Late-Night Baking.

There are very few problems that a baking/music session can't fix. Probably something to do with the melodious sound of the blender mixed with the current song humming through the air. Mix in the sweet scent of brown sugar and vanilla...and there's nothing you can't do. And who doesn't love a little challenge? My boyfriend has a large glass bowl, miniature blenders and no measuring spoons...and so we begin.



Luckily, the only measurements that require the spoons are vanilla, cinammon, salt...and baking powder. The first three I can manage by taste alone, but the powder is slightly more important. So we'll just have to wait and see how high or low these cookies rise.

What's a baking session without a companion? Puppy number one is of course laying at my feet, waiting for me to drop spoonfuls of this delicious batter all over the floor. Puppy number two is of course chewing away at his toys, while resting at Evan's feet.



Now I personally like to add a little extra butter to my oatmeal-raisin cookies, usually when I add in the oats...oh and I like to add some extra cinnamon to those puppies too. It adds a little extra warmth to the batter, and it softens up any of the dough that has become a little too dense from the stirring.

When in doubt, stir with your hands, it makes a fun mess, mixes the batter way better...and did I mention you get to lick your fingers afterwards? Because you do in fact get to lick your fingers clean. It's wonderful.

I should probably stop eating dough and wait the 8 minutes that remain until the cookies come out of the oven. Especially because I haven't had dinner yet, and it's 11 pm. (Just enough time to finish solving the conundrum pounding through my temples.)

"Nobody said it was easy." -Coldplay

**************

Bon appétit!!

A Mid-Morning 'Radical' Piece of Literature

"In case you haven't noticed, as the result of a shamelessly rigged election in Florida, in which thousands of African Americans were arbitrarily disenfranchised, we now present ourselves to the rest of the world as proud, grinning, jut-jawed, pitiless war-lovers with appalling powerful weaponry - who stand unopposed.

In case you haven't noticed, we are now as feared and hated all over the world as the Nazi's once were.
And with good reason.

In case you haven't noticed, our unelected leaders have dehumanized millions and millions of human beings simply because of their religion and race. We wound 'em and kill 'em and torture 'em and imprison 'em all we want.

Piece of cake.

In case you haven't noticed, we also dehumanize our own soldiers, not because of their religion or race, but because of their low social class.

Send 'em anywhere. Make 'em do anything.

Piece of cake.

The O'Reilly Factor.

So I am a man without a country, except for the librarians and a Chicago paper called "In These Times."
Before we attacked Iraq, the majestic "New York Times" guaranteed there were weapons of destruction there.
Albert Einstein and Mark Twain gave up on the human race at the end of their lives, even though Twain hadn't even seen the First World War. War is now a form of TV entertainment, and what made the First World War so particularly entertaining were two American inventions, barbed wire and the machine gun.

Shrapnel was invented by an Englishman of the same name. Don't you wish you could have something named after you?
Like my distinct betters Einstein and Twain, I now give up on people too. I am a veteran of the Second World War and I have to say this is the not the first time I surrendered to a pitiless war machine.

My last words? "Life is no way to treat an animal, not even a mouse."

Napalm came from Harvard. Veritas!

Our president is a Christian? So was Adolf Hitler.

What can be said to our young people, now that psychopathic personalities, which is to say persons without consciences, without senses of pity or shame, have taken all the money in the treasuries of our government and corporations and made it all their own?"

— Kurt Vonnegut (A Man Without a Country)

Confidence

It's funny how I lack confidence when I speak French in America. But when I'm in Paris, or Nice, or even Northern France (where the dialects literally run wild), I let go, and just speak. I make just as many mistakes as I do in America, but when I'm in France, I feel like one of them. And I know I could never be Parisian, nor do I think I would truly want to be, but I certainly feel more confident when speaking over there.

In America, I feel misunderstood, strung up somewhere between confusing verb tenses, and mispronounced nouns. In France, my errors sounds like slang, or sound like a common mistake that nearly-fluent Americans tend to make. I feel at ease, one with my words. I don't stumble over words, stumble over their meanings and what I mean to say. For some reason I stumble over everything in America-- in French or in English. And it never struck me as odd until I started going to one-on-one conferences with my American French professor. It's not a big deal, but I'm not sure if or when that will ever go away.

Sunday night inspiration?

