That Really Deep Hole That’s Filled With Apple Crisp

Yesterday was hard. The first week Michael was gone was hard. I cried a lot. It was kind of like going through a break up all over again, but this time I had a kind and wonderful supportive boy to comfort me, instead of one to feed me crap lines like “this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” (What’s up with that anyway? I heard someone say that on TV, ahem Dawson’s Creek, today, and thought why do people say that? If this was really the hardest thing you’d ever done, would you be doing it?) So I sat around feeling sad for a week.

Then things got better. They just…did. Nothing in my life changed. Mike is still in another country. I’m still here, my life sort of on hold, sharing my bed with two girls (sexy, no?).But things got better.

Then yesterday hit. Like a fucking bag of bricks.

Yesterday the Jew in me welcomed the new year. Shana Tova! This year for the first time the days leading up to Rosh Hashanah were filled with anticipation, the kind you feel before Christmas. I think this has to do with the fact that I work at a Jewish organization now. The office was filled with people wishing each other Shana Tova, discussing holiday plans and meals, and talking about what they would do with their two days off. That’s right, I didn’t work yesterday or today. I couldn’t wait to spend the days contemplating the last year and looking forward to the new one. But then I spent Monday alone. Which would have been fine, but alone means lonely these days, too. And what with the holiday and all and the condescending little prick of a college “super senior” who sat down next to me at services, I just couldn’t handle the aloneness.

Now, I am not even here to complain. Guys, I’ve got it damn good. I don’t have to hide my religion, I get to celebrate it freely. I have a loving and loyal boyfriend who, despite living far away, gives me confidence in our relationship every day. I just. Fell. Into one of those huge holes, the kind where the bottom is really far away from the top, even though you can see the top, the bright blue sky, clearly. You just cannot climb out of that damn hole.

So you sit in there at the bottom and you wallow. Oh man, does wallowing feel good sometimes, right? And you wonder how you are a functioning adult and how you manage to get out of bed in the morning. And then you move to the wallowing part where you wonder why you don’t have kids yet. And just because you haven’t been having unprotected sex and pumping small humans out of your vagina doesn’t mean you haven’t been busy. And then you imagine what you’ll say next time someone asks you, “So what’s new? How’s it going” You’ll say, “well, i got out of bed today, and i’m much more self-aware, and i haven’t cried yet today,” or something equally brutally honest like that.

So whatever. I had the world’s saddest wallow-fest at the bottom of a big hole. The end only came after I had sat in the bathroom and cried, big hysterical ridiculous gaspy cries, for 15 minutes. Then I was suddenly near the top of the hole. Sometimes it just takes a good cry, right?

Sometimes it takes a good cry and a good apple crisp.

I haven’t indulged in making baked goods in awhile. Trying to, you know, keep that cholesterol down by avoiding butter. But suddenly I just had to. I turned to my Joy the Baker Cookbook, the chapter called “i need a hug, or a brownie. maybe both.”  I have this bowl overflowing with apples from the farmer’s market. Lola Kitty was suspicious at first.

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Then I turned the apples into an amazing crisp. Lola Kitty approved.

This crisp is more or less like an apple pie without the slightly time-consuming crust. (Even I will admit that a crust can be a hassle when all you want is some buttery comfort.) It bakes up nice and cinnamon and sugary with a crispy, slightly oaty topping. And it’s called “man bait” apple crisp. And as I stood in my kitchen blending butter, flour, and sugars together with my hands, I sighed. This is right. This feels so good. Thank God for butter and sugar.

So, maybe you’re in a hole. Maybe you need to catch yourself a man. Maybe you have too many apples from the farmer’s market. Make this dang apple crisp. And watch Joy make it in St. Louis in this video JTB apple crisp.

Things get a little weird. Obvs. We’re talking about Joy. Though she does have the talk show host “sewn up” …. and there’s even a Ghost reenactment. This is why I love Joy. She’s hilarious and weird and normal and lovely, and that’s how she is in real life. I met her.

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Clutter

Let me take  you on a journey.

It’s 9am on a Friday morning (this Friday morning in fact). I’ve just opened my internet browser at work and my homepage slate.com opens up. “Introducing Flutter” it says, “because 140 characters is 114 too many.” Huh, is there something cooler than Twitter out there? Doubtful I clicked and was taken to this video. Have you watched it? Because it’s fairly hilarious. I obviously have to see if this Flutter exists, so I Google it. Nope, it’s just a cruel joke that the good staff of Slate came up with. But I did find a website called Flutter that sounded suspiciously like Etsy (LINKS EVERYWHERE OMG!). Upon browsing the site I came across chandeliers.  My first thought was “Oh my God these are awesome! Now I know where I’m going to buy my next chandelier.” My next thought was “wait, when the hell will I need a chandelier in the near future?”
Good Morning!
Oh have you noticed there’s a plague going around? It’s called the baby plague. I think it’s a side effect to the better-known marriage sickness. I felt behind when my friends all started getting engaged and married. Now that they’re all going to Babyland, I feel like the runner in last place who can’t even see the guy in second-to-last place. Apparently I have a lot of catching up to do, but I’m not going to start sprinting anytime soon.
I moved successfully into my new and fabulous apartment. Fabulous because I can actually cook in the kitchen!! I will be posting pictures soon hopefully of not only the apartment but of my most recent baking adventure in said kitchen.
I’ll leave you with this delightful conversation I had with a man while answering the phone at the front desk at work last week.
Phone rings.
Me: Saturday Evening Post.
Man: Yes, hello ma’am, I want to report a child support fraud.
Me: Ok, um, this is the Saturday Evening Post, we’re a magazine.
Man: I need to report a child support fraud. Can you help me?
Me: Well this is a magazine. We publish a magazine here.
Man: Do you know who I can call?
Me: Um, I, no, I really don’t, I’m so sorry.
In retrospect I probably should have told him child services.