Food That Makes Me Happy

I had this crazy idea that it would be easy to resist eating out in DC.  Yeah, go ahead, laugh it up.  I rarely did it back home!  Ah, but that was then. 

Seriously, it's fantastic!  And I'm going to temporarily set aside the clear and present danger to my wallet and just talk about my new favorite eats and drinks.

Chipotle

This is where I'm taking you if you come to visit me.  It's like Subway, only with burritos or rice bowls, and it's completely addicting.  You have to order fast, which is a common denominator in all my city dining experiences thus far.  But it's cheap, since there's no wait staff, and even cheaper if you split a single bowl with your sister.  Best dining spot so far: sitting on a rock wall in the Mosaic District with Chloe.

Cava Mezze Grill  

A friend took me here for lunch, and it's a lot like Chipotle, only with Mediterranean food.  I got rice, chicken, tzatziki, kalamata olives, tomato and cucumbers, and a few other things.  It was delicious, but next time I'll be more daring.

Starbucks

I'm not sure where 'liking Starbucks' fits into the current trend structure.  Does it make me clichéd, classy, an indie poser, a true cosmopolitan, an enemy of good coffee, a connoisseur…?  Oh well.  I still like it.  And my sister gave me a gift card, which I am hoarding like a nugget of potential happiness in my purse.  Fortunately, you can't swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a round green Siren logo.

Silver Diner 

Read the sign and you're 80% there, except you're assuming grease and starch, and you can stop that right now.  Only fresh and homegrown ingredients in homey, tasty combinations.  Mommy and Daddy took us here for Sunday Brunch before they headed back to North Carolina.  I got cranberry pancakes and nearly proposed on the spot.  Silver Diner has personal jukeboxes at the tables so you could request favorite tunes for the overhead stereo ― I think we picked something by the Beach Boys, but it was so noisy, we never could tell if it played.

Artie's

In tone, Artie's reminds me of Fatz Café, only less 'southern comfort' and more 'elegant boathouse'.  Chloe let me try her salmon (which is also her dish of choice at Coastal Flats), and I had chicken with some amazing sauce.  Our waiter totally nailed the menu run-down, except he botched one of the specials ― and was dramatically relieved when no one ordered it.  I like such restaurants, because I feel classy and metropolitan, but I still get enough food to eat.

Coastal Flats 

A favorite from previous trips to DC, and it turns out Artie's is produced (is that even the word?) by the same company!  You can tell.  If Artie's is the mature, yacht-racing oldest son, then Coastal Flats is like the noisy, beach-bum little brother.  If you ever go, get the Grouper Fingers.  …I promise they're delicious, and not as weird as they sound.

Gordon Biersch 

Last, but certainly not least: the Harvest hang-out of choice!  Every Sunday night after my young-adults group at church lets out, anyone who still wants to visit goes to Biersch.  Usually people get light fare and beer, and I have to resist the urge to rest my forehead on the edge of my table and laugh: I am so not living in a Baptist town anymore.   Alas, I continue to be a lightweight and Biersch is too solidly German to pull half pints, so I'm sticking with raspberry lemonade.  Mock at your leisure.  It's fun to meet new people and hear their stories, but it's also fun to just sit in the midst of it all and enjoy the warmth.

Now I just have to make myself live within my means ― the sheer tastiness and variety of options are not a good excuse to dine myself out of my gas and grocery budget. 

So come visit me sometime! That will be an excellent excuse.

Poetical Interlude

hopeless to hide

did I think that he who made me, who saved me, who walks with me would not see me?

did I think the view from my heart's temple was so limited?

poor unswept place though it be, I invited him in

did I not think he came?

hopeless to play the lesser Eve and suggest that he is unaware

that he needs telling

I sinned

again.

and he knows.

and it hurts that he knows because I begged and I wept and I tried and he loved and he forgave

and if I sin

again

is it cheapened?

lessened?

can he really mean to forgive me again?

well.

he said he would.

