Wednesday, October 9, 2013

I'm Not the Problem

I wanted to call this post "I'm Not the Crazy One," but I'm going to try to refrain from tossing around DSM diagnoses that I am not qualified to make, so "problem" seems more appropriate.

Are there people in your life that have the uncanny ability to make your doubt yourself?  I mean doubt how you see yourself in the world, how the world operates, good and bad, right and wrong.  I mean individuals who aren't bad people but who are so entrenched in their own world view that spending time with them makes you start to wonder if your own sense of the universe is somehow askew.

There are a few such people in my life.  They are people I love and care about and respect (at least on some levels).  I suppose that's the rub.  If they were completely antithetical to everything I stand for, it would be easy to maintain boundaries, to see them as other.  These people, on the other hand, share enough commonalities that it is easy to accept as valid/true/real feedback that can be deeply undermining. 

I spent lots of time with my therapist figuring out ways to resist these forces. As one who errs on the side of conflict avoidant, arguing the point is not an option I care to pursue unless necessary.  I had to create (literally) a mental reminder system so that I wasn't swept up in the rhetoric.  It is unlikely that, as she so adeptly phrased it, I have everyone else I know/trust/respect snowed.

Am I being too vague?  Perhaps.  But I'm guessing if it's happened to you, you know what I mean.  And I'm here today to tell you that even in the spirit of openness and growth and self awareness, the criticism is bogus.  So take a deep breath and tell yourself that you are not the problem. 

Sunday, October 6, 2013

The Southern Fried Literate Baker Femme

I used to joke that was one of my great fears in life was a collision of my worlds.  The feeling was that there were distinct versions of myself, displayed to various people at various times for various reasons.  The fear was that, should people get together and begin to compare notes, I'd be found out.  Can open; worms everywhere. 

There was the liberal, but still fairly subdued niece/cousin/daughter.  There was the confident higher ed administrator.  There was the domestic goddess.  There was the queer femme inclined to submission and occasional kink.  It wasn't that these women couldn't get along; it was that the people who liked one of them wouldn't like the others. 

Over the last few years, I spent a lot of time trying to reconcile my identities.  The goal was to become a single authentic self that didn't have a compulsive need to be liked by everyone.  In some ways I've succeeded.  I'm much more comfortable with who I am and I think that makes a huge difference.

Yet.  Yet I still have a queer writer blog and a baker who likes to write blog.  I'm okay with that because they are different outlets and I envision them as having different (if at times overlapping) audiences.  This, of course, goes back to my preoccupation with the reader.  It begs the question, again--for whom do I write?

All of this over-analyzing comes courtesy of the apple crisp I made last night.  It's the apple crisp I make every fall, the one my girlfriend loves once in the evening and then every subsequent morning for breakfast until it's gone.  It's the one I write about every fall in my other blog, The Literate Baker.  It's the one I'm sharing now for anyone who happens upon this version of myself:


It really is delicious.  It's easy to make and will leave your entire house smelling divine.  It has both the Literate Baker and the Southern Fried Femme seals of approval.

So I haven't figured it all out; perhaps that's okay.  At least all my selves get along.  And they all love to cook.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Caramel


Wisps of smoke tell you you’re doing it right.  It is important to swirl the pot; stirring with a spoon can set off a crystalline chain reaction that will leave you with useless chunks of sugar and regret.  It is important to swirl the pot slowly; they don’t call it culinary napalm for nothing.

When you see the wisps of smoke, swirl for just a few more seconds.  When you are on the verge of fearing all is lost, whip the pot off the heat and add cream.  When the fury of bubbles abates, toss in a pinch of the best salt you have and some vanilla if you’re so inclined.  Return the whole thing to a gentler heat, stirring until your sauce is smooth and dark and lustrous.

Caramel has a thousand and one uses.  It will coat, cover, fill, swirl, flavor, or complement just about any fruit, nut, cookie, cake, or pie.  Yet its true beauty lies not in the kitchen at all.  A spoon, perhaps, and a willing participant are all you really need.

You’ll want to start with the inside of her elbow, or maybe her wrist.  It is as much a tickle as a tease to lick the soft creases.  She smiles and, for a moment, becomes shy.  Her thoughts have begun to wander; she knows what you are thinking.

You lay a thin smear across her belly, working your way from her left side to her right with your mouth—tongue and teeth and lips.  She sighs and pulls at your hair, wanting to touch, wanting to taste.  You coat your fingers and allow her to suck them while you continue to work your way up her torso. 

The underside of her breast is salty and warm.  It is here you really begin to taste her.  Her nipples are erect.  You worship one, then the other until her sighs become moans.

When you drizzle caramel on the inside of her thighs, she starts to squirm in earnest.  With her body, with a handful of semi-coherent words, she implores you to be fast and hard.  You remain slow, methodical even.  Some indulgences are meant to be savored.

Later, you lay with bodies pressed together.  Her pulse has finally slowed.  The evenness of her breathing assures you she is both sated and spent.  The taste of her lingers, mixed with the bitter-sweet of caramel and the salt of your shared sweat.  The half-empty jar sits on the bedside table, the promise of another night, waiting to be devoured.