my arms are open.

It is official: fall has arrived.

This is evidenced now not only by the calendar. The trees are changing colors, I pulled my boots out from the back of my closet, my landlords have turned the heat on, I bought brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes at the market, I ate two cinnamon-coated donuts and drank hot cider at a nearby cider mill this afternoon and I am fighting a nasty cold (which would totally justify the two donuts, if I felt justification were necessary, which I do not). Also, I have baked three harvest cakes. More on that later.

Those who spend any amount of time with me know that I love fall, but I love it with hesitancy these days. I find this season enchanting and beautiful, but it comes before winter, which, though also enchanting and beautiful, is cold. I used to love winter, too, but now the best I can say is that winter and I get along alright. You see, while I adore snow and festivity and Christmastime, I also get very, very cold. Additionally, I do not appreciate the darkness that descends for the sum total of the hours I'm out of the office. And there is no one to drive me over the slick and icy roads, cover the rising cost of heating a home or shovel my car out from snowdrifts, like there was in my childhood (thanks for that, Mom and Dad). The fresh produce disappears, and I am relegated to the track at the Y, banished (or at least greatly discouraged) by the snow and cold from regular runs on my city's streets.

I know that all of this worry is premature. But sometimes, I cannot help but be irrational. As soon as I sensed summer fading, I began behaving as though mid-February was coming, you know, tomorrow. It's almost winter, I whimpered as children bought fresh notebooks and apples crept into the market stalls.

However! I come to you today with good news: I have embraced fall, even knowing that the darkness and cold of winter will follow.

The shifting of the seasons is a beautiful, magical thing, as is the passing of time, and as is the movement of our lives from one situation into the next...and we cannot have that beauty without all of the intricacies, both good and bad, of each moment along the way. I know this; I have known this for a very long time. I just tend to forget.

And after all, this is what we must do, is it not? When we've finished griping and complaining and worrying, either we embrace our circumstances and the corners of the world we inhabit, challenges and quirks included...or we don't, and life happens anyway.

So I have stopped myself mid-worry, and I am opening my arms, choosing to embrace this season of the calendar year--and, yes, this season of my life. I have resolved to invest in a few more layers of clothing and to drink as many warm beverages as it takes. I am choosing to be happy.

Now, let's get to that cake, shall we? I was prompted by my dear friend Sarah, who is currently far away from me on the isles of Hawaii, to bake a cake she spotted on the internet (wish I could have shared this with you, my dear!). It is a cake for harvest time, filled with zucchini and carrot and apple, along with an array of other wholesome and delicious ingredients. As noted, I have made it three times now, with numerous tweaks and variations along the way to bring me to the following version. It's a friendly cake, open to such things, so experiment yourself if you so desire.

This cake is filling and hearty, just right for the glorious early autumn now upon us, when the cold begins to brush against your skin though the sun still shines brightly, when you need a scarf around your neck but can still wear a sweater in lieu of a coat. It is a knobby cake, with a very nice crumb and a rustic sweetness. A slice of this pairs perfectly with a mug of hot cider or coffee, and it is healthful (and delicious) enough for breakfast or the most delightful of mid-morning snacks. It is also wonderful with frosting, for dessert.

And so. My arms are open, and I am embracing this season.

But as with any difficult task, cake certainly doesn't hurt.

Harvest Cake
Adapted from Roost

3 cups white whole wheat flour (or 1 1/2 cup white and 1 1/2 cup wheat flour)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons cinnamon
pinch nutmeg
1/4 cup coconut or olive oil
1/4 cup honey (+1 tablespoon if you like, for a slightly sweeter, moister cake)
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup carrot, grated
1 cup zucchini, grated
1 cup apple, grated
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped, optional (but very much recommended if you like nuts)

Preheat oven to 350 F.

Grease a 9 or 10-inch cake or springform pan. Combine the dry ingredients in a large bowl. Combine the wet ingredients in a separate, smaller bowl. Add the wet mixture to the dry, and stir gently to incorporate. Pour into the prepared pan.

Bake for 40-45 minutes, or until a tester inserted into the center emerges clean. Frost if you wish (one of my favorite frosting recipes follows) and enjoy!

Yield: 8-10 slices

Not-Too-Sweet Buttercream Frosting
From Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything Vegetarian

12 tablespoons (6 oz.) butter, softened
2 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
pinch salt
1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons milk or cream, slightly more if needed
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Using a fork or electric mixer, cream the butter. Add the sugar and salt, alternating with the milk and beating well after each addition. Stir in the vanilla. If the buttercream is too thin, refrigerate it until it hardens enough to spread easily.

everything is alright.

