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We Don't Need No Resolution

Humans love to romanticize endings. And beginnings. And the draggy parts in the middle I guess, but they dig a goodbye, the drama of dissolution. And so as 2011 comes to a close, I’m forced via the emotional climate and energy to reflect upon this year, make assertions and judgments, constructively criticize myself and then pinpoint a new goal for next year. But what if this year was so beautifully perfect, glorious and pristine, rich and dense, at once hazy and yet crystal clear, that you don’t want it to dissolve? I want to reside in this current state of being into 2012 and keep experiencing life with this mindset and principles. Not that I’m whole, fully realized, successful or 100% fulfilled, but this year set off a flame inside me that is already burning bright, it’s impervious, cannot be dimmed. This is not a spotlight. I am not performing. I am Alive. Excessively so. And I aim to remain. We often want to lose weight, lose/gain a job, lose/gain a relationship, start something we’ve been wanting or end something our friends have been pleading us to; none of this works. These are external solutions for internal issues. We must be patient and kind to ourselves, begin to recognize old thought and behavior patterns, bring some awareness in and see the subtle shift we make toward progress. We shift the internal and the external blossoms. Having goals to change or improve aren’t bad, clearly, but our society perpetuates superficial or cliché objectives every new year, as if that specific fragment in time means anything.

Winter is often difficult and sometimes depressing, 3 months of dissolution, we see it in nature. A more appropriate date to explore varying routes to positive change is the end of March, Spring, a time of worldwide growth, amongst humans, animals, plants, a time of beginnings, renewals, a time to blossom. However, putting an actual date on your impending change in behavior or lifestyle only keeps this goal living in the future, some distant place you’ll reach somehow but obviously progress can only really occur in the now, and keep occurring during this very moment, from the inside out.

Just speaking from the western culture I’ve developed in and observed, we begin a steady decline once fall hits, the weather cools and we roll into the “dress up like someone scary/slutty/funny/weird/obscure” time while ingesting copious amounts of sweets and probably alcohol or some fun but harmful substance, and then for some deranged reason we hop on a gluttony train, eating stale candy until we can fill ourselves with pie, starch, turkey and other November deliciousness that inevitably makes us tired so we coast on lethargy and bloat until December when the cavalcade of holiday parties take up our weekends. By then we’re exhausted from our consumerist activities, shopping, eating, decorating, napping, drinking and any combination/order of those until we park ourselves permanently onto a cushioned surface to eat some tasty meat doubled over with butter, served with sides of gravy, accompanied by items covered in cheese or mysterious crunchy goodness, which is then sandwiched in moments of time eating holiday themed savory and sweet treats, washed down by equally intoxicating special occasion beverages while you watch Home Alone for the 8th time that month because you have the case for Christmas Vacation but no actual disk and although the charm and nostalgia of a VHS tape is fun, no one in their right mind still owns and uses a VCR, nor do we want to watch that shitty version made for a 19 inch 80’s television, then stretched to fit a modern high-definition flat screen.

After Home Alone 1 and 2, you may switch back to the 24 hour marathon of A Christmas Story, marking the 12th year you’ve watched it out-of-order, finding somehow to see the same scenes but never the full story, rarely remembering character names or a plot but merely specific famous lines and scenarios that have embedded their way into our culture like Star Wars references. I’ve only seen the first film (the one with a handsome Harrison Ford, not episode one or whatever, nerds) and yet I know that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father, just like I know in a Christmas Story the boy shoots his eyeglass out, gets into a fight, gets pushed down a slide by Santa’s boot and gets soap shoved in his mouth for cursing. It’s my parent’s generational holiday story and for some reason ours is Christmas Vacation and Home Alone. Can’t get enough of either. Back on track...

