the way. Measurable across whatever kind of controlling you do.) Also went into the idea of social media creating a large number of "friends" with very little depth to the friendships(I know this isn't always the case. I once met a girl in a chatroom, and we talked 'till morning. It happens, I know.) Then there was ranting about empathy, because I do so enjoy ranting about that.

     The weird thing is, I am a gamer. Anything relatively big-budget, I'm relatively sure to have heard of, even if I haven't actually played. I've played Minecraft with over a hundred mods enabled, and wasted more time than I'm comfortable admitting between Fallout and Skyrim. I can converse about the current meta for League, even though that was never really my game. I've been to Rapture, and Caelondia, and the many worlds of Starcraft, FTL, and Sins of a Solar Empire. Tabletop, RPG, FPS, puzzle... name a genre, and I've probably played at least a thing or two in it.

     I went in biased. I wanted to believe that gaming was inherently good for you, that it increased your decision-making capabilities and reflexes, not to mention the storylines and atmospheres leading to enhanced creativity and all the whatnot. I'd like to believe that all forms of media are inherently equal, and that the accessibility of gaming media doesn't conflict with its ability to tell a fantastic story.

     Afterward.... Well, I'm conflicted. I've seen the research, and violent gaming does cause violence. Games in general cause withdrawal from the world, and all sorts of other nonsense. Violence is caused by gaming, which then results in lack of empathy, which can be inherited, that sort of thing. This paper's made me worried for the future and guilty about playing so many games and confused why we're still arguing over conclusive data, all at the same time. But I'm still not sure that the pro-gaming standpoint is entirely wrong.

     Take Bioshock, for instance. It's set in an underwater city called Rapture, and it's gorgeous. Sixties vibes everywhere, neon lights and windows to the ocean. Beautiful. By the time the game starts, the city's decaying, which adds an entirely new dimension to the pretty. Water flowing down stairs, darkened restaurants and bars, everywhere the signs of a society gone horribly wrong. You wouldn't think that that could be pretty. You'd be wrong. The two styles of the game play of each other, and you're left feeling thoroughly creeped out and simultaneously wondering just what the sunken city was like before it got taken over by madmen and walking diving suits. The game was was wonderful. I learned things that I later put to use against my friends in a more traditional role-playing environment that left them feeling sorry for fighting the game's mooks. I'm pretty certain that if I ever have to write horror, that's what I'll be turning to for inspiration. And yet, I know that gaming's incredibly debilitating now. I know that's it's going to make me a worse person, and even more telling is the fact that most of the research I read was based around violent FPS games that reward the player for choosing violent actions- games exactly like Bioshock. Everything I know now, everything I've learned, applies to this game. But playing the game taught me how to recreate it, which, if I choose to write for money anytime down the line, will be an incredibly useful skill.

     I'm definitely going to be more careful choosing my games from now on. And I'm glad that I know the research side of things now. But I have to admit, I didn't expect to learn anything from the research paper, and I really didn't expect to be left with a moral quandary that challenges how I spend my free time.

     So that's what I got out of writing the research paper. That and lack of rest from four all-nighters, and way more stress than really needed to ever exist in my life. Or anyone's life.

     Next time, I'm going to choose something simple and just learn how to cite sources.

Pratchett

     Terry Pratchett is dead.

     Long live Terry Pratchett.

     Seriously though, the man was knighted for being hilarious(Technically his 'services to literature' or something, but he's a satirist, so same thing) and he wrote about a billion books, covering everything from Death playing the role of Santa(Hogfather) to acceptance of the goblin community(Snuff). There's something in there that you'd prob'ly enjoy, so head over to the library and let's commemorate the wonderful rascal.

Living Music

     Over the last few months, I've had the chance to go out and enjoy BYU's lovely concert halls. Specifically, I've been investigating the jazz here. There's something about jazz that simply doesn't feel right recorded, and I've truly enjoyed being close enough to go out and find it on my own.

     There's something special about jazz. It feels more organic than other music, as if it's something created spontaneously rather than planned and practiced. Granted, you occasionally get crashing cacophonies of music that you can't puzzle a melody out of, but then, sometimes you get lovely little experimental trills of music that you simply don't find in any other genre.