This tart is for you. Because everyone needs love in the form of ripe, late-summer peaches topped with bubbling sugar and surrounded by a crisp, crumbly pie dough from time to time, right?

I do, at least. Tangible good things such as this remind me that everything really is alright, and sometimes, I desperately need that reminder.

I didn't have clear expectations for my twenty-something-lady life, or even clear desires, and perhaps that's why all of this (i.e. my life at present) feels like such a surprise. Furthermore, sometimes great-big-real-world-adult life is really not all that exciting. And you see, I like excitement. Routine and plans and patterns, yes, but also excitement. I always need something to look forward to, and I have a bad habit of desiring greatness and excitement, in everything and all the time.

And so, contentment has been fleeting lately. There have been conversations and emails and musings over cups of coffee that have informed my thoughts on all of this, but the wisdom and clarity and profundity of them escape me now. Yet those moments, and the moments when the aroma of a baking cake fills my apartment, or I sit down for dinner with that fellow I love, or I catch a glimpse of the sky erupting in a million colors as the sun slips down, or I see my parents arriving at my front door for a visit, or someone once again gives me grace I don't deserve...those moments remind me that it's okay.

Because this is life, whether or not we expected it. This. All of it, imperfect though it may be. Sheets draped all over my apartment when the dryer doesn't quite finish the job and chipped toenail polish and long to do lists and dirty dishes.

Life is full of imperfection and confusion. But beauty, too. Quiet moments in a cool room while the last wave of summer heat and humidity barrels through the streets of my city. An exuberant new intern at work. Almost-but-not-quite missing the fireworks last night. A really, really wonderful new friend. Harvest cake. The enormous zucchini I bought at the market today, discounted by a friend I've not seen since springtime. Good books. Dreams for the future.

But I am still coming to terms with the fact that this is the nature of life. That this is alright. I still want to apologize when the floors aren't clean or my hair is a mess...but at the same time, I don't. And I refuse to. The very act of it would be to embrace the idea that life should be otherwise, that I can't quite live up to how I ought to be. I'd much rather work on believing that I'm doing just fine.

And so I continue to settle into the understanding that sometimes the slightly burnt edges are the very best part. The soft plums in the dimpled and sugared folds of that lopsided cake I baked for my dear friend's visit taste just the same as they would if the darned thing were symmetrical. And you can, in fact, serve the first half of a delightful peach tart to your friends on a Friday night and the second half of that same tart to your visiting parents and your boyfriend the next evening.

This tart, to be specific. And not only is it lovely and delicious and summery, but also, it is simple.

So bake this tart, or don't. And make it perfectly, or totally screw up. It's okay. You're alright. And so am I.

Amanda Hesser's Peach Tart
Adapted from Amanda Hesser's excellent recipe, found both at food52 and in her book Cooking for Mr. Latte

1 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose or white whole wheat flour, or a combination, divided
3/4 teaspoons salt, divided
3/4 cup plus 1 teaspoon sugar (or slightly less), divided
1/4 cup mild olive oil
1/4 cup vegetable or canola oil (or use olive oil for the full 1/2 cup)
2 tablespoons milk, 2% or whole
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
2 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter
3 to 5 small ripe peaches, pitted and sliced into crescents of about 1/2 inch width

Preheat the oven to 425 F. Stir together 1 1/2 cups flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1 teaspoon sugar. In another, smaller bowl, whisk the oils, milk and almond extract together. Pour the wet mixture into the dry and mix gently with a fork, being careful not to overwork the dough.

Transfer the dough to a tart pan (anything between 9 and 11 inches or so). Pat and prod the dough until it covers the bottom of the pan, and then push it up the sides to meet the pan's edges. It should be approximately 1/8 inch thick all around. Trim and discard excess dough if necessary.

Combine 3/4 cup sugar (or less if you feel so moved), 2 tablespoons flour, 1/4 teaspoon salt and the butter. For exceptionally juicy peaches, add an additional tablespoon of flour. Pinch the butter into the dry ingredients until you have a nice crumbly mixture, with both fine and pebble-sized pieces.

