The Ides of March.

I once stood where Caesar was stabbed.  In the Largo di Torre Argentina, in Rome, when I was nineteen.  There are lion statues there and the myth goes that one puts his hand into the lion's mouth and if it closes, he's deceitful.  I didn't put my hand in.  I'll never put my hand in.

I lie a lot.  I lie about small things that aren't even white, they're paler than that.  They are innocent, but entrapping.  They are gnat-like and hover around sweet things, sweet people I find attractive.  I want to impress.  It's been a characteristic about me since I was a child. I don't know if I've ever really impressed anyone, but it's always fun to pretend.

Loneliness is the most unkindest cut of all.  I am often left in a dissatisfaction at my own amusement with simple pleasures.  I have had the house to myself for two days and have taken Murphy to the sitter's and drove in the car for nearly an hour and a half total.  I put a bid on a house, a house that's shared, a house that has a concrete backyard and is close to a tennis court.  A house that's in a nice neighborhood, but is equalized to our standard by the budget we set for it.  I could never live alone.

Then I wonder why I crave it so much.  Why I sit facing a certain way, away from others.  Why I am so bothered by the constant, incessant need to ask how my day is.  Why do pleasantries make me recoil?  I think it's the inauthenticity of it all, the mechanism of courtesy and the lack of true, distinct attention that I may get from so-and-so.  I cannot impress the disinterested.  I need an audience to survive.

I'll wait patiently.  I will go to the dog park that doesn't have grass and is volunteer-driven and I will talk to a woman named Mariel about our dogs and I will drain my battery to 10% talking to my dad about his business trip to Arkansas and I will drink a whole Gatorade and wake up at 5:45 am to ensure I get to read A Farewell to Arms in the brown leather couches of a Starbucks close to work.  I applied for a part-time job at a French bakery and lied on my resume (as I always tend to do). I ate cereal for dinner last night.  I made tacos today.

And while I wait for my audience to come back, I will listen to Murphy breath heavy and taste the goods I made myself.

Cornmeal Cookies (via)

Ingredients:

• 1 stick unsalted butter, softened (1/2 cup)
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/4 tsp. salt
• Zest of one lime
• 1 large egg
• 1 tsp. vanilla extract
• 3/4 cup flour
• 1/2 cup 100% yellow cornmeal + extra for rolling 

Directions

• Preheat oven to 375 Fahrenheit
• In a large bowl, whip softened butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
• Beat in salt, zest, egg, vanilla.
• Add flour and then cornmeal once incorporated.  Use a rubber spatula to mix to ensure full incorporation, as mixers often do not get the bottom/sides of bowl.
• (Variant from original) Allow to rest in freezer for a few minutes.
• Pat or roll onto floured/cornmeal-dusted board.
• Cut into rounds.
• Place on parchment-lined baking sheet.
• Bake 8-12 minutes until just golden on edges.
• Allow to cool.

(I paired these with a grapefruit curd, which will be featured in my next post)

Le premier anniversaire de chien.

He's one-year-old today.

He's one and I'm twenty-two, and I'll have this dog all throughout my twenties.  It comforts me to think of commitment and unconditionally loving something that's not my own ego.  A dog is a great companion for people like me, for people who have jaded views on the need for friendships and loves to be needed constantly, incessantly, selflessly.

Nolan and I adopted Murphy when it was probably a dark time for us.  We had just transplanted our humble life of studio-living in ramshackle circumstances, the metallic taste of grudges still fresh on our tongues, and we wanted something to bond us together again. Before it was California, and before we tired of that manifest destiny sort of dream, it was just simple--sex or food in Pittsburgh.  We moved into our current house and I remember the exact moment I came across Murphy's picture.  I was staying for a week in a La Quinta off Harbor Boulevard in Orange County, taking the rest of my law exams for my 1L year.  He was on Craigslist and I was on a comforter that was orange and scratchy.  I got him after my Contracts exam in an Korean community in Los Angeles County.  I gave the owners some extra money for food.  They were poor, Hispanic, and fed Murphy crushed-up, watered-down dog food.

He was inquisitive and cautious since birth.  Energetic at the promise of a walk, a newfound spot to pee, a friend to make, or a kiss from "daddy" or "papa".  It is not a hyperbole to say he has been a blessing and an angel to me.  I was unemployed for six months and he was a reason to still wake up at seven every morning to take him out for his morning ritual (sniff around the mulch, avoid the sprinklers, and squat to pee, his eyes closed in the morning light).  It was a period of bohemian, relaxed self-reflection that involved becoming a caretaker to a child, really.  I considered myself a father and told Murphy my secrets when we were alone.  He's grown into the perfect dog.  Obedient and loving, careful and curious.  He's everything you want in a child, and I brag about him often.

He's the only picture I have in my cubicle at work.  It's when his hair was still shaggy and you see him in all his emotional ranges.

I baked him dog treats and a cake until eleven at night (recipes below).  I wrapped up a sock monkey that we named Pete.  We took him to the park and to lunch, a walk and a nap.  I kissed him a few more times than usual and even wrote him a card.  I sometimes wonder if I do it for myself or for him and how much he recognizes as gestures of love.