     There's also the concept of riffing. I know of no other genre that specifically gives time to its musicians to extemporize on the fly, and it is incredible to see it done right. Jazz normally uses a group of players, but when riffing is done properly, a player takes the song into their own hands and create something entirely new with its fabric. Granted, most of the younger players seem to flounder a little, but that's to be expected. I've done public speaking, and speaking from experience, creating something good on the fly is incredibly difficult. I can only imagine that it'd be harder for musicians, who've had to learn the new language of their instrument and haven't ever had the chance to converse with it rather than playing to an empty room.

     I say converse because that's what riffing feels like sometimes. When two players both decide to play off each other, they can get an incredible back and forth going. It feels like nothing more than a spirited conversation. You can even see the personality and emotion of the player, if you watch close enough. Some players will be almost reserved while riffing, despite this being a time to be put on proud display. Others will try to fly off the walls with eager energy. And when they decide to play together, it's easy to see those styles clash and resolve and blend.

     And you only get this in jazz. And it's phenomenal.

Briar Rose

     Alright, so there's this girl. And before you start thinking, it's not like that. I don't know what it's like, really.

     I've never had problems getting along with people. Whether I like 'em or hate 'em, love 'em or despise 'em, if I decide to be civil, we can usually get along. People eventually figure out that I'm exactly the arrogant bastard I pretend to be, and then realize that I'm mostly harmless(Like Earth). Once you know the brunt of someone's faults, then so long as you can accept those, your relationship with them will tend to be pretty stable. I'm pretty good about being a decent friend, too, which helps.

     That being said, there's some people who I have more trouble getting along with. My brother, for example. We're very alike, and being around him is like being a kitten rubbed the wrong way with a cold, wet brush. People who won't admit they're wrong and the utterly dogmatic are also problematic. But I'd have to say most of my more worrisome difficulties are in romantic relationships.

     See, I tend to get along really well with people once I know them. I try to go a little further, do a little more than most people seem to bother with. It doesn't take that much time or effort, and the intense friendships are worth it. This becomes problematic when I'm dealing with people that don't know me very well. Add that to the fact that I'm more likely to send chocolate than a get-well card, and not-so-hilarious misadventures keep happening.

     Guys, chocolate really does work. It's a universally accepted symbol of comfort as well as romance, and if you display it as comfort it'll only cause people to like you even more. I don't know if this is just me, but girls seem to like being lifted back up to their feet as much as they enjoy being swept off them, and chocolate has the unique capacity to symbolize both.

     This brings me to Valentine's Day. I'm new here, and an absolutely reclusive introvert to boot. I'd barely started meeting people, let alone making durable friendships, let alone finding romantic interests. So when a person from the Old World asked me if I'd keep her company on Valentine's, I figured that it sounded fun and I might as well.

     The girl requested that I call her Rose. It's a pretty name for a pretty girl. She's an old friend's old girlfriend, and we tend to get along pretty well. She can be moody, but it's worth ignoring nine times out of ten to talk with her. I'm not going to date her, and our lives split into completely different directions after a year or two more, but I'll take what time I can get for now.

     Returning to Valentine's day. She lives off in the hinterlands of Nebraska, but we texted as long as the day lasted. I liked it. There was chocolate and strawberries and just a hint of flirting, which is a guilty pleasure with me. She's a great deal of fun to talk to when she's happy, and she was a tad bit happier that night than most. I like to think I helped with that. And that's enough for me.

The Spice of Life

     The Devil's in the details.

     That's an idiom. Basically means that it's the fine print which screws us over. Which we all already knew. I'm going to talk about something else entirely- the idea that the best parts of life are in the details as well.

     Life always has some activities that take up most of our time. Whether it's schoolwork or regular work or sending Kerbals to the moon(Mun). But those large chunks of our life are rarely the best parts of our life. It can happen, if you really love your job or something, but it doesn't happen often. The bits of life that we remember and cherish are the tiny fragments of experience that we've set aside for ourselves, bits of time away from our ordinary experiences that we've chosen to enjoy.

     Hiking is a prime example of this. It's a relatively short amount of time compared to the rest of the week, but it can brighten that week immeasurably. Same thing with dating. It's a short chunk of time that is disproportionately enjoyable.(Hopefully.) I don't think that's coincidence. I think we set aside time in our lives to enjoy living, just being alive and enjoying what we're doing.