Then you have pie. And then, even though you all promised to cut back or perhaps not buy any gifts this year, the tree is up to its angel in gifts and you dole it out eagerly, most going to babies who don’t know and children who will soon forget, or simply prefer to play with the box over its contents. You add up your gift cards, inevitably lose something in the piles of wrapping paper and then you nap, waking up to another shot from A Christmas Story you saw earlier in the day. And then you eat cookies. At some point someone starts gathering trash, hoards and hoards of ugly patterned paper, tissue, tape, ripped bags, cards someone pretends to keep but actually tosses, rolled up food stained napkins, plates, half full cups, and candy wrappers, saying goodbye to numerous trees yet again, asking yourself if you’ve even had water once today, opting for whatever’s left in your plastic santa cup before you throw it away.

So you’ve had an 8-10 week sugar rush interspersed with moments of pure sloth, to then emerge at the end of December with nothing to show for it but some sugar related acne, broken zippers, burst buttons, probably some fun albeit foggy memories, and fading bitter ones of board games lost, and then a low-grade -no more singing joyfully, no more candy (until Valentine’s Day), no more forced, organized opportunities to gorge and get drunk with family and friends, no more too good to pass up sales, back to work- depression sets in.

For some reason, during this time I just described with 100% accuracy, we’re forced to evaluate our lives during a couple of months of indulgent, surfacey fun behavior and amidst all the chaos and stupor we’re then encouraged to land safely back in reality to then scout out our faults and bad habits and scold ourselves into changing after one last night of emotional and physical bingeing, to then miraculously make huge steps in an entirely newer and better direction for an infinite amount of time. No thank you. What a bunch of bullshit designed to keep us in our cyclone of crap, to repeat the same nonsense from January to December yet again.

There should be zero guilt associated with those few months of celebration, sugar absorption, gift giving and relaxing. It’s biological. Winter is coming, we need an extra layer to keep warm. That ebb and flow is natural, we’re leaner when it’s hot and fuller when it’s cold. When it comes to the more long-term, major adjustments, the resolution is much deeper and cannot begin after a night of alcohol abuse and slurred words. Perhaps we should begin on an arbitrary date, or our birthdays, or some date significant to us but no one else. The date does not matter. It is the intention and the energetic focus of that intention that determines our success in this evolutionary endeavor. Our goal as individuals and as a society is to keep getting better, internally, opening our mind and our heart a little more each day, so what we have to give only grows and a blissful presence remains despite external stress, relationship woes, excess pounds, or the absence of money.

We don’t need no resolution and we certainly don’t need it on January 1st. This is recuperation time. Time to reflect on the positives of the year, take the lessons from the mistakes and let any lingering negativity go. Time to let the massive quantities of carbohydrates digest, give the ole liver and kidneys some much needed H2O, resolve to either make changes necessary in the areas we are not happy and/or recognize the power in our own perception and reactivity. We choose to see people and situations in our own light and if that light is consistently dark and pervasively negative, then we know the change must first come within. As within, so without. If someone or something is so overtly caustic to us and others, then we must choose to remove ourselves from their presence. When it’s a necessary to suck it up and deal, then I’ve found it helpful to find the good and let it drown out the bad, whether in a human being or circumstance. We then change the way we operate toward the person or environment and the results are proof, we get what we give.

This year I resolve to feel nothing but gratitude for what’s led me here. Love.

I will allow my heart to speak up over my head and my chattering left brain to be silenced by the wisdom and acceptance of my right.

I will continue to strip my life down to simple truths and joys, food, laughter, love. Everything else is bonus.

I will do my best to choose collaboration over competition and relish the act of playing a game instead of predicating my happiness on the result. The means is far more important than the end.

I will not be discouraged when whatever external forms of success seem to be at a stand-still and when the financial well continues to be dry.

I will try to treat myself like I do my best friends and encourage them to do the same. Instead of labeling myself and others for their faults, I’ll lead and be grateful for the strengths and hope they diminish the weaknesses.

I will strive for a stream of consciousness that imbues a sense of connection with others, an unshakable calm disposition with an uninhibited self-expression, while in a perpetual state of internal and external motion.

Even those with whom I’d prefer to be apart, I wish you peace and goodness. For those I love, I wish you a balanced, loving life so full you’re overwhelmed by your happiness, fulfilled by your endeavors and satisfied in every imaginable way. I wish for us all to enjoy a full life together. Happy New Year.