Two sangria malts down. I repeat: two sangria malts down. And I'm wondering where the inspiration is. Ten months ago, I found myself typing away furiously after a night out with my Parisian friends. Actually, it didn't even have to really be a "night out" per se, but maybe just an apératif-afternoon. Tucked inside my fourth floor chambre I would type away, sometimes for hours, writing blog entries, intricate emails, longing letters, and everything in between. I chatted with friends, skyped with loved ones, and found myself utterly inspired by the world around me. And tonight I find myself oddly uninspired...not in a bad, depressing way though, just in a very confusing, oddly uninspired mood. What strikes me as so odd is my lack of inspiration. I live in an incredible world where everyday life usually inspires me. There's usually at least one part of my day that muddles my mind, intrigues me into deep thought, or challenges what I've always believed in. But today, I find myself very, yes I will say it again, oddly at ease. It's a content feeling I'm not acquainted with. For some people, this may be an exceptionally comforting feeling to have, but for me...I just feel like a waste of space. A waste of perfectly capable, perfectly thoughtful, space. My life is interesting enough, isn't it?

Maybe it wasn't my own life that intrigued me so much while I stayed in Paris, but rather, the lives of the Parisians that intrigued me so. But Miami, Florida is such a unique place to live. I should feel inspired by something everyday, and yet I just feel--content. Ugh, the sound of that word is giving me a headache. No one should be content. It's both mundane and tragic at the same time. (Yet the word itself does not mean either!) My need for adventure and experience has both blessed and cursed the very ground I walk on.

Two questions come to mind: (1) Is the world I live in too comfortable? Or, (2) is it just so blatantly structured there is little time for either adventure or experience?

I'm not unhappy. I'm really not. At least, I don't think I am the majority of the time. And I think that's how it should be. There is no room for total happiness, just like there is no need for complete unhappiness. But somehow I don't think my lack of inspiration lands me anywhere productive on either end of that spectrum. So now I'm left with wondering where to go from here. With only Monday's sobering agenda nearing me each passing moment.

Love, food, and roller coasters.

It's 4 pm and I've hardly begun my homework. My mind simply cannot wrap itself around Anna Gavalda and her world-renound French nouvelles. Thoughts of roller coasters and theme park food race through my mind. Not to mention the close game of put-put that ended just hours ago. For his 25th birthday, Evan and I drove up to Orlando for a mini-vactaion. We spent two wonderful days at Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure. At first it seemed silly that neither of us had been there before, at twenty and twenty-five years old. But somehow, I'm almost glad I waited this long to go. I was able to spend the time with my best friend, acting like children on rides I would have been too scared to go on a few years back.

Sporting torn up red Chuck Taylors and a hot-pink Minnie Mouse fanny-pack, I set out with Evan to explore the depths of Islands of Adventure. Our favorite ride ended up being the first one we got in line for...The Hulk. I of course had to do the famous Wind-Clap he does in the movie...only I did it in public and without the same result. Needless to say, Evan was mildly embarrassed, but he covered it up well with the giggle and side-smile he shot my way on the way to the next ride. Making our way through the Toon Lagoon, we went on a few water rides. And the giggles didn't stop from there on out.

A hop skip and jump landed us into Jurassic Park Island, a place I had been dreaming about since we started planning this trip. At last, I would get to see a real dinosaur! Pulling Evan through the park, I assured him real dinosaur would pop out at any point in time so he better be on the lookout. To keep me from losing hope, he pulled me into a gift shop about midway through and showed me a few "real" dinosaurs. I wasn't impressed. I almost asked an employee where they kept the dinosaur eggs, but she was so enthralled by the split ends in her hair I didn't want to bother her with such a scientifically important question. Checking out the map, we decided we would only see a real dino on the water ride, which took us through the real Jurassic Park. But the line was over 70 minutes long, and we HAD to get to Harry Potter World.

First things first. They make you walk entirely too far around Harry Potter World to actually enter it. But it's absolutely worth it. Even Evan was impressed! The snow-covered buildings and castle are a perfect enough for me replica of what I envision/what is seen in the movie. Every one is dressed in character and they have their lines down to a tee. I of course got a Butterbeer, Evan got his celebratory big-boy beer and we set off to explore the grounds.

Sidenote: I must mention that this blog will be incomplete for a while because I decided to go old-school on my photography this weekend. All photos were taken with a disposable camera for full-on tourist effect. Therefore, it will be a while before I can post any photos.