     The example that comes to mind is showering. Either you do it in a rush and think about other things all the while, and the time passes quickly and doesn't affect you much. Or you take your sweet time, sing a little(You guys that do this, we can be friends no matter what. Just saying.) and enjoy the warmth on your skin and the feeling of being clean. It's the same experience, but choosing to make it recreational makes it immensely more enjoyable.

     The way I see it, we scatter these experiences around our lives like spices in a dish, adding color and flavor and personality by doing so. Each time set aside too enjoy adds something to our lives. Granted, we need the basic building blocks. Work and school are important. But if the parts of life that we truly enjoy are just spicing, things we chose to add because we wanted them, then a fundamental problem of humanity -how to be happy- is simple. We become happy by choosing to make time for happiness.

     This almost seems too easy, but it makes sense. If you choose to worry about homework while cooking a meal for yourself, you aren't going to enjoy cooking. If you let yourself enjoy the cooking and then worry about the homework in its own time, the cooking will become enjoyable. Showering becomes fun when we let our worries flow away with the water. Netflix is great when you've forgotten about responsibilities, but the second you remember it ruins everything. I didn't learn the last from personal experience or anything. That'd just be irresponsible. And I am ALWAYS responsible.

     Thinking about it, this is basic knowledge. Don't mix work and pleasure. Take a break from your responsibilities for a while and it'll be easier to think when you get back to them. Take time off for yourself and your burdens will seem lighter.

     It doesn't ever take long to create this kind of experience, either. It can be as simple as choosing to focus on the pleasure of things we're already doing, even. Choosing not to worry when you're out having fun. I hate myself for the cliche, but living in the moment.

     I guess I want the takeaway here to be the realization that we can be happier if we focus more attention on the things in our life that are already enjoyable, and devote more small chunks of time to things we enjoy, spicing our lives until we've got them just right.

Man's Search For Pretty

     I was comfortable before. Classwork took up a fair chunk of time, but it was easily doable. I was figuring out how to feed myself and improving recipes in the New World. I'd even begun to take regular time out of my day to swim and improve my slightly worn and badly folded trench-coat of a body. This was a mistake.

     As I began trying to improve myself, the world around me pitched a perfect storm. Midterms ended, and suddenly my professors expected me to perform miracles of perfect recollection and transmogrification of blank pages into essays. People outside of my minuscule peer group appeared and were awesome, causing me to spend more time chasing down friends. Deadlines began cropping up in every class, multiplying like rabbits that know the end is nigh. (This assignment included. Ten blog posts is a LOT when you go on and on, taking up time with irrelevant tangents and asides. Like this one.)

     On top of this, my brother resurfaced. I hadn't heard from him in months, which wasn't really anything different, and he'd come back with a Minecraft server, which was even less surprising. I agreed to play, mostly because I felt sorry for him, living in his apartment alone with his girlfriend and three incredibly spunky cats. I figured I'd play a bit, make appearances when I had time, and then say that Minecraft just wasn't for me.

     But Minecraft IS for me. I'd forgotten just how much I liked the stupid little game. It didn't help that my brother had introduced an entirely new mod-pack, which in Minecraft changes EVERYTHING. Literally thousands of hours of new content. I'm a college kid. I was running out of time already, and now there's one of the greatest timesinks in the history of mankind just waiting for me to play.

     When I began trying to improve myself, all I wanted to do was replace some of the body mass I'd lost during the starvation diet (I only realized later that pancakes and cabbage on alternating nights, with no other food, didn't count as healthy eating) and turn some of what I had left into muscle. Before, I could say that I had muscle hiding somewhere underneath the fat, but now I've found that that's just not true, and it's making me all sorts of ashamed. Swimming has always been something I wanted to get back to, and college is the perfect place for that, but I didn't realize the earth would conspire against me to stop me from being pretty.

     Looking back, I should have known. The earth sent me a warning shot before it decided to wage war, and arrogant fool that I am, I decided not to listen. It was the fourth week of the semester, and I'd gotten situated enough to think about things like exercise. So I thought I'd get back into swimming. There's a myriad of reasons for this, among them a call to water and childhood, but the real reasoning went more like swimmer body=girl magnet=do want. I thought it would be that simple. I wish it were.

     The first time I went swimming, I had forgotten how good the water felt. I had forgotten how soothing it was. And I had forgotten how easy it is in an soothing environment that feels great to push yourself far beyond your limits. I swam until my arms felt like lead and I gasped for breath. I swam until I forgot what my mouth tasted like when it didn't have chlorine in it. I swam until my eyes hurt more opening them above water than underneath. I loved every second of it. I should have known it couldn't last.

