Dear July, five // something you might like to eat

Dear July,

As a small break from my usual pontifications, here are some pictures from my birthday on Tuesday (featuring: a birthday breakfast, a walk round Finlaystone Country Estate, my mother smelling a rose, some sun on my face, salad assembling, a strawberry shortcake, the feet of my family, and the beauty that is the view from our sea-view home). Stay tuned for some strong opinions on salad and a 'recipe' for how we made it...

Quite a lovely day with some of my favourite people.

♥

[Some thoughts on salad and a summer salad recipe]

In my family, salads always have lots of ingredients (though: no raw red onion, please #badbreathforamonth). And all of those ingredients, including the leaves, should be chopped very small (to prevent chokey-ness and looking-like-a-rabbit-ness). To all the restaurants that call a bowl of iceberg lettuce with half a slimy tomato and a chunk cucumber ‘A Side Salad’: I have only this (<-- click that word) to say to you.

I'm a hungry person, and quite like to hear about what other people are eating, so – if you're much the same and are keen to know – here’s what we had in The Delicious Birthday Salad:

Baby-leaf salad leaves . cucumber (chopped up small) . little tomatoes (chopped up small) . avocado (chopped up small) . sugar snap peas (chopped up small) . strawberries (chopped up small) . crumbled goats cheese . toasted pecans (scattered on top) 

The dressing was a basic vinaigrette from Shauna Niequist’s Bread and Wine - very easy to make because you just add everything into a jar, then put the lid on and sh-sh-sh-shake it up baby: 

1 tbsp Dijon mustard . 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar . 1/4 tsp salt . a few twists of black pepper . 1/2 cup olive oil

We ate it with a warm, buttered ‘trio of olive bloomer’ from Tesco, and some Italian herb marinated chicken cooked on the barbeque. And red wine. Delicious.

//

Dear July, four // mirrors and becoming

When we were younger – like, a lot younger – my sister, Emilie, and I used to talk to ourselves in the bathroom mirror. Or, not really to ourselves. We imagined that we were addressing a captive audience on the other side of the glass. We were presenters of a TV show – a self-help programme for the seemingly incompetent – where we’d demonstrate nightly, through mouths full of Colgate, how to clean your teeth.

‘Goo eev-u-ning’ – was usually how it would go, tilting our heads back to try and slow the progress of white foam sliding down our chins – ‘Iss is ow you bruss oor teef’’ (For the record, it’s quite tricky to brush and speak simultaneously).  

I remember another mirror conversation – in our shared bedroom this time, the imagined audience now dissolved – where we both peered at our own faces, pulling at them, and one of us said,

‘What do you think we’re going to look like when we’re grown up?’ 

I sat there, scrunching my eyes to blur my reflection, trying to picture myself as an adult. The answer seemed a long way off, but I was curious to find out who I was going to become.

Well, last week when I was drying my hair, that memory popped back into my head and it caused an odd sensation to recognise – goodness – here I am “an adult” now and:

‘This. It turns out I look like this.’*

//

I turned twenty five on Tuesday. And, over the past few days, I’ve spent quite a bit of time writing and scrapping and then rewriting and re-scrapping a post about the significance (or perhaps insignificance) of this age: two five. The big ‘quarter of a century’ birthday. 

“I had to wait in a queue at the train-station on Monday,” I wrote in one draft, talking about noticing the decisive shift from Early-Twenties to Mid, “because if I tried to renew my Young Person’s railcard a day later, I’d no longer qualify for the discount.” 

“Girls we grew up with used to say, ‘I’m going to wait till I'm twenty-five to get married,’” I wrote in another, more introspective, draft. “Like, you could put in an order and exact delivery date for major life events and by twenty five you’d’ve seen and done and experienced enough of the world to be ready to settle down...”

None of the drafts were hitting the right tone though and – even though some were super wordy – none seemed to be saying anything other than: heavens, where on earth has the time gone? Which – even though: yikes, where has it gone, guys? – doesn’t make for a very interesting piece for *you* to read. So let me just say this instead:

I am now twenty-five years old. Yes. And this is what I look like. I think I’m realising, though, that there’s never going to be a year when I can say, with certainty: ‘This is who I am for sure. I’ve become who I am going to be’. Because ‘becoming yourself’ is a lifelong dance, it seems. And I’m still figuring out how to dance it.