Starting on the outer edges of the tart, arrange the peaches, slightly overlapping them, in concentric circles. Fill the center as well, in whatever pattern you choose. (In fact, you may arrange your peaches just as haphazardly, or not, as you desire, fitting with the theme of the reflections above.) The peaches should be tucked in snugly. Sprinkle the crumbly mixture on top. (Amanda Hesser told me it would seem like a lot, and lo! she was correct. It will indeed seem like a lot.)

Bake for 35 to 45 minutes. Remove the tart from the oven when shiny, thick bubbles are beginning to cover the fruit and the crust is slightly brown. Place on a rack to cool.

Serve the tart warm or at room temperature, perhaps with large dollop of whipped cream. It will still taste delicious the following day--good enough even for company.

Yield: 8 slices

be gentle with yourself.

I have these two bruises on my left thigh, tinted various and unpleasant shades of darkness, and I have no idea where they came from. I assume I ran into something, or, more likely, two somethings, which is not all that shocking, although I have no recollection of it.

But watching them turn a sickly shade of green, I thought, you ought to be a bit more gentle with yourself.

One morning last week, I attempted a new and, I hoped, shorter route to work from the Y downtown. I embarked on my journey in high spirits, poised to reach my office in a timely manner with my run for the day finished, a much-diminished feeling of wrath toward running around the indoor track acquired and my mittened hand holding warm coffee from the little kiosk at the Y (people! if you bring a mug, the coffee costs just fifty cents!). I had positivity in abundance, which, the previous week considered, was quite a feat. I got on the first highway of my new path going in the correct direction, patting myself on the back for knowing my city so well. (I recognize that this was, in actuality, a teeny tiny accomplishment at best. But I take happiness on winter mornings pretty much regardless of its source.)

However. My positivity was short-lived.

I will abstain from relaying the details, but in the end, I learned that 96 and I-96 are not, in fact, the same highway and that simply "going west" will not necessarily take a person from downtown Grand Rapids to Grandville. Terrifying little flakes fell persistently from the sky, making the highway slick and treacherous. First, I thought I might die. Then, I just felt like an idiot.

I arrived very late to work.

I apologized to the appropriate parties, who were nowhere near as upset as I had assumed they would be (perhaps because they don't have to pay me when I'm not there) and made my way to the safety of my desk. Throughout the next several hours, I mentally reviewed my laundry list of latest offenses: I have a very long to do list at work; surely I could be accomplishing things more quickly, and probably better. Though I think I handled a recent professional situation as well as could be expected, I'm afraid I didn't, or, at the least, that I left a destructive wake behind me. I recently overslept, late that day as well. Running hasn't felt great lately. The image in the mirror is not meeting my demands for perfection. I keep having emotional breakdowns, imposing my weepy self on the poor folks who care about me...

And on and on I went, crafting an ugly composite of every flaw, shortcoming, mistake and bad morning...until I felt a gentle whisper rising above my inner tirade:

Be gentle with yourself.

I paused. Are you sure, God? I questioned.

Honestly. Of course he's sure.

But behind that question, I realize, lies another one, a deeper one: Do I really deserve gentleness?

Most often, instead of seeing the very best of who we are or, even better, a healthy, realistic mixture of the good and bad, we see only the worst, and we think that's appropriate, because we don't believe we deserve gentleness anyway. And, frankly, that much is true: we don't deserve gentleness. But it's given to us, and who are we to argue with God?

It is one thing to be humble, to work to strengthen our weak areas, to improve and grow and strive to be more loving and more like Christ. But it is quite another to truly dislike ourselves, image-bearers and much-loved children of God. It is quite another to refuse the gifts of gentleness, grace and mercy.

I recently spoke with a woman who goes to my church and who I've long admired. We were talking about life and balance, how we get into a really great rhythm for, oh, six seconds, and then it all falls apart once again. Even though she has, you know, a husband and small children and probably many more commitments than I and also great hair and excellent style, she seemed much less fazed by this aspect of life than I have been feeling--though she had clearly experienced it, too. She shared the simple words that God has given her:

This is enough.

What we can give, what we can do, the coffee dates we have time for, the errands we check off our lists, the work we accomplish in a day...whatever it might be, it is enough.

That seems like gentleness to me. That seems right.

And so, when I do something less than brilliant, when I'm confronted with my not-favorite aspect of myself, when I gaze at a long to do list, when I fail...I will try to be gentle. I urge you to do the same. Perhaps we'll impose less bruises on our fragile souls.

to live everything.