     It wasn't until after that I faced the consequences of my actions. I planned a leisurely trip home, starting in the sauna, heading up the Long Stairs,(It seems evil to put the stairs right next to the workout areas, so I'm calling them a torture device and capitalizing the name.) and finishing with a long stroll up campus to my bunk. It was a good plan, but immediately I knew something had gone wrong. It turns out that basking in a warm sauna after overexerting yourself is a bad idea, and when I grew suddenly dizzy exiting the locker rooms I remembered that. I sat down, hoping it would clear. It did, slowly, until I felt up to walking the Long Stairs, One thing I like about BYU is that it's bad at torture. I walked the Stairs without a hitch. It was only when I realized I was a mite thirsty and stopped in for a drink in the SWKT that everything went horribly wrong. If going to a sauna  after over-exerting is a bad idea, drinking cold water while queasy, overly warm, and malnourished is worse.

     I know enough to know when I'm being threatened. The slightly queasy feeling that came over me was the same one you'd feel when you'd eaten bad food, stepped out into the alley for a breath of air, and then had someone put a knife to you and stolen your wallet. It had all the same hallmarks- nausea, followed by needing to get outside, followed by a feeling of impending doom.

     I hurled not long after. I'm not proud. But more importantly, I know that this was just a warning shot. After this, it's war.

     The powers that be have declared where they stand. I thought it was coincidence the first time, but I'm not that lucky. Now that They know I am resolved to be pretty, no matter what the cost, They have declared all-out war, increasing homework load, throwing me into the social rings of people I could get along with, and generally trying to drown out any chance of progress.

     They don't know me. If arrogance can said to be a personality trait, I have it in spades. Icarus himself may have eventually turned back, but I? I am resolved. I have thrown my lot in with the pretty people, and there is no turning back.

Fat Days

     The last few posts I've written have been fairly self-centered, so I'm going to break that mold and write about Fat Days.

     A Fat Day is exactly what it sounds like. They are days where, for no reason you can explain to the people in your life, you don't feel like getting out of bed. You don't feel like doing homework. You don't even feel like sleeping. On a Fat Day, what you want to do most is stare blankly at a wall until it is no longer a wall or it is no longer a Fat Day.

     People argue that it's best to get up and take a brisk jog to shake off the Fat Day pallor. They say eating a healthy breakfast will help you feel more lively. Sometimes they'll even try to get you to do homework. Doing any of these things for long enough will make that Fat Day go away, but I believe that's a wasted opportunity.

     There's something about the Fat Day that's perfect for relaxing. You don't feel like thinking and you don't feel like responsibility, so you can shrug those off and focus your whole self on vegetating. It's a liberating experience, like wearing normal shoes to church or singing in the shower. Like the aforementioned examples, it is massively underrated. It takes a load off your shoulders and a weight off your heart. And everyone needs that sometimes.

     I like to spruce up my Fat Days. I like to dress them in candles and chocolate and make the most of the vegetation. But really, all you need to do is realize that you're exhausted once in a while, lean back with a bowl of ice cream, and watch Buffy until the world seems like a happier place. Trust me on this one, 's nice.

Old World Blues

     Before I start, the Old World is not England. It's Colorado, where I'm from. Old life, old friends, Old World.

     When I left the Old World, I knew it was time to leave. I had all sorts of reasons. I was done with classes and I didn't see any point in putting things off. There was a girl who it hurt to be around. I wanted to know how I did on my own. College and the college lifestyle as an ideal. New horizons. New places. Possibly even new people. (I'm actually very standoffish, but occasionally I find people who I click instantly with. There was hope that there'd be more of that here.)

     I like the New World. I can buy my own ingredients,which is a great blessing when I used to have to deal with whatever the parents brought home. (We never had sour cream or salsa. As far as first-world problems go, that's basically Dante's Inferno, fourth ring.) I can walk to the swimming pool, and now that I'm settled I plan to abuse the privilege. The showers never run out of hot water and that's the greatest thing since cheese on hamburgers.

     There's a few things I miss though. I had great geek friends, and it's difficult to find replacements for people who binge time-travel anime with you. I have to apologize for giving chocolate to someone. There's someone I'd like to convince to come with me, and failing that, who I'd like to spend a lot more time with.