I don't want this pattern of sin sin sin and sin again.

I hate it from the core of my being, with every fiber of my will

(and it must be my will, for my nature craves it ― does not want to relinquish forbidden fruits)

but forgiveness

this other half of the pattern

that

I cannot live without.

and if I know that he sees my every sin

and that there can be no concealment and no escape

then what am I hiding from in the end?

what part of the pattern is evaded?

only the forgiveness

and the peace

and the hope that this time

there will be victory

and who would hide from hope?

well, me.

but no more.

so, Lord, it's me again…

Sisterly Dependence

{photo credit: Chloe}

I have eight sisters.  I like them all.  I'll leave you to ponder the unlikelihood of both those statements while I ponder the fix I'm in.  See, I have become accustomed to having a sister on hand for every need and whim!  Any more-than-one-person gig... trip to the mall, catch a movie, post-work decompression...  Check. 

Seriously, name a need: new music, coffee, advice, dance partner, driver, food, fashion consult (or loan), sounding board, new tv show, spiritual insight, dating tips, sofa cuddle, a good brick joke…  Sisters have become my one-stop shopping.

There's a whole list of things I just don't own, or have never done for myself.  When I say, "I have eclectic taste in music", it's not a legit bragging point.  I have sisters with eclectic taste in music.  Thanks to them, I listen to everything from One Republic and Journey to Abney Park and Finnish symphonic metal.  My one contribution?  Alexi Murdock.  Seriously.  And only because I watched Away We Go and the first three episodes of Stargate Universe, and no one else did.

I never brewed my own coffee with any regularity.  I don't own several of my favorite books.  I have this pressing need to verbally relay everything I've done in a day and get feedback, as if not telling someone means it didn't happen.

I shouldn't gripe too loud ― I have Chloe again!  This has been indescribably awesome.  I have two old and dear friends in the area as well, and I can already see them raising their hands with suggestions.  I'm making new friends.  But I can't saddle Chloe with everything on this list; my dependence has only worked so far because, with so many shoulders, the burden had room to spread out.  Lay it all on one sister?  Yeah, no good.  And life is a busy, giddy thing for us all, including oldest and bestest friends.  It's only now I realize how much difference the 'living in the same house' part made.  And new friends are still new.  I don't know where I fit, or who might be up for a movie or a hunt for the perfect skinny jeans.

So how do I fix this?  Does this ever get fixed?

I need a solution or a coping mechanism or a sobering slap in the face, and fast. 

Because I want someone to go to the Glen Echo contra dance with me. 

And I don't know where the good music hangs out. 

And this coffee tastes terrible.

 

I miss my girls.

 

Small Fish, Big Pond

Here's the thing about moving to Washington DC: I am no longer as fashionable or as accomplished or as thin or as smart as I used to be.  You're waiting for the punch-line, but it's true.  Somewhere between the Smoky Mountains and the Washington Monument, I got stupider. 

It's unnerving.

And it's a little humiliating to admit to myself how much stock I put in those things.  My home town is small.  The people are friendly and laid back: everything you think of when you hear the word 'Southern', only with a special twang that comes from the mountains alone.  They are lovely, and I miss them.  But again, it's a small town, and it turns out that means that a very little flash shines a long way.

I've been told back home that I am brilliant and a cut above the rest; that I am classy and I stand out; that I am witty and articulate and creative.  In short, that I would arrive at my destination and everything would fall together at my feet because ― how could it not?  I would always respond with appropriate humility, but it's only now that I realize how much I looked around, sized up my competition, and agreed with the praise.  "My goodness, yes, look at the shininess of me!"

There's a whole post to be written here about how "those who compare themselves among themselves are not wise", but not right now.  Today the struggle is not with a false modesty, but with honest ego.  Be careful how you perch, little bird, because here comes the bump.

Within my first week, I stood on the outer edges of at least three different conversations that I could barely follow; certainly I couldn't offer any contribution.  Politics and religion and the economy, subjects in which I considered myself reasonably proficient, all herded together and cheerfully bucked me off.   