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart, and try to love the questions themselves, as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign tongue. Don't search for answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

--R.M. Rilke

14 things.

It has been quite awhile, hasn’t it? My apologies for the absence. I’ve been… living life. Working, doing a lot of cooking and running, spending time with people I love, slowly s-l-o-w-l-y learning how to balance things in this full-time-working-woman life. I’m learning quite a bit… they seem like boring lessons sometimes, but I think they’re important ones. Anyway. I wanted to take a few moments of my lunch break to finally end this too-long hiatus with the following reflections…

I’ve been in a bit of a slump these past few weeks, which has manifested itself in several different emotional states as I rollercoaster from week to week. Last night, I was sharing with a dear friend the following predicament, which has been one of numerous recurrent themes during the aforementioned slump: I feel completely unable to live fully in the present while also planning for the future. I just cannot seem to manage both at once. My friend replied by sharing that in these times, when the present seems not-that-exciting, she stops herself to remember all she has to be thankful for. It is just so easy to forget.

As I walked out into a gray-but-pleasant morning earlier today and crossed my front lawn, feeling not as excited as I wanted to be about beginning another day’s work, I urged myself into reflection on all of the beauty and goodness around me. It helped. Later this morning, an hour or so into work, I pulled out a piece of paper and started scribbling a list, quickly covering the small scrap with the marks of my pen, the marks of undeserved blessing and a response of thanksgiving.

I have a lot to be thankful for. So this is me, being thankful.

14 things of many:

the peace of morning.
warmer weather.
the blessed green grass peaking out.
my own little place with a window to the street (peering out while eating my oatmeal).
a wonderful coffee shop/bakery just up the road (just up the road! from where I live!).
a café au lait on a weary morning.
the luxury of being able to purchase unnecessary things like coffee, particularly on weary mornings.
a job. a roof. clean water. money to pay the bills.
the fake tree in my office (I may not have a window, but I do have plastic vegetation).
lovely, caring, wise people in my life. technology to communicate with them even when they are far away.
stability to rest in while dreaming about the future.
possibility, opportunity, hope.
another morning.
another day.

May you also be thankful today. Peace, friends.

to the full.

On Wednesday, I had one of those days in which all of life came upon me at once. My sister and brother-in-law are in Uganda, as many or most of you know, and I had a few DVDs in my possession, a Christmas gift from my parents, that we were in the process of passing through the extended families to eventually get them to someone who was visiting Uganda this spring. (I don't even remember how that was going to happen, to be honest. It was complicated.) But Wednesday morning, my brother-in-law emailed to tell us that a Ugandan friend of theirs from the Seminary here in GR would be visiting Mbale unexpectedly as his sister just passed away. He asked if I could get the DVDs to this friend.

We were figuring out the logistics through emails, and then my sister CALLED MY PHONE. (Remember: she is in Uganda. This is not typical.) However, I missed the call because I was out of my office. When I listened to the voicemail she left and heard her voice, sounding so clear and deceptively close, I nearly burst into tears. My heart hurt. I miss her so much.

At the end of the workday, I scrambled home to get in a run before I lost the last of daylight. I showered and hurried out the door to go out and pick up one more thing that I wanted to send along to Uganda (it isn't every day I don't have to worry about an unreliable mail system when trying to get something to my furthest-off loved ones). It was snowing, big white flakes drifting down slowly from the now-dark sky. I stood in the road next to my car and felt as though the whole screwed-up world was sitting atop my shoulders, weighing a million pounds. I wanted to cry.

After running my errand, I came home and wrote some notes to send along to Uganda, plus one for the family of this kind stranger-turned-postman, and bundled everything up. I drove to this man's house, wondering all the while what I could possibly say to this stranger, whose sister was suddenly and tragically gone, as I handed him some DVDs of comedy shows to tuck in his luggage as he began a bittersweet journey home to mourn. When I got there, his wife invited me in, wearing a green fuzzy robe and slippers shaped like animals. Laughing, she apologized for her clothes and for the state of the (not-that-)messy house. As if it mattered at all. She invited me to sit; her husband was on the phone. I expressed my condolences. She wanted to hear about my life, what I do, where I live, who I am. She was beautiful and joyful. Her husband soon joined us. He hugged me as I told him I was sorry for his loss. The three of us chatted, and they told me about their lives and their children. We talked about the trials of not being Dutch yet living in West Michigan, and I told them how much Sara and Anthony love their country. We discussed the strangeness of country borders and visas, these human-made systems that complicate movement around our globe. We talked about life.