     Some of this is because someone(who will remain unnamed{witness protection[He Who Must Not Be Named]}) convinced me to keep in touch with people from the Old World. Quite honestly, I know most of my friends pretty well, and they'd have been just fine if they didn't hear from me for three months. So that was what I was planning on doing. I was going to cut all ties and head off on my own. New world, new friends, new personality, new everything. I didn't realize this person cared. She did, apparently, and she said she'd whup me if I didn't stay in touch. I believed her. It wasn't difficult. I have full confidence in her ability to beat me to a pulp, especially because chivalry and she's a faster runner than I am.

     I'm still not certain I made the right choice there. There's a desperation that comes from being completely alone, and without it I don't tend to make the effort to meet new people. Now I had a safety net, which is one of the things I wanted to avoid. This is a bit of a trial semester for me, and the ability to crash and burn is something I wanted. Which sounds bad, when you say it that way.

     I also still have to text people. I have some fairly prolific friends, and one who takes it as an offense if you don't text them even if you have nothing to say. I also swore to keep in touch with the girl, and I never felt comfortable talking to her. And then you've got friends talking about gaming and friends who talk about the end of the world being brought on by Raph's chest(Jane the Virgin. It's beautiful. I'm a guy and it's beautiful.) and friends still trying to organize the world's most glacially slow relationship. (They're perfect for each other, they both know it, they both like each other in ALL the ways, and the furthest they've gone is playing Scrabble. Sometimes I just want to lock them in a room, cut the power, and then leave them with chocolate, candles, and Martinelli's apple cider{It's basically champagne, but non-alchoholic} until they learn how to talk to each other.)

     I like texting people. I do. But it takes time, and it reminds me of the Old World, both of which are things that I don't want.I came out here to start afresh, and that just isn't happening.

     So now I have two choices. Ignore many of my old friends and try to focus on what's ahead of me, or choose to maintain the tried and true relationships that I'm comfortable with and continue running into a pathological lack of time.

     I don't know what I'm going to do yet. Maybe I'll compromise and tell everyone not to talk to me during finals. Maybe that'll be enough.

Belonging

     I don't belong anywhere. It's something I've grown to live with over the years. I don't get that feeling of security, even if I'm at home. Some of that may be because I shared my room with the food storage, so I knew that anyone could wander in at any time and the best I could do was throw noodles at them. Even so, small comfort.

     I've been thinking about belonging more in college because I've got nowhere now. Before, I had a few spots spread throughout the open space we lived near. If I needed a break, I'd find a bench and watch the moon for a while. That's not enough here. It's never dark enough and outside has too many people.

     There's ways of looking at the idea of home. The most common is probably "Home is where the heart is." That doesn't work as well as people tend to think it does. Specifically, your heart can be stolen- by a friend, romantic interest, or someone you know you can't be with. If your heart's your home and its been stolen, you'll always feel slightly out of place. You'll think about where you'd rather be and who you'd rather be with all the livelong day, and there's no good way to steal your heart back again. Your heart can also be damaged- the passing of a loved one, a breakup, addiction- and then you'll have nowhere that's quite home to you. It heals, but it takes time, and a home built on the heart didn't have the stability I wanted.

     In the Old World, I made home a place. There were a couple of benches, a spot on the roof of the church, a fallen tree over a pond, and a concrete riverbed that I could really feel at home. Those places were mine. They were wild but hospitable, and I felt more at home there than I did lying in my bed.

     That doesn't work as well here. It's never dark and I've been having trouble finding places close enough to go to to think but far enough away from everything to feel alone, all of which I need. My room has a person in it, who I tend to like, but it's still not really mine. A place that you can never feel alone in is never really yours, and you can't feel alone in a place until you don't have to worry about people walking in on you.

     It is possible to make home a person. Don't.

     I may have missed another option, but the way I see it, I was left with one choice: Home as an object. I've got a set of bracelets for ideas like this, but I didn't want something to carry with me. I wanted something to return to. Something stable. Something solid. Something safe.

     Home is where the sourdough is.

     Think about it. It's something to return to. It's something wholly mine. It's something no one else will learn how to use unless I choose to let them, and if it dies, I can make another. It has upkeep, but something to draw you home's not a bad idea. And I can carry it wherever I go, just so long as I can feed it every twelve hours.