This year: may I become more. More kind, more curious. More productive and more inclined towards attentiveness than distraction. May I become more willing to speak up, find more reasons to be thankful, write more words that will stick, go more places that bring light, spend more hours with the ones who build me up...

//

Notes.)

*About 'this is what I look like': I don’t mean that in a bitter ‘I am as ugly as a bear’ type way. Or a congratulatory ‘and a lovely face it is too’. More: ‘Huh. Well there you go. I’m an adult now and that is my face.’

ps. Even though I obviously don’t think of myself as a child anymore (that would be weird), it still feels odd to call myself “adult”. I keep on thinking of that Harry Potter spoof where Dumbledore looks down at Harry – played by Dawn French – and says in this serious voice, ‘You’re a woman, Harry.’

(‘Yer a woman, Melissa.’)

*Pictures in the post are by Helena Perez Garcia (her illustrtions are quite lovely, and her website is: here.)

// 

Dear July, five & six: on turning 24.

A note: so, this post is a little introspective. The beginning of July always feels like a second New Year to me because of my birthday - meaning: a time for looking again and refocusing. (I shall widen my gaze tomorrow). But the ‘something I noticed’ comes in the form of these pictures. Yesterday my Mum and I left the house without realising we’d dressed up as opposites of each other. We often match unintentionally. Whether in clothes, ideas or our reactions to things my Dad says. Poor man. (‘What do you think of that car?’ ‘Hideous. It looks like a wasp.’ ‘Mm. That’s what your Mum said.’) 

Anyway – it reminded me a little of this illustration by Sara Soderholm. So when we got home, we tried to recreate the picture. 

♥

Dear July,

I turned twenty-four yesterday. It was the first of my 20-something years that I’ve been able to greet with a tip of the hat – ‘Well hello there, two four. How’d you do?’ – rather than with panic. My last evening as a nineteen year old (back in the day) was spent tucked behind cream coloured curtains on a window-sill, sort of (slightly pathetically) crying into the knees of my pyjamas because I couldn’t believe I’d let myself get to twenty without having Everything figured out yet. (Whatever that means. Still not sure.)

The person I’d like to be at twenty four is still more interesting than I am. She’s wiser. She’s written more. She isn’t so awkward. She’s less of a klutz. Her bedroom is tidier. Her hair’s not so frizzy. She doesn’t dance round the edges so much – she just says what she thinks: bam. She’s kinder. And wittier. And she probably doesn’t fall asleep at least one night a week on the sofa fully-dressed (a habit I seem to have picked up only this last year. Send help). She’s a lot less hesitant. She takes more risks.

But, hey.

I’m trying to treat these ‘could be betters’ with good grace. I might not speak fluent French. But, among other things... I did travel halfway across the world by myself this year to visit good friends. I built a website. I learned how to carve a pumpkin. I navigated the Paris Metro singlehandedly. I taught a class. I house-sat for my sister and her fiancé for a week and managed not to kill their cats. (That’s something, right?)

So welcome, twenty four. I’ll try and grow into you. May you be filled with light and love and may I write so much in the space of your 365 days that this novel I'm working on will be so close to completion that the words will sing.

♥

Today's poem: One Art by Elizabeth Bishop. (Quite a lot of these poems seem to be about losing. Any suggestions for ones about being allowed to keep things?)

Dear July, three & four: snapshots.

Dear July,

Yesterday was: waking up to sun, eating apples in the garden, painted toenails, driving in the heat with the air con up and the windows down justacrack (because, as I still haven’t shaken my insect phobia, I've pledged an oath to myself ‘to never – not even on the three sweltering days Scotland has in the year – open the car windows wider than a pinkie’s width while driving’ – because if a wasp flew in, I would surely die). It was sun on my shoulders, and buskers by the library, and sunglasses reflecting steeples. A conversation that wound up and down and around a hill and in and out of city streets. It was promenading Shakespeare in the park, bumping shoulders with close-packed play-watchers, laughter and ridiculous disguises and then holding-our-breath silence (the city beyond the park gates humming) as the play took a turn from the comic to tragic – ‘Worthies, away! the scene begins to cloud’.