When he talked about going home, the face of my new friend sobered. He told me he was both looking forward to and absolutely dreading the trip. And then he looked at his wife, and in his eyes I could see that he was suddenly far away in a world I don't know, and he wasn't really talking to me anymore. He said, "I just cannot believe that she is gone. I cannot imagine my sister no longer being there." He paused. "She was always so full of life."

I had stepped right into the middle of the tragedy of strangers. Beautiful strangers. It was a surreal experience.

And although I felt slightly uncomfortable giving this man the delivery entrusted to me, which seemed so silly in the face of the loss of a loved one, I realized that all of this is life. Watching a familiar show while in an unfamiliar country, things that bring laughter, a reminder of family... this is important. And all of this, tragedy and simplicity and the seemingly-inconsequential... all of this is life.

I hadn't eaten dinner, and it was after 10 pm. I went home and cooked something and thought about life. I went to bed feeling strange and both upset and comforted by my encounter that evening. The next morning, the sun was shining.

Last night, I went to a new friend's house. When I came in, she told me that her brother had passed away unexpectedly two weeks ago and she was just recovering from a case of shingles that came on after the funeral, but she hadn't told me any of this before because she had still wanted me to come. I stood in the doorway. I didn't know what to do. I think I wanted to bolt and run forever. But instead, I took off my coat. She made lattes for us, and we talked for a long time. As I talked to this trusted friend, she helped me recognize the Holy Spirit in everything that happened this week. She helped me remember how the presence of God comes to us through the complication and mess and weightiness of life.

This morning, I was thinking about the verse in John 10 where Jesus says that he came "that they may have life, and have it to the full." Now, I am sure he was, at least in one sense, talking about eternity and salvation, but I think that maybe he was also talking about life on earth to the full... which is this. Life to the full includes good and bad, exciting and mundane, tragedy and joy, significant and seemingly inconsequential, morning and evening, going and staying, living and dying. Therein is God. And though I feel a bit overwhelmed and frazzled and not-quite-present still today, I also realize that this is real... this is life to the full. And I think that in the end, this is part of what Jesus came for us to have.

and so we build our lives.

Perhaps it is because I just finished reading this book by this man, which on top of making me cry every time I sat down to read (and I'm talking about the audible, gasping, non-attractive kind of crying here), made me think a great deal about story and what it is that makes something epic and beautiful. Perhaps it is because I am finally entering a relatively calm stage of this early post-collegiate-20-something-with-a-full-time-job life. Or perhaps it is because living alone affords me an opportunity to be more introspective and thoughtful.

Whatever the reason, I have been thinking lately about life in general. When people ask me for an update on my life, I tell them I am learning about balance. And frankly, this is about all I can handle right now, this project of learning how to safely juggle the flaming clubs of a full-time work week, sleep, exercise, preparing food, growing my relationships with those I care for, engaging in my community, keeping my sinks and floors clean and maintaining my education and awareness of current events (many thanks to NPR and the BBC).

I've also been thinking about how important it has become to me to have what I consider a meaningful career, though I get stuck on this one, because I realize that it is an incredible privilege to be that picky. Many do not have the education or social positioning to be choosy about a job, even in a good economy. And it doesn't seem right or fair that people have to devote 40+ hours a week to work that they don't find meaningful in order to keep the heat on and put the food in the refrigerator to enable them to live another day to wake and return to that job and make the most and wait for the weekend.

But I do think that we are called to steward well whatever resources we have been given, and this pursuit of vocational calling remains important to me. At present, I have a job I enjoy relatively well, and my organization pursues a mission that has become very important to me. But my work doesn't bring any excess of joy when I start my commute to the office in the morning, clutching my coffee in my mittened hand. And as much as I can wrap my mind and heart around the importance of what we do, it doesn't (routinely) make me choke back tears upon sight of a photograph or a few words of a story. Now, mind you, I am VERY thankful for my job. And I'm not leaving too soon. But I'm also not going to stop seeking a career more directly focused on the things that make my blood run (thanks, KP).

So as I think about life and balance and vocation and with my peers ask the same questions over and over again and become entranced by the lives that people older than I have created throughout their years, I come to this: as we go through our days, making decisions and weaving in and out of one another's stories, we build our lives. And as I stand here in this season, with my plans and dreams still in flux, I am truly beginning to build a life.