May you always Eat (like a fatty), Laugh (like a schizo) and Love (like a lunatic). Remember: You’re awesome, give whatever you feel you’re lacking, let’s not take each other so seriously and have some fun in this whacktastic world.

Resolve conflicts. Relinquish control. Realize your innate goodness. Release. Repeat.

intentions-896x1024

Who I am becoming...

I typically write how I speak and therefore only have some trepidation in simply hitting "Publish" after transcribing my last meal. I took me a while to put myself out there in that way, which may seem strange or even ridiculous, but I've lived most of my life in fear of the unknown and of my own criticism. Through a series of events since turning 27 I've delved deeper into my form of self-expression, writing. I believe art is an act of courage and although what I'm writing may not seem like art to some, I feel a modicum of anxiety each time I release my words, and so maybe there is a courageous person hidden somewhere. Sarcasm and humor predicates almost all conversations and experiences. It bleeds into my writing. I simply cannot help it. Deep down, there is a sweet, vulnerable woman who is hungry for life experiences and wants to love. Perhaps it's easy to express that love for food. It has only ever loved me back, but in all sincerity it's those I choose to share a table with that I want to love, outwardly. Behind the tough exterior and facetious defense lies a human being open to change, who yearns to let go, nut up, stop getting in their own way and welcome people and experiences into their life.

I've transitioned from first to third person, clearly in an act of defensiveness. I'm back. So there it is. I'm strong and smart and humorous and hungry. Mainly, I'm just a woman with 2.7 decades on Earth and a voracious need for self-acceptance. Absorbing art and sustenance is not enough. I must heed the advice I pass on to my yoga students, everything I need is already within me. I'm slowly beginning to bring a sincere, inner YES to whatever is and if I do not like it, I must be proactive in changing it or simply accept it as it is.

Negative patterns have created a fear of failure, leading to safe decisions and built-up fortresses. Starting this blog was a step in the right direction. I make zero dollars and get very little feedback but I love it. I cannot paint, draw, sculpt, or play an instrument, but I feel strong when doing this, in expressing what I love in my voice, in what I feel is a creative way and using this form to make others feel special. If I've written for you, or to you, similar to sharing food with you, then you're alright with me. Thank you for being in my life and thank you for reading.

This wordy glimpse into the state of my evolution as it stands today is for me to let this burden of self-deprecation go. I occasionally write poetry, or discuss serious topics beyond the culinary variety and I'm utilizing this platform to be brave, to bring the artist within out, for better or worse. In that light, I'd like to share a poem I wrote the other night. It was after a particularly interesting and insightful day. I'm a bit of a thinker and I feel I'm blossoming into a doer, maybe even an artist.

Thank you, again. If you relate to being your own worst critic and getting in your own way, branch out today. Do something that excites/scares you; the relief in doing brings a rush of bliss inside. My aim and hope for myself and others is to be as fearless within as I am without. I'll try lamb brain and jump out of an airplane but I can't let anyone read a fricken poem? How much sense does that make? As if ridicule ever killed someone. Am I right, people? Don't let me or you get away with cowardess, especially when the sacrifice is personal happiness and peace. You deserve it. So do I. Peace, love, laughs and hugs.

Old Soul in a New World

Nostalgic for a time I never knew Never here Or there Pleading to belong

Longing for light A breakthrough An opening Needing to feel alive

Hopeful but there’s doubt Reckless confusion abound Maybe I’ll find my place The answer will reveal itself

I question worthiness Contradictory needs for validation The path is slowed, possibly destroyed Reversed if the truth is found

Roots provide the way And that route is knowing Believing, thinking, never enough Living in timelessness, loving beyond the rest