Today was: waking up to rain smattering in the gutter outside my window and then gushing through the roof onto the floor of our sitting room, my dad running down the stairs to grab the recycling bin in lieu of a bucket to catch the water (the perils of having an old house). It was a leaf stuck to the kitchen window, and the opening lines from Don Paterson’s 'Rain' in my head:

I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face...

It was frying sausages, and looking through Pinterest recipes, and smashing digestive biscuits with a rolling pin to make a cheesecake crust. Taco salad, and talking with my Mum on the sofa, and folding laundry (‘Life is really just a series of washing the dishes and folding pants, isn’t it?’ ‘Mmm. Daily rituals...’). Hearing fireworks outside and thinking of my American friends dotted about the globe. Reading some literary theory and realising that, after avoiding him for years, I may need to take a look at Derrida. Listening to Bon Iver with the slow cooker bubbling in the next room.

♥

Yesterday’s poem: Lamium by Louise Gluck. Today’s: Margaret Atwood’s The Moment.

Pictures by: Me Suk Lee.

I smiled.

The other morning in the cafe, while I was wiping a table clean, I overheard a customer saying the word shenanigans to his son. 

‘He’s been up to his usual shenanigans...’

Shenanigans is a good enough word in itself (in fact, I’d forgotten all about it till I heard him using it. I want to try and slip it into a sentence soon). What made the word even better was the customer’s accent. 

He’s got a voice that sounds a little like Sean Connery (in that he prnounshesh hish wordsh like thish – by way of an exshplanashion). So the word actually came out like: she-nani-ginsshhh.

I smiled.

♥

[These pictures are from my birthday earlier this month. While I wasn’t completely excited about turning 23 (I don’t feel tall enough to merit the age), I was glad about saying goodbye to being 22 (my least favourite year so far). And it was such a lovely day. 

Going to a Play, a Pie and a Pint at the Oran Mor, wandering round the Botanic Gardens, hearing the rain hissing on the glass roof (for just a few minutes), eating a delicious picnic that my Mum had wrapped in brown paper and string (Salad Niçoise tiger-bread baguettes; goats’ cheese, pecan and roast pepper sandwiches; hummus, tomato and avocado thins; Italian lemonade; Kettle crisps; strawberries...) 

...catching sight of a black butterfly with whispering wings, sitting on a picnic rug in the park watching wedding photographers, enjoying a big fried breakfast-for-dinner back at home (why not?). A day full of eating: my favourite sort.]

(Listening to Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps by Doris Day while writing this today.)

birthday noticings

A few things I spotted on my (twenty-first) birthday last week:

[one.] Stars and candles on the breakfast table. (Birthday breakfasts are always a big thing in my family. Menu this year: orange juice, granola with vanilla yoghurt and berries, roll and sausage with or without brown sauce, numerous cups of tea ...or coffee, if you so desired.)

[two.] A flower box in Glasgow's west end. If I ever live in France (somewhat unlikely as I don't speak the language, but who knows! I might just marry a French man and learn it) then I will have a window box of red geraniums. If I never get round to living in France, I'd still quite like the window box.

[three.] A photograph at the Oran Mor (where we went for 'A Play, a Pie, and a Pint') with this underneath. I was taught by Louise Welsh in first year. She marked my very first official short story (a somewhat melodramatic - but lovely to write - tale about a circus elephant and true love).



[four.] Another house spotted just outside the Botanic Gardens (I'd like to have lots of potted plants leading up to my door at some point in my life, as well as the window box... maybe even in the same house. I just need to get over my bee-phobia).

[five.] A self-help book in the Oxfam bookshop with Smiles as the author (very suitable sir name). Unfortunately I was too busy taking a picture of 'Smiles' that I didn't notice the book of essays by C.S. Lewis sitting beside him until I got home and looked at this picture. Drat!