This feels like a larger version of my current project of settling into this new home... As I stock my shelves with spices and flours and sugars, so also I piece together the elements of my life, finding how to best fit everything that a healthy and faithful and full life necessitates. As I arrange and rearrange the books on my shelves, so also I made decisions about the shape of my life.

I was thinking about this when I went to get my hair cut on Saturday morning down at my hairdresser's shop/home down on Division, which is filled with the most eclectic and lovely vintage clothing and handmade treasures. As she cut my hair, I thought about how my friend is part of that store, part of why I go there again and again and why I didn't mind getting up early on a Saturday morning to fit an appointment into her busy schedule. The next customer clearly felt the same, bringing baked goods from a local bakery that she shared with both of us, and we talked and laughed and the sun streamed through the windows and the stranger with hair dye on her roots didn't care that I saw the hair dye on her roots. I lingered in the middle of my friend's beautiful life, a life that didn't come easily but rather on the heels of a realization that she didn't find an earlier version of her life fulfilling. So she built a more beautiful story, from vintage boots and silver earrings and carefully swept floors and honesty and laughter.

My friend Nicole has a beautiful life as well. She knows what she is called to, at least in part, and so she lives with confidence. She is a mother and an artist, and she speaks truth all over my life. When I see her sweep into a room with strength and grace and humility, I know I am okay, and when we part, I remember that the world is beautiful and that I have a story to live, too, even if I am not sure of all its elements.

I searched for a tablecloth for the little square table in my front room until I found the perfect one at a nearby antique store: it is a cream colored square of exactly the right size, with brightly colored flowers stitched into a lovely and graceful pattern, the bumpy knobs of thread popping their rounded heads out of the soft fabric. And so also I hang pictures and twinkle lights and silver stars on the walls of my life; I stack my brightly colored bowls and buy ingredients for banana bread and big pots of soup.

And slowly I build a life.

jumble.

I don’t have any one specific point to make today, just a few thoughts to offer, and as I haven't posted for so long, I feel quite alright forgoing my usual attempt at a thematic post. I hope you all are well, and many apologies for my brief absence!

Life continues, and it really is good and altogether quite lovely. I recently celebrated a birthday, enjoying the company of my parents and lunch at my favorite restaurant ever (free of charge as a birthday gift from the kind owners of said restaurant!) the weekend before, a peaceful dinner with a few of my dearest friends at another favorite the night of and a small potluck this past weekend, which also served to christen my new home--more on that in a moment. I love potlucks. At this particular potluck, I gave very few specifics when asking people to bring a dish to pass, which resulted in a meal consisting of my big pot of vegetarian chili and batch of Dorie Greenspan's World Peace Cookies and guests' contributions of eight bottles of red wine, five types of bread, two batches of hummus and Dave's promised package of Oreos. As one friend very aptly put it, it looked like a glorified communion. But the 20-or-so of us ate well, laughed much and were happy.

I am feeling somewhat old, in the most positive sense, of course, at what I realize is still quite a young age. As I begin this new year of living, I have once again been thinking about everything I have learned in the past few years, but particularly in the past few months, and how very glad I am to be in this post-collegiate, great big world before me, young single and free, idealistic and hopeful stage of life. Honestly, my friends, the world is glorious! There is so much life to be lived! There is so much hope to be held! It is not always easy or beautiful, I know, especially at first glance, but I am convinced more and more each day that we must indeed choose joy if we are to have it.

In other news, I have been working full-time since the start of the month at a job that most days I like reasonably well, and I recently poached my first egg. Today I am wearing dark pink tights, which, as always, is making me feel a little better about the world, and I wrote/edited up a storm at work today. A storm, people. And finally, most excitingly, I have moved yet again and am now happily settled into a new little place in a big old purple house. I love it. I think it is absolutely perfect. The space, the location, the hardwood floors and brightly colored walls, that amazing little hutch in the kitchen, the fact that the kitchen is so adorably tiny, the pocket door between the two biggest rooms, the footsteps of my upstairs neighbors, the bay window above my bed. With all respect and love to past roommates, I have not been this happy to come home in a very, very long time. Goodness, I haven't felt this at home while home in a very, very long time. Furthermore, when one of my landlords asked me to be sure to regularly take out the trash because they do not have mice in this house and told me that they have all of the paint colors to touch up my walls once I’ve decorated and explained that I could call if it gets too cold and they would come adjust the heat, I wanted to throw my arms around him and embrace him and then burst into tears of pure joy. I didn't. But let me tell you, I was very close. All that to say that I love this new little place of mine. Come visit anytime. I have a fold-out couch. And leftover wine. Just saying.