Mastic8onChicago

What a weekend I had; hell, WEEK! It was full of insanity, fun, laughter, music, and of course, food. I pulled a cliché tourist move and went to the Taste of Chicago, on a Saturday, yeah. After a busy morning and early afternoon of teaching, I returned home to a sleeping brother, my visiting guests were out exploring, and I opted to wake that lazy fool up and take the El downtown to squeeze through the diverse, at times large, crowd to taste Chicago. The red line was murder that day. I’m still confused. It was ridiculous. We stopped at Clark and Division and just didn’t move. At all. For minutes on end. It was one of those spaces of time where you make a decision who you’re going to be: the person who huffs and puffs and queries and rolls the eyes, the person who pretends nothing is happening and they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be, or the person who keeps rubbing their belly in hunger, making snarky comments to passersby, and who calls the huffers and puffers who must know all out. Being in good company I chose somewhere between the 2nd and 3rd option. My stomach growled, impatience slowly built, but me and my bro kept our wits about us. We kept the eye on the prize. We got out and walked along the busy streets of downtown Chicago until we approached Columbus Circle and the multi-colored arches donning the festival’s name.

Now, if you ask most seasoned Chicagoans, the thought of attending Taste activates their gag-reflex. I just wanted to recognize this and say, I don’t care. I had fun. I came. I ate. I conquered. Armored with my trusted entourage, we approached the long line for the food and beverage ticket tent, waited, bought, moved on. $8 buys you 12 tickets. I bought 48 for me and my hunk of man love. First, beverage. Beer was 11 tickets. Um, no. Wine was 7. That’s more like it. A thimble of Pinot grigio later and we were ready to munch.

The format of the festival is almost t-shaped, well kind of cross I guess, the head of which leads toward Millennium Park. With approximately 60 food vendors, multiple beverage tents, musical guests, demonstrations and thousands of people, to say it was overwhelming would be a drastic understatement. We stood around like farm animals not knowing where to go or what to do. We just knew we smelled food and wanted to put it in our mouths. The biggest obstacle in the way of culinary bliss, and most other dreams, were strollers. Man if it wasn’t illegal I’d...nevermind. Happy thoughts. We circumvented them well. Again, eye on the prize.

Our first choice was a classic American hand-held delight, full of fat, cholesterol, death and deliciousness; a corn dog. Then we moved on to samosas, spicey, potatoey, saucey (these are all words by the way). What came next was this turkey and herb meatball cupcake topped with a swirl of creamy mashed potatoes. Given the quick swallowing of the shot of wine, we became thirsty and irritable. We got some orange and grape drink and continued on our quest. What came next was a delectable little pocket of heaven; a fried pork and banana dumpling, so full of warmth and soul, I loved it! Sweet potato fries encourage anything down and while we vigorously chewed those we dropped 4 tickets on some plantain and meat concoction. Also delicious.

There were some other items; amazing pot stickers, meat on a stick, random desserts, icy beverages. It made the squeezing through parents and kids on wheels much less chaotic. We were ready for naps, just like the children. Rounding off the weekend with a great BBQ and the celebration of gay PRIDE with our friends on Halsted, it was one of our more memorable weekends. My hope is that my life reflects a sense of quality and while I haven’t acquired many things, since becoming an adult I’ve brought with me some tremendous memories from travels, meals and interesting people. Taste tries to encapsulate that sentiment and therefore I’m on board. Ahoy!

Eat your face off! Enjoy =)

A boost at any time of day: Pick-Me-Up Cafe

Pick-Me-Up Cafe We’d lived in Chicago a good 6 months before stumbling across this national treasure. Well, local treasure. We live on Addison, steps west of Wrigley, yes, wise decision for people who enjoy falling asleep at 11 and rising at 730, but I saw the big red sign and for a life-long baseball fan new to this wonderful city, the tractor beam sucked me right in. The life and energy the losers called the Cubs bring to this neighborhood is unmatched and at times it’s annoying, but mostly it’s just fun. On one of the annoying nights, the Saturday before St. Patty’s day, which fell on a fricken Thursday this year, so 5 days before the day, people are giving themselves permission to act like drunken idiots as early as 11 a.m. that day. Poor Ireland. I’ve been there. And yes they like their drink, but none of them acted like these American buffoons. What a beautiful, respectful way to pay homage to the Emerald Isle.