Then I wonder, as most children do when they grow up, if my mother ever thought this way about me.  If I ever really appreciated the post-it notes stuck to my car, saying, "Have a good day."  I hope so.

Two-ingredient Dog Treats

Ingredients:

• 2 4-ounce jars of baby food (I used carrot x banana for one combination and turkey dinner x sweet potato for another)
• 2 cups whole-wheat flour (I caution using this much, as I had excess flour.  Start with one and a half cups and add more until it forms a dough)

Directions:

• Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and prep a baking sheet with parchment paper.
• Mix baby food and flour together in large bowl.
• Once well-incorporated, turn onto lightly-floured surface as it begins to form into a workable dough.
• Roll to desired thickness with rolling pin; or, alternatively, pat to desired thickness (hey, they're dogs--they won't know the difference!)
• Cut into desired shapes.  I happened to have bone and heart shapes to work with.
• Bake in oven for 20-25 minutes, until harden.
• Let cool before serving to your dog.

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Doggy Birthday Cake

Ingredients:

• 1/2 cup whole-wheat flour
• 1 Teaspoon baking powder
• 1/3 cup canola oil
• 1/3 cup apple sauce
• 1 egg
• 2 Tablespoons honey

Directions:

• Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
• Prep small ramekin for cake.  (Alternatively, this could make two cupcakes.  I, in fact, used these handy baking cups from the Container Store and it was perfect for the festivities and utility.)
• Mix all ingredients together until well-combined.  Batter will be fairly runny but consistent.
• Pour into prepared bakeware.
• Bake 10-12 minutes (or longer.  Mine took 25 minutes) until a toothpick comes out clean.
• Allow to cool.

Talismans.

The only reason I bought them was because they were on sale.  These small gemstones I keep in a blue velvet pouch in my pocket or around my neck, on a silver chain that once held a crucifix. 

I'm not very religious.  In fact, it's the beginning of Lent and I'm not trying too hard to abstain.  I didn't grow up Catholic, but I always went to Catholic school.  There were crosses in our classrooms, not clocks or windows.  I'm pretty laissez-faire when it comes to belief, but I'm opportunistic when it comes to my faith.  I can't abstain from the things that make me happy, like swearing when I stub my toe or thinking impure thoughts when the mood hits me.  Instead, I bargain with God to try my best.  In that way, I'm probably not the religious expert one would expect me to be, having studied religious art at the Vatican almost four years ago now.

I believe in energy and restrictions.  A balance of chore and allowance.  I believe that we can leave marks on others and those marks can be cancerous.  I believe in damnation.  I believe in gluttony, too.  I don't believe in any sort of salvation vis a vis starvation.  I believe in the power of symbols, the power of intent imprinted onto letters, crosses, stones.  I think we get confused sometimes (I get confused more often than most).

There's been a shift in me lately.  A tug between my normal, negative self and a liberating desire to be positive.  A need, really.  In the past, I have had small bouts of depression, tempered with a sense of inadequacy.  Over the last year, I've realized how silly I have been.  How small those emotions are and how big the picture is.  I'm projecting these emotions on small stones, earth-made and anxiety-worn.  

I wish I could remember their names.  I know I'm wearing a ring of hematite, that I pray for more love with the rose quartz.  There's one for creativity and one for success.  I bathed in sage to cleanse them and myself.  I've worn them to bed every night.  

I know this kind of ritual won't last.  I understand that there is a fad to this kind of thinking.  But anything is better than sitting at night and wondering how many Valium there are left in a pill bottle that doesn't have my name on it.  I like the comfort of putting the intention on myself and that maybe, just maybe, I won't be damned forever.  

Introductions.

It hit me today while making coffee that it's been five years since my senior year of high school.  Five years since I used to sneak out of school early on Fridays and sit in my boyfriend's grandparent's Buick and smoke a cigarette. It was easy to feel mature then, when you're baby-faced and closeted and learning how to ash a bummed Marlboro from a girl you just met.  It's not so easy when you're 22 and living in California, when bills are due and you pay everything with a credit card.

It's different than I thought it would be, being an adult.  I don't read as much poetry as I thought I would and I like silence and weekends to myself.  I own a dog and I have a boy and I am complete in a way that isn't boastful or eager for change.  Instead, I am eager to grow, to expand on the self that I have created over the last five years.  In that time, I have lived ten lives.  I've been a law student, a recreational drug user, a prodigal son.  I've dated a model, a male stripper, and (currently) a doctor.  I've lived in the rural farmland of the Laurel Highlands in Pennsylvania and the suburbs of San Diego.  The most money I've ever had in my bank account at one time was six thousand and I owe it all back to the government now.  

When I was unemployed and a law school drop-out, I took up cooking as a way to have some stability.  I understood the delineation of a recipe gave me an end result if done correctly.  I liked the idea of an attainable success when law school gave me none.  I liked the idea of nourishing my small family here in San Diego.  I liked the idea of creating.  That opportunity doesn't exist as abundantly as it did when we were kids.  

I'm learning, and I hope you all will enjoy the process as much as I do.

Best,

Brett