To close this post, as it is Martin Luther King Jr. day, I offer a few of his own beautiful words, with somber reflection on our soiled human history, recognition of the inexplicable and confounding tragedy that has now fallen upon Haiti, awareness of our brokenness and the brokenness of this world and persistent hope for the future:

“Now let us begin. Now let us rededicate ourselves to the long-but-beautiful-struggle for a new world.”

Amen. Let us begin indeed.

cocoa almond meringues and a new year.

Happy New Year, dear ones! I hope that you are enjoying this close of the holiday season, celebrating the year that has ended (and possibly that the year has ended; that’s okay, too) and looking ahead with hope to 2010, a new year promising new adventure, new joy, new beauty.

I have learned so much in this year, mostly adult/real world kinds of lessons that were not always enjoyable but brought new and beautiful depth to my life. At the end of four years filled with good, solid academic education (which I loved), I learned how to finish well and how to close and then open chapters of my life, how to say goodbye well and how to stay in touch (an ongoing lesson). I learned how difficult it really is to find a job in this economy and how to piece paychecks together and how little I really need to sustain myself. I learned how to best fit all of my belongings in my car when moving and how to ask for help. I learned more about loving well and about making hard decisions (although I still have a long way to go on both of those).

This year, I have come to see more clearly that in every situation, there are difficult and painful things as well as beautiful and very, very good things. I have learned how to first see that whole honest picture of my life and to then cling to and give thanks for the good things... a job, a roof over my head, food on my table, people to eat it with, the amount of justice and freedom I’m afforded. It could all be otherwise.

And this year, I learned the truth of something I always knew in my head but maybe not deep in my bones: that God is always faithful, regardless.

To celebrate the old year and welcome the new, here is what I would call a celebratory recipe from Dorie Greenspan’s big and incredible cookbook, Baking: From my home to yours. I got this book from my cousin for Christmas, and I’ve already paged through the whole thing at least twice. Great recipes, beautiful photographs. I made these meringues first, and they are delightful: light and airy on the outside and dense and slightly chewy on the inside. They are craggy and beautiful, rich with chocolate and a hint of almond, and they are amazing. AMAZING. Happy new year indeed.

Cocoa Almond Meringues

Adapted from Dorie Greenspan’s Baking: From my home to yours

Ingredients:

1 cup confectioners’ sugar, plus extra for dusting

1/3 cup finely ground almonds

1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

4 large egg whites

Pinch of salt

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1/3 cup finely chopped bittersweet chocolate

Position the racks in the oven to divide it into thirds, and preheat the oven to 300 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone mats (I just purchased my first silicone baking mat with Christmas money from my grandparents, and it is incredible!).

Mix together the confectioners’ sugar, ground almonds and cocoa.

Using a stand mixer with a whisk attachment or a hand mixer in a large, dry bowl, whip the egg whites and salt at medium speed until the whites are opaque. Increase the speed to medium-high or high and continue whipping, adding the sugar about a tablespoon at a time. Whip until the whites are firm, hold stiff peaks and are very shiny. This will take a very long time, up to 15 or 20 minutes (so don’t panic if it seems like nothing is happening!). Beat in the vanilla.

Quickly and gently fold the dry ingredients and then the chopped chocolate into the egg whites. Work with a light touch to minimize the deflation of the egg whites, but realize that they will deflate somewhat, regardless.

Drop the meringue by tablespoonfuls onto the baking sheets, spacing them about 2 inches apart. Dust them lightly with confectioners’ sugar (very pretty).

Place the baking sheets into the oven and bake for 10 minutes. Then, without opening the oven door, reduce the oven temperature to 200 degrees F, and bake for one hour more. Remove the baking sheets from the oven and allow the meringues to cool. Peel them off of the parchment paper or silicone mats. Marvel at their loveliness and enjoy!

Store the meringues in a cool, dry environment, either in an airtight container or uncovered in a basket at room temperature.

Yield: about 30 little chocolaty mountains

So may this year be filled with laughter, new lessons to humbly learn, community and good meals shared with friends, and much beauty and thankfulness throughout your days. May this year bring more justice and more peace in our homes, neighborhoods, cities, countries and world, and may we live and love with more compassion and grace and hope.

It’s a new year.