     It's not as stable as I'd like, but I can live with instability for a few years. And it's mine. That'll be enough.

The Holy Grail

     Today I made bread.

     That's simple enough. Bread's a pretty common beginner's recipe to skin your teeth on, and I didn't know how to make it, so I decided to be normal (*gasp*) and try my luck.

     This could have been a simple story, were I not the arrogant cad I am. I decided I wanted to really push my limits. To go higher. To go farther. To go where plenty of people but comparatively few college students had gone before. I decided to make sourdough.

     There's a bit of backstory behind all this. Sourdough's difficult, and I wouldn't go after it if I didn't have a good reason. Simply put, my aunt gave me a romance novel about bread and it piqued my curiosity.(It's called Bread Alone, would totes recommend if you're into bread romance novels.) It went into great detail about levain, French artisan sourdough. Actually, I mostly ended up skipping past the romance parts and reading about the bread.(It has recipes, too. Best romance novel EVER.) Ever after reading, I knew I'd have to try to make it. First off, the descriptions of it were absolutely mouthwatering. Second, it was described as hellishly complicated and difficult. And I do so love a challenge.

     There was a problem, though. I'm gluten intolerant, and not because I think it's better for me. I stay away from gluten because I know if I'm not careful, I bleed from unfortunate places(My stomach. Get your brain out of the gutter.) and develop a completely irrational temper, of the throwing things and hurting people variety. And I'm huge. I knew I'd have to be careful on this one.

     So, I started by growing my own sourdough starter. I wasn't metal enough to pull yeast out of the air(Sourdough's pure witchery sometimes.) but I did feed yeasts until they grew old and disillusioned with the world, turning flour and water into something else entirely.

     I say there's a hint of magic in food. Sourdough's a perfect example of this. You throw a pinch of a living organism into a bowl, and then feed it every twelve hours, and are left with a completely unique acidic ingredient with properties found nowhere else. I know the alchemists of old never turned lead into gold, but maybe they were looking in the wrong place, because sourdough converting mundane ingredients into something other reminds me of nothing less than alchemy.

     It took more than the starter, of course. I had to acquire half a dozen pieces of cooking tech to be able to pull this off, and that took a while. My parents were instrumental in making this happen, because they're awesome people and could probably wrestle trolls with their bare hands if they wanted to. But this was a quest, a trial by fire, and I wasn't going to let a murderous recipe, complicated ingredients, dietary restrictions, lack of basic cooking implements and homework stand in my way.

     In the end, it took about seven hours, after I had what I needed. Most of this was watching the dough rise, I'm not gonna lie.

     It only got interesting after about six hours, when the recipe I was following called me to slide the fledgling dough into an oven turned to five hundred degrees. I've never turned an oven that high, and I'm fairly certain that's about as hot as the oven can get. The worrying only really started when I slid the dough into that inferno.

     Had I used too much millet flour? Would the water I added be enough to compensate for altitude? Was it really a good idea to follow a sourdough recipe from a freakin' fertility blog?

     It only got worse when I smelled the bread. A roommate later said it smelled like the back end of a wallaby. The worst thing was, I agreed. I'd put hours of work into this bread, and while it was cooking, a process supposed to fill the air with childhood memories and the nasal equivalent of a purring kitten, I'd gotten the back end of a wallaby instead. Suffice to say I wasn't enthused.

     And then I tried the bread. It was more than edible(A friend who can eat wheat liked it. That means a lot to those who can't.) it still wasn't what I was looking for. It, like its starter, was something other- a new kind of bread that I hadn't known existed, but I immediately decided I thoroughly liked. It carried and expanded on the warm, inviting taste of bread fresh from the oven, the added richness lending depth and character. Sourdough's kinda my baby, and I was a very proud parent.

     All that being said, it wasn't what I was looking for. As a bread it was phenomenal, but it didn't quite have what I was looking for from a sourdough, and I'm not willing to give up the chase just yet. I've got my equipment. I've grown a starter. And I'm not going to stop until the Holy Grail of gluten-free baking is within my grasp.

Candles

     I have strong feelings about ambiance. I also have strong feelings about bubble baths, chocolate, candles, and the moon. I've been called a 40 year-old housewife for this, and even though I am a strapping youth full of piss and vinegar, I didn't even mind. In fairness, that may be because the girl saying it is adorable, but it may also be because I actually don't mind being included in a clique of people who seem to be doing life right.