I glance surreptitiously at city girls on the metro and am amazed by their easy fashion sense ― I can't even figure out what the pieces are, only that the whole looks fabulous. 

My pride in my vocabulary and ability to communicate falters in the face of practiced diction and professional clarity ― and as much as I love complex words, too often I can't lay my brain on the one I want.  Even more embarrassingly: all synonyms elude me.

I arrive reveling in my own ambition and nerve, and within days it is so clear: this is the city that lives and breathes ambition.  It draws talent and beauty and brilliance to itself like filings to a magnet.   For everything I do, there is someone else in easy reach who does it better ― outstripping me without apparent effort.  My ego gives a faint cough and succumbs to the inevitable.  I'm still me, but plainer and simpler and more ordinary than I ever used to think.

So here I sit, and I ask God with dazed curiosity and wounded pride, "What do you want me for?  I'm not half so useful to you here as I was back home.  Then, I had all these things to offer, and look at me now…"

And He answers me, with a gentle chuckle, "My beloved girl, why do you think I brought you here?  There's no room for me in a life that you already consider to be full.  I cannot give you gifts when you don't know what you're lacking.  I can't direct you when you think you know where you're going.  What use is a superior intellect or stunning creativity or arresting beauty if the heart doesn't have me at the center?  I notice I'm hearing from you a lot more these days.  You are beautiful because I made you; creative because I inspire you; worthwhile because I love you.  Remember when I said I used the weak things and the foolish things and the base things to do my work in this world?  Now go, my daughter: be full of grace, embrace your gifts, and be useful."

I have been created to be me, and to live my life.  My Creator gave me everything I need to do that and be that.  I can and should strive to improve, but my sense of success cannot be based on how I compare to those around me, or it will never be enough.  I'm not God's gift to mankind, Someone else was. 

And that, as my old pastor used to say, is why we call it Good News.

The Perks of Unemployment

{lunch break}

I'm not being facetious ― they exist.  Granted, I have this background static always fizzling away: you need a job… bills don't pay themselves… maybe you should rewrite your résumé… again… you should be networking somewhere… there are want-ads to check, websites to peruse, companies to research… it's not a joke, you really DO need a job, you know…  It gets louder the longer I'm unemployed.  But if I can twiddle the knob and talk over it, there are definite perks.

For example, job hunting, while not unlike a work schedule (by which I mean: you have to put in solid hours or there will be no results) is at least a schedule whose parameters are set by me.  If I want to do something in the evening, I get up early to do my hunting, or vice versa.  I like to do most of my work when Chloe works, so we can run our errands or hang out together when she gets home. 

When the desk and computer seem a mincing step away from medieval torture, I can take a break.  When you're in an office, I imagine it's tougher to find a good spot for yoga or fresh air or tea.  I like to wear comfy clothes and play the Wicked soundtrack in German.

Unemployment is giving me a chance to really get plugged in at my new church.  I'm attending McLean Presbyterian Church for morning service, and then in the evening I go to Harvest, MPC's group for young people.  It's well-attended, since, well… DC.  I lived too far from my old church to volunteer much.  Now that church is only a ten minute drive away, I'm trying to build some good participation habits.  I've signed up to help with communion and sound at Harvest, and to attend a luncheon at the church for the Senior Saints ministry.  Hopefully by the time a work schedule asserts itself, I'll already be trained up and it'll be easy to keep volunteering.

Getting to know new friends is easier when we only have to work around one person's schedule.  Unemployment is a good lack of framework for grabbing coffee or lunch in the middle of the day. 

Chloe and Dan are leaving for Europe in a week, and I'll be home alone (cue "I'm *dub dub* dreaming… of a white *dub dub* Christmas…!").  I intend to spend as little time as possible unoccupied.  Let me know if you want to hang out!  I've already made plans with a few people.  It's easier to put in good work when you know have something to look forward to on your break.