[six.] A devilish looking Ford sign (I'm learning how to drive in a Ford by the way. It took me four lessons to learn this information myself. Turns out when you start driving lessons everyone likes to ask: 'So what kind of car does your instructor have?' Not the kind of information I pay attention to. 'Em... a blue one?')

[seven.] You know your 'little' brother, is not so 'little' anymore when he is quite a bit taller than your mother. 

[eight.] These daisies were in my Gran's garden. I agree with Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail that daisies are the friendliest flower.

[nine.] Possibly the largest apple pie I have ever seen in my life.

gifted.

Hello! The next few weeks I'm going to be studying for my 20th Century Literature exam, but I will endeavour to keep updating on here! So... I thought I'd put up another one of my columns from the Strathclyde Telegraph.  

  

Something I've Noticed: What's in a Name? 
(from the Strathclyde Telegraph. Issue 2. November 2011)

   There's a queue of about twenty people snaking around the shop. They are all waiting for the self-service checkouts. ‘Insert cash or press: Pay with Card.’ ‘Unexpected item in bagging area.’ ‘Notes are dispensed below the scanner.’ A chorus of the same voice grows louder the closer I get to the machines. I abandon this queue and opt for the real-person checkout.

    ‘Do y’need a hand to pack?’ the assistant asks. I shake my head and she scans the items. While I’m rummaging for my purse, she continues her conversation with the assistant at the next till.

    'Oh I know how you feel, Happiness,’ she is saying. ‘Tell me about it.’

    I look over at the other lady. She has tired brown eyes and lets out a long weary-filled sigh. I glance at her nametag and (yes, I heard that right) her name is Happiness. It’s almost ironic as, today at least, she looks positively UN-happy.

    'We’re just too tired, love,’ my assistant tells me, handing over my change. ‘Been working too hard.’ Happiness nods. ‘Receipt okay in the bag?’

    On the bus home, I find that ‘Happiness’ is still floating around my head. It’s an unusual name, but a lovely one. No hidden meanings, it gets straight to the point. It’s almost fairytale-like, like a wish her parents whispered over her when she was sleeping: ‘May happiness follow you all the days of your life.’ I wonder, though, if she finds her name difficult to live up to. I’m sure that she, like everyone else, has bad days – days where she wishes she hadn’t got out of bed, or when people have said words that cast clouds over her eyes; days when the idea of ‘happiness’ couldn’t seem further away. And yet, there it is: it’s her name and a part of who she is.

    The bus rumbles along the motorway. My ears pop as someone shuts a window. I’m remembering one night when I helped to choose a name. My mum was pregnant with my little brother, and my sister and I were sitting with her on the sofa, feet dangling off the end.

   'Luke.' 'Christopher.' 'Ben.'

   We spoke out all the names we liked best. We were trying to imagine a little boy in our house called one of them.

   'Lewis.' 'Matthew.' 'Tom.'

   I wanted to call him Mowgli, mostly because I was just three-and-a-half and I thought it would be hilarious. It wasn’t until he was born, though, that my mum knew his real name. She looked at him and she knew he wasn’t a Michael or a Winnie the Pooh (another of my suggestions). He was Evan. Nothing else would fit.

 

    Beneath the hum of the engine, I catch muffled sounds: a murmur of conversation, the rustle as someone opens a crisp packet. I’m trying to imagine a world without names. It is a cold world: impersonal. I wonder if when people stop thinking about each other in terms of their names, they stop thinking about them as individuals. I read a story once where this happened. It was written by lady who lived through a World War II concentration camp. She described how the camp’s prisoners were stripped bare – stripped not only of their hair and clothes, but also of their names. Names were replaced with numbers, and in the process identities were lost.

    As the bus slows down at my stop, I hop off and start walking towards home. I’m remembering how Madeleine L’Engle, one of my favourite writers, thought that ‘Naming’ was an act connected to loving. Giving someone, or something, a name shows that you think they’re worth something – worth your notice, worth your time, worth your love.

    Our names, I think, are more than simply a collection of symbols and sounds. They have meaning. They are chosen. They are gifts.

 ♥

(Pictures are from various summer birthdays in my family.)