     Anyone who denies themselves the occasional guilty pleasure is hurting themselves for no good reason. Whether it's watching The Vampire Diaries or a slice of cheesecake, the enjoyment given by occasionally indulging can buoy our spirits for an hour, a day, or a week, and whatever small loss of time or gain in waistline may occur, it's better to go through life with that buoying joy.

     That's the same way I feel about ambiance. It takes almost no effort to turn out the lights and light the candles for dinner, but no one seems to do it. Same thing with bubble baths. Seriously, it's an hour of your time and it's the nicest thing to happen to your body since padding for chairs was invented. The lasting sense of satisfaction and feeling like all is right with the world(The technical name for this emotion is happy-cat-stomach) can last for the rest of the day and carry on into the next.

     Sure, you can't tell your friends about it the same way you could an impressive hike or long jog. But while your friends are complaining of sore muscles and sprained ankles, you can lean back and smile. In fact, if you are truly impressive, you can do the hike or jog and THEN take the bubble bath and brag about the both of them. Seeing as most of those reading this will be college students, that's perfect for the semi-active, off-and-on rigorous lifestyle we lead.

     It doesn't even need to be that much. (If it did, I'd be in trouble because I only have a shower. It's terrible. It's like watching horror movies without someone to cuddle with.) I have a set of electric candles, the rechargeable kind. Turning those on and arranging them around the room can turn something as normal as eating ice cream into a warm and fuzzy experience. You can watch them flicker as you go to sleep, like a little birdhouse in your soul. You shouldn't just take my word on this, but it's nice.

     And then you have chocolate. That's an old staple.There's a reason it's seen as romantic, and everyone agrees that it's fantastic, but we tend to leave it in its tiny romantic corner. This is a mistake, like missing a class or burning the library of Alexandria. Chocolate is good at ALL times of the day or night, and it's a travesty that we don't use it more often. If you've ever had chocolate pancakes in the morning, you can begin to appreciate what I mean. Unexpected chocolate from a friend is another good example, and having a stash for more difficult days is absolutely magical. (Take it from a kid who has such a stash.) You do want to watch out when giving any out, though. People can take a gift of chocolate all sorts of wrong, and if you don't want a relationship with someone you give chocolate to, you have to make that abundantly clear. It's annoying, really.

     A small change in ambiance can mark the difference between a date and a get-together, between something special and just another night. Ambiance makes times special, and why we'd choose to live a life with fewer special times in it is quite frankly beyond me. So find the small things that improve your life, and bring them out as often as you can, because our lives can always be better than they are, and this is something that can help with that.

Revelations in the New World

     Today I realized I was a college student.

     Shouldn't have been a momentous thought. I mean, I've been here a month. I've fought the BYU printers and emerged victorious. I've slept through a class. I've pursued my cooking hobby with far more zeal than was probably necessary. I've done everything a college student is really supposed to do before they become an adult. But I didn't realize that until I realized that I could eat french fries, banana bread, and chocolate cereal with chocolate milk without anyone telling me I shouldn't.

     It's a heady sense of freedom, especially over such a small thing. College doesn't feel drastically different from my life at home, so I guess this is just my wake-up call, telling me that I'm on my own now, and NOBODY can keep me from things I want to eat. Which feels like a wasted wake-up call, what with there being people out there who are actually struggling, but I'm not going to complain. I'm an ad-ult now, and if I decide that that means eating cereal and fries for dinner, then no one's going to stop me.

     Obviously I'm not going to do this every night. I have things like "enjoying a relatively fit body" and "staying in the dating pool" to do. Plus there's people at home who would be all sorts of disappointed if I came back fat. But a man cannot survive on sourdough and grapefruit juice alone, and seeing as that's what I've been trying to accomplish over the last month, maybe it's good that I had this little wake-up call now.

It's in the Water

     I've been enjoying college. There's interesting people, I get to cook my own meals, and American Heritage is not the the snarling devil-beast everyone told me it would be. I've figured out I can give my plasma to people who are quite possibly vampires for money, and that my childhood is vindicated now that Calvin and Hobbes and Joss Whedon are seen to be as awesome as they actually are. I only noticed the change after a movie night assignment for American Heritage, a 1966 movie adaptation of a play called A Man For All Seasons. Very political, very historical, and I liked it. And that's the problem.

