• better iced coffee

    Last night found me sitting at the kitchen table stabbing holes in watermelon chunks with a fork and then carefully filling the little holes with Captain Morgan’s. It had been a long day. The muggy heat made me want to beat something.

    I was mad at my clothes for being on my body.
    I was angry with my hair for touching my scalp.
    I was furious at the windows for not letting in more air.
    And I was outraged at the weather for not being breezy.

    Heat does not a rational Jennifer make.

    Also, I was ridden with the worst sort of writerly desperation that I will not detail because it’s pathetic and sad and no one likes a whine-fest—

    EXCEPT I WILL SAY THIS. A bad stretch of writing and my day is soured, down the drain, fizzled, kaput. So far, I have been incapable of separating my writing angst from the rest of my life. It bleeds into everything, distracts the crap out of me, and drags down the not-writing times when I should be focused on cooking, gardening, or hanging with the fam. Such a brain suck. Knowing that I’ll be battling this mind war for the next months (ha, YEARS! who am I kidding?) is enough to make me weep. Or spike my watermelon. 

    I know (or am pretty sure, at least) that bad spells are just that—spells—and I’m as likely to fall into a groove as I am to fall out of it. The key is to keep grooving. Or something.

    Blah, blah, whatever. Let’s talk about coffee.

    Really, this coffee is not anything new. I’ve already written about my iced coffee recipe. In this hot weather, I live on the stuff. (Lie: I only drink it once, after lunch. I drink hot coffee in the morning.) But then last week I saw a recipe for Cold Coffee Improved Upon. The recipe called for adding sugar (brown!) to the grounds at the start of the cold-brewing process, and I was like, Heck yessss. No more stirring sugar into cold coffee before drinking! (Hot weather makes me lazy.)

    The recipe also called for adding some cinnamon. So I did. I’m not a cinnamon-in-coffee gal, but the addition was rather nice: warm with a kick of fancy. I suggest you try it.

    Better Iced Coffee 
    Adapted from Dinner with Julie.

    1 cup finely ground coffee
    ¼ cup brown sugar
    ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

    Put all three ingredients into a quart jar. Fill to the top with cold water. Screw on a lid and shake. Set the jar in the fridge for 24-48 hours. Strain, put the coffee concentrate into a clean quart jar, and refrigerate.

    To serve: fill an ice-filled glass half full of coffee and top with milk. Stir and drink, ahhhh.

    This same time, years previous: weigh in, please, my ethical scapegoat, cilantro beet salad, orange cranberry scones, spaghetti with fresh herbs and fried eggs, chocolate peanut butter cake, cabbage apple slaw with buttered pecans, and sour cherry crostatas.

  • the quotidian (6.22.15)

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



    Grilled strawberries. Have you tried them? 
    They get soft and juicy, and their flavor intensifies. 
    I’d like to churn them into ice cream next time.

    We’re hooked.

    Keeping the mess outside.
    Boss of The Deep Clean.
    Caring for the neighbors’ animals has perks: milk!

    How he likes to wake up: breakfast on the couch and a book. 
    (Note: I do not limit my children’s cream cheese usage.)

    When the road crew comes: the best seats in (or out of) the house.

    My younger daughter’s wise investment: this book (but from Costco for 12 bucks).
    Having a good time without me: a photo that appeared on my camera.

    An unsolved mystery: how he managed to slice his right index finger 
    while holding the knife in his right hand.

    Tending the corn. 
    Tuckered out: after a rainy afternoon spent varmint hunting.
    Pizza so big you have to stick your tongue out while lugging it into the kitchen.

    This same time, years previous: in recovery, dobby and luna, magic custard cake, walking through water, three things, the quotidian (6.19.12), refried beans, Kate’s enchiladas, this particular Friday, what I got, and how to freeze cilantro.

  • sinking in

    I am in a fog. Last week when our water system sprung a leak, I didn’t notice (“Didn’t you see the water all over the basement floor?” my husband asked. “Well, yes,” I admitted. “I did see water, now that you mention it, but, um, it didn’t register.”) I put a pot of rice on the stove and then promptly forgot about it…until the smoke alarms reminded me. Once I even forgot to drink my coffee.

    My older son, in particular, takes offense at my glazed-over eyes. “How much longer are you going to be like this?” My answer—at least a couple years—did not sit well with him.

    See, a few weeks ago a publisher approached me with an idea. We met the very next day to bat around ideas, and the next day I stayed home from church to Google “How to write a book.” (!!!) That afternoon my husband and I rearranged our bedroom so I could have an official book-writing place, and the next evening he built me a table-desk from an old door in three hours flat.

    I got some plants from the greenhouse and stuffed them in little pots and old bowls (oxygen for my brain), and I scavenged a white board and bulletin board from the thrift store.

    I read about quaint writer sheds and sleek studios and offices that take up entire rooms, but let me tell you, not a one of them has anything on my nook. What with the tall, breezy windows and high ceiling, an entire floor and bed on which to spread out my papers, and a desk that has a hole in it from where the doorknob used to be, I couldn’t be happier. Plus, the room has a closeable door, and when my time is up, I leave everything where it is and no one messes with it. Oh the glories!

    (Also? Our bedroom has been severely underutilized. Why? Why?!)

    Actually, these last couple weeks have been spent not on the book but on the seminar I’ll be giving at our church’s national convention. But since the seminar is on homeschooling (“Skipping School,” Wednesday at 7:30 p.m. in room 2104A—COME!) and that’s what the book is about, it all blurs together.

    Last week my children were all otherwise occupied thanks to their regular work schedules, my mother and a girlfriend, and an Interfaith Peace Camp, so I had six hours each day (and nine hours on Thursday!) to spend writing. I’ve always thought that I can only stand to write for about two hours at a time, so my endurance has come as a complete surprise. It certainly hasn’t been all roses, but the overwhelming feeling is enjoyment. Which is, to say the least, encouraging.

    I haven’t sunk into a project like this for…well, for since forever, I guess. I live my life on the surface, only dipping into projects here and there, always prepared to be yanked from whatever it is I’m doing—perhaps this is a side-effect of mothering?—so to sink into something this deep feels luxurious. I have permission to go inward. No, scratch that. I have been asked to do this. In a way, I’m off the productivity hook. While there is the goal of a finished product (which is actually a very large and pointy hook, ah!), daily productivity is not the expectation. For now, the process is what counts. Consistency. Plodding forward, one new idea, vignette, and researched idea at a time.

    And now, if you’ll excuse me. I have an outline to tackle, and a working title and table of contents to conjure out of the thin air of my brain. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can I think I can I think I can IthinkIcanIthinkIcan TOOT TOOT!


    This same time, years previous:
    mud cake, spinach dip, the quotidian (6.16.14), the smartest thing I did, the business of belonging, street food, language study, Greek cucumber and tomato salad, a glimpse, sourdough waffles, and when I sat down.