Anyhoo, back on message. You have the back-story. We deliberately walked around Addison and Clark, the ground zero of idiotic behavior and grouping, to find a place to eat on Broadway or Halsted, in a slightly more civilized, quiet drunk kind of area. We did that thing where you walk and walk and say “how about here?” Read the menu, hem and haw, then say “nah” and keep walking. So frustrating this custom, especially when you get rage hungry like I do. We stop in this awesome looking place in our shabby clothing, bulky coats, and overall shameful attire and attitude, all to be embarrassed when asked what time our reservation is for and ultimately made aware of not only the clientele but also the popularity of this establishment. Epic fail. Lesson learned.

Walking again. I decide we are going to the Chicago Diner, just a block west on Halsted, because it’s DElightful, its got a young hipster vibe, which I don’t have. As an old soul with little interest in style, I don’t belong anywhere but my friends and husband fit right in there and I at least have visible tattoos which will get me in the door. Oh and I experiment with vegetarianism, double rainbow. Naturally, 45 minute wait. Balls. The adorable, most-likely gay host tells us of a couple diners with a similar vibe, Pick Me Up being one of them. See how I finally bring it back to the task at hand? 30 second break to pat myself on back.............Ok. That’s better.

Soooo, we walk, again, this time back toward our neighborhood, to the very street we were avoiding in the first place, Clark street! Gah! Idiots. Pick Me Up is situated in this awesome flat-iron shaped building, nestled between an al’s italian beef (to be discussed soon) and some random store, probably a head shop. What am I a tour guide? Look it up! It’s got an cutesie large three dimensional coffee cup perched on top next to a sign with the restaurant’s very name. We walk in two separate doors that most mid-western folk could not squeeze into sideways and approach the host, wearing too cool for school scenester glasses who hands us our menus and tells us kindly to sit wherever we’d like. Yep, it’s that kind of place. The tables are all different, they have a diner look and vibe, plastic soft seats or booths, metal rimming edging the tables, but they take it up an artsy notch and make the tables strange shapes. Fuck the square and rectangles of yesteryear. No, we’re not even going round, we’re going full on what the fuck is this and how many people is this designed to sit? 5? It’s strangely awesome of course. You get cool points for being there, which helps me because I always feel parched and in need of those points.

We sit. In 10 minutes Winnie Cooper from the fricken Wonder Years!!! comes to wait on us. I swear! Derek says no, but I swear guys! She’s fricken A.DOR.ABLE. I love her, immediately. My angry hunger from the walk and rejection from previous eateries has surpassed and I’m in nostalgic heaven. Winnie Cooper looks the same, puppy dog brown eyes, long straight brown hair, bangs, sweet smile, but now she’s a regular badass because both of her arms are coated in tattoos, full on sleeves! Omg, I could not admire her more. I want you all to see her. Ok, anyway, I order a felafel pita. Derek orders their club sandwich. These sound like regular ole boring items but when you’re sitting at an irregular shaped table, with an uber-inked Winnie Cooper as your waitress you want a little normalcy. I enjoyed my wrap tremendously, particularly the generous helping of hummus inside said pita, as I’m a whore for hummus and I consume it on a daily basis, no matter what my gastrointestinal tract has to say about it. Or anyone else for that matter. Derek felt his club was the best thing since the sliced bread that surrounded the characters inside the sandwich and we left with a pep in our step and one of Pick me Up’s famous brownies. No they’re not some hippie dippie sweet one would find in Amsterdam. That’s the only thing that would have made it better. Just a regular ole brownie but it was tasty.

The bill was reasonable, the staff super cool, relaxed and friendly, and the combination of random shit on the walls and tables, mixed with the eclectic diner style menu made for a very pleasant experience. It’d be great with a group, lunch date with a friend, lunch date with a book, or a quick cup of soup, as I forgot to mention their soups are awesome! We’ve since been back multiple times and I may write about those experiences in a future blog when I’m struggling for material.

Enjoy. Eat. Live long and prosper. Thanks for reading.