Finally, the biggest perk of all (this is just for me ― sorry, fellow job hunters): I get to go see my family this week.  A spontaneous beach trip is happening!  I wasn't sure I'd be able to get the time off if I was employed by now, but when the job is to find a job, you are your own boss.  I asked if I could go, and I said yes.

Pass the Want Ads and the sunscreen.

1,000 Words



{Jefferson Memorial: my first DC cherry blossom festival}

Bucket List

I need to make a list of all the things I want to do while I live in DC.  I have no idea how long that'll be, but if I put off doing these things, I'm almost certain to forget altogether, and then  I'll have to explain to Future Sarah why I wasted such golden proximity.

Besides, it'll be fun to see how many of these I can cross off.  Let me know if I forgot to add something good!

DC Bucket List………………………………………….

cherry blossom festival

National Cathedral

Ellicot City, MD

Post Office Tower

Georgetown

all of the art museums
Friday Night Dance at Glen Echo

Boston, MA (Freedom Trail, Independence Hall, Nathaniel Bowditch's house)

Nationals game

Monticello (Charlottesville, VA)

Dumbarton Oaks

Newsies musical (The National Theatre)

Dulles Air and Space Museum

as a kind of sub-list, here are the things I've done before, but want to do again

                National Zoo

                Mt. Vernon

                the monuments at night

                the Smithsonians (Air and Space, American History, Natural History, etc.)

                Eastern Market

                watch planes land at Gravelly Point

                U.S. Marine Corps Memorial

                Arlington National Cemetery

                Annapolis, MD 

                Library of Congress 

                National Archive 

                Botanical Gardens

 

And now I'm going to kick off my list by crossing off the first item:

cherry blossom festival

It was all of the amazing I was expecting!  Also, it was crowded.  Dan, Chloe and I had to hold hands to keep from losing each other in the metro stations.  It was neat though: all those people thronging the sidewalk to see little blossoms on trees.  I'll even admit to some sentimental 'brotherhood of humanity' moments as I looked at the solid band of people surrounding the tidal basin.  Here we all are!  ...Seriously, ALL of us. 

Other perks included several marching band performances in front of the Jefferson, and the fact that everyone looks fabulous in cherry blossom lighting.  My favorite trees are the ones that hang out over the water.  Most of them are old, their gnarled trunks making bizarre, serpentine shapes, and their low-hanging limbs threatening to clothesline unsuspecting joggers.

 

 

日本、ありがとうございました。我々はまだあなたの美しい贈り物をお楽しみください。

Nihon, arigatōgozaimashita. Wareware wa mada anata no utsukushī okurimono o o tanoshimi kudasai.

{Katy, you'll have to tell me if that's even close to being correct! 

If it's wrong... well, it's Google's fault.}

Résumé Angst

{at least I have an awesome mug for company}

Want Ads.  Job Hunting.  Résumé Writing.  Cover Letters.  None of it is as exciting as it sounds.

These days I talk to myself a lot.  It's a byproduct of going from a constantly-occupied house to one that I share with only two other people.  On days when Chloe and Dan are both at work, it's just me.  Well, me and my plants.  We have excellent conversations, don't get me wrong!  But when they end, I have that awkward feeling, like you always do when you walk away from a friend and realize… you totally did all the talking.

Most often, when I talk to myself, I'm reminding myself of things.  This is necessary because I have Dory-level short-term memory issues. 

I forget that I really don't want to work retail or be a nanny again, and that's why I'm applying for jobs that aren't on my résumé.  I forget that, with my quirky skill-set, there was no good way to apply for work long-distance, and that's why it was better to move first and look for work after.  I forget that my small home town wasn't exactly sparkling with job opportunities.

I forget all that, and turn on myself viciously, demanding, "WHOSE LUNATIC IDEA WAS THIS?!  Leave home?  Move to a new city with no job?  WHO DOES THAT?"  The answer, of course, is me.  I do that.  Apparently.