Deciding the lines were too long for an afternoon adventure, we made a vow to wake up extra early in the morning to ride the Harry Potter rides and we pressed on to Dr. Seuss Land. And OH what a place that was! Clearly made for children, the entire Island is decked out in swirled scenery with pastel trees and fuzzy characters walking around. Their slushies are named Goose Juice and Moose Juice and they even has a store dedicated to selling all of the Dr. Seuss stories I grew up reading. The place is simply magical. I couldn't imagine a better design for that Island.

Of course I'm doing this place zero justice with my words, but what I can describe is the comforting feeling I'm taking away from this weekend. It's not only the comfort of spending 48 hours alone with my boyfriend, doing only the things we want to do with little to no responsibility, but it is the comfort of knowing I can take vacations, I can plan out what I'd like to do. And it can be fun, not hectic and confusing. This weekend I was able to be a kid 24/7, giggle at being splashed by dirty water, get scared by a dark roller-coaster and eat whatever I want without feeling guilty. And more importantly, I was able to share the weekend with someone I love very much. And even after knowing him for so long, I was able to see a shiny new side of him, one that relates to my inner-child more than I could have imagined.

Until next time...peace, love, and butterbeer.

Growing up, in need of a clue.

Less than four months remain until my twenty-first birthday and only recently have I found myself utterly confused about my current path in life. I may be cliché in thinking that this birthday should be some kind of paramount event in my life, but how I envision my twenty-one year old self is someone who is about to begin their final year of school, either preparing to take certain exams to move onto Graduate School, or editing resumé samples to create the perfect one for each employer. But all I see is a scared little girl, afraid to move out of this seemingly new comfort-zone. And it's not that I'm not excited about the future and I'm certainly not going to try to keep it from coming, but I have this eerie feeling that I am misplaced.

At seven years old, I took pride in telling people that, "When I grow up I want to be a teacher. And maybe a coach."

At ten years old, I took pride in saying, "I'm going to be a teacher and a gymnastics coach one day."

At sixteen years old, I took pride in saying, "I'm going to the University of Miami because the School of Education there is awesome. And I'm going to be on the track team."

And finally at eighteen years old, my mother was able to take her turn in gloating. "My daughter attends the University of Miami, studying French and Secondary Education."

Up until the eighteen year old point, I think people always thought my dream to one day become a teacher who could change the world of teaching was...cute. Or maybe just valorous. But now it seems like everyone who asks, stops, tilts their head and slowly begins to say, "Sooo, you're thinking of becoming a teacher who coaches French people?" And then comes the chuckle. And I never took it to heart because they simply did not understand. And to a certain degree I still don't take it to heart. What bothers me is that I now find myself questioning what I will do with my French degree, and if Education will be enough.

Before I could read I started building up this wall of security, unconsciously reassuring myself that no matter what happened in life, I knew I could become a teacher. And a big part of me really senses that wall of security is crumbling down. Surely everyone has a childhood dream of becoming something special one day; NFL star, firefighter, doctor, etc. For me, the something special was becoming a teacher. So for years I closed my eyes to various professions. Sure, I dabbled with the thought of studying Math, becoming a doctor of some kind (but I can't say I love seeing needles or sharp objects), and even a crime-scene investigator or psychologist at one point in time. But I always staggered back to teaching. I told myself I was born to be a teacher and a mother. But now I ask, why have I limited myself to these roles?

I'm twenty years old and I haven't got a clue what to do. Almost three years into a degree and two specialties, I find myself altogether questioning what I will be when I supposedly "grow up". Yes, age is just a number and I'm a firm believer that no one ever truly has to grow up. But let's be honest, bills and car payments and career decisions are kind of a grown-up thing to handle. And it seems as though I have about a year to square everything away.

Twenty years old; with a fifteen year old false sense of security; without a clue.

Dostoevsky with a side of macchiato.

"Oh, tell me, who first announced, who was the first to proclaim that man does dirty only because he doesn't know his real interests; and that were he to be enlightened, were his eyes to be opened to his real, normal interests, man would immediately stop doing dirty, would immediately become good and noble, because, being enlightened and understanding his real profit, he would see his real profit precisely in the good, and it's common knowledge that no man can act knowingly against his own profit, consequently, out of necessity, so to speak, he would start doing good? Oh, the babe! oh, the pure, innocent child! and when was it, to begin with, in all these thousands of years, that man acted solely for his own profit?"