     See, I know myself well enough to know that I'm very rarely entertained by political dialog. I don't care about politics and its oh-so-shouty world. I don't care about who gets into what positions and what effects that'll have on the global everything. When I realized I was now an ad-ult and old enough to vote, I viewed my own power with fear, and I care more about my homework than who gets to be President. I'm not the kind of person to like political movies, and yet I enjoyed this one, and I think I'm beginning to understand why.

     I think something is happening at this school, something dark and sinister. I think we're all caught in a web of lies and treachery that goes all the way to the top. I think only the main character and romantic interest will make it out unscathed. (I think the only way to stop it is to overuse cliches.)

     I'm not naturally a happy person, and then I came here. I've been cooking my own meals with scant ingredients and constant hangups and yet it's one of the highlights of being here. American Heritage assigned me 12 pages of Locke and then said it was the wrong reading and I still don't hate the class. I'm not even mad about the persistent malfunctions of Learning Suite or that the internet router is a potato.

     I think we're all slowly being brainwashed. It's the only explanation for this kind of non-hostility on my part, and the quiet happiness I can't seem to be rid of. Whether or not it's all of us, I don't know, but I can't imagine I'd be singled out. We're all victims of this conspiracy, and I'm getting out.

     The only way for Them to consistently get something into my system is through the water, because my eating schedule's been anything but regular. With this in mind, the solution is clear.

     If you want to make it out of here intact, only drink juice. Never boil your pasta, eat it raw. Set up filters for rainwater collection if you have to. Eat juicy fruits and never, EVER, go into the swimming pool. I can't be held responsible for the consequences if you do.

Cooking and The Dark Arts

     My grandmother sent me a heretical cookbook.

     It looked entertaining at first- bright colors, entertaining recipes, pretty girl on the front. (I'm easily entertained.) It's intended to be for those absolutely metal viking warriors and insane college students who're on the Paleo diet,(I'm not, but if anyone reading this is, you guys are incredible.) The Paleo diet is intended as a return to our neolithic roots by cutting out most refined products and all grains, so some of the recipes in there are interesting to say the least. I mean, they have a bread recipe. Without using grains. That's not the magic of cooking anymore, that's meddling with dark forces better left alone.

     See, I feel strongly about cooking. There's a touch of magic in a hot soup on a cold day, and I swear by the (emotional) healing properties of chocolate. There is subtle warmth in honey and a breath of distant exploration in ginger, and there's a little spice called caraway that reminds me of nothing less than whispered secrets in the deep dark night. My family's been cooking for generations now, and along the way we've figured out a couple of tricks, a basic knowledge of what to throw in the cauldron and when. That's the basis of good cooking, knowing how to combine the impressions left by food into something that is more than the sum of its parts.

     With that in mind, I had to look at the heretical cookbook. Its dark secrets of shortcuts and alternatives to cooking the dishes I know and love was more than I could ignore. Some recipes I could look at and accept, like the bread recipe. It uses coconut flour, which I guess isn't a grain and is therefore safe from being modern. Some recipes were alluring in their simplicity, like the almond flour scones. (Those of you who've never had almond flour, it tastes like the butter of sacred cows came down from the sky and had a baby with flour.) All was well until I made the mistake of turning to the 'Poultry' section. Paleo cookbooks tend to know their way around meat, so I though I was safe. No such luck.

     Deep within the poultry section of the heretical cookbook, past many safe and wholesome recipes, in a place where man(woman[anthropomorphic aliens]) should never turn, was a recipe for Pad See Ew, the deeper, darker brother of Pad Thai. It's a noodle dish, tastes much like a rich Pad Thai made with beef, and something about it was very wrong. It took me a moment to realize that the noodles in the example photo were very orange. It took me another moment to look over to the recipe. But by that time, it was already too late.

     Pad See Ew is a noodle dish, and this was a grain-free cookbook. Looking back, I should have seen the warning signs from the start, but at the time I was led by my tongue more than my good sense. The recipe substitutes carrot slices for noodles. This is just about as heretical as cooking can get, but I've seen the recipe and there is no turning back. Between my own curiosity and the lure of something this new, I will, at some point, cook Pad See Ew. I will commit heresy against cooking. And I don't think there's any way I can stop myself. At this point, I'm not even sure I want to stop myself. And that scares me more than anything.