So I soothe myself with tea and comforting reassurances that I did think before I leapt.  I over-thought it, if I'm honest.  Rather like I'm doing now, with my résumé.

I can't seem to find the good balance between 'self-confident' and 'bragging', 'positive' and 'fulsome', or 'salesmanship' and 'honesty'.  I've reverted to my old college essay-writing habits; I only write cover letters between midnight and 3am.  That's when my brain is lax enough to string sentences together without second-guessing every syllable.

Yesterday, in a fit of faintly hysterical whimsy, I actually drew up an entire fake résumé, just for the satisfaction of saying whatever I wanted.  It's funny that, once I read it over, I still had no idea who would hire such a person.

 

Here's the brilliant thing, though: people keep appearing at my elbow like benevolent fairies, making suggestions of work I might enjoy, or mentioning openings they've heard about, or offering to hand-deliver my résumé to their friends.  It is gratifying, because it makes me feel more sure of myself and more welcome in their midst.  It is also incredibly humbling, because they don't actually know me yet.  I can take no credit for their generocity, nor offer anything in return.

The job hunt is ongoing, and I'll take all the prayers and help I can get.  But leave it to God to pull this off: one minute I'm fretting and kvetching over my work history, and the next I'm falling headfirst into unexpected grace.

Unpacking Life

I have this gut feeling that there have already been plenty of insightful and metaphor-laden blog posts written about moving.  I should go read one.  This certainly isn't one.  This is just a method of processing shock.

I'm looking at a trailer full of everything I own and thinking, "This is me, in boxes."  It's my clothes and my books and all the supplies for all the hobbies I collect.  It's a musical instrument, and a few pieces of furniture, and towels, and pens, and a trash bag full of hangers.

I've moved before ― a lot, even.  But never just me.  I've never looked at an otherwise full house and noticed the empty spaces left behind, like a negative portrait of myself.  Never said good-bye, see you later to my Everyday People.

I don't think it matters when you do it, or what your home was like.  I'm a late-bloomer, I know ― I stayed longer than most.  I love my family fiercely, and I know that's not a given either.  Maybe when you left, you were 18 and couldn't wait to be gone.  But I'll bet, even then, you felt this same tug in your gut.  Good-bye, known quantity; hello, crazy everything.

The surrealism of it all makes a good buffer.  There's no knowing when the new reality will truly sink in; it hasn't for me. 

And now I skip ahead to the packing in reverse: when the boxes open, and everything comes out to fill a new space.  This is the fun part, where I realize a surprising amount of 'home' is sandwiched between familiar book covers and folded in sheets. 

I absolutely love my room.  My sister and brother-in-law, Chloe and Dan, are providing my initial housing: a basement bedroom.  It's only supposed to be until I find work and a place of my own, but they've gone out of their way to make it home for me.  It's freshly painted in a dusky lavender that looks pink in lamplight.  I've always shared bedrooms before, but this one is all mine, and I hang the pictures where I choose.   The finished product is cluttered, and warm, and me.  It is, in my favorite Danish word: hygge.

The beautiful thing about a move is that it doesn't just uproot, it replants.  In the process, it lets you sort through your life thus far.  You consider each posession.  Do I want to keep this thing badly enough to tape it into an old Hylunia box and haul it 500 miles?  No? then here we part ways.  Yes? then it must truly be worth having.  I appreciate everything afresh in this new environment.  I have art painted by my best friend, photos of my favorite people, sarcastic British literature, the sewing machine I've had since I was thirteen, the doll I've had since I was six.

My freshly unpacked things gleam with purpose, and they inspire inward spring cleaning.  What dreams have travelled with me?  Which of my old habits are worth keeping?  What does God have next?  Here is my chance to be new, try things on, and find fresh purpose.  What a fantastically breath-taking notion!

For all the internal shocks and jammed fingers and aching knees,

moves have their advantages. 

I could even see them becoming addicting.

"Life is either a
daring adventure
or nothing."

Helen Keller