[Work you ask? I was recently taken on by NBC Local to act as their Social Media Editor]

For now I’ve been posting anything that breaks through my stone-faced concentration – maybe because I’m laughing or because I can’t stop singing along.

I’d love to hear what you think – Ideally I think it’d be fun to really work some of my voice into the equation. I’m sure it will come in time.

we live in a world

which is wholly real, but very largely muffled up. <for some

reason almost entirely covered up.>

wh. is half covered up. & from wh. the cloak must be torn

Reality <Moreover> is a most curious thing, because it is never the

same for t.

(Forgive me for my clumsy use of language) is the thing that

leaps out on us in unexpectedly at some corner. It is the

strangest thing, because one can never foretell when it will

come – {why, for example, a paper drifting along a dirty

street is suddenly real & all the } & it is always different 

for different people. Yet it is the quality that gives <alone has

power>

importance to give importance, & lastingness; <leap upon the

moment & endow it with immediacy> which is 

all the stranger, considering that trifles sometimes seem

real, & what mountains mere sawdust. However

this may be, the writer is the expert in touch with

reality; <a> the lightning conductor whose gift it is  to

attract the lasting, the real out of the great mountain of

that mass of a person whose has the astonishing

good fortune to live, more than other people, in the heart of

reality. So at least I assume from reading

the what are called masterpieces.

(From Woolf’s own edits of her essay Women & Fiction 169-70).

 

Initially, this passage passed quickly. As always, I gazed at each word and strung them into sentences before moving on to read Grubar’s commentary.  Following the passage she writes, “The artist as ‘lightning conductor’ has the capacity to feel the shock of electricity and convey it without being consumed by it.”

How beautiful and how true.  Artist + Journalist finally connected. Isn’t this the mission of any journalist: To witness the news [feel the shock of electricity] and then deliver [convey] it to the readers without altering it? I paused on this for a moment and made a mental note to write it down later in my book of quotes.

A few seconds passed before a nagging thought interrupted me: ‘What did I miss?’ As much as I enjoyed Grubar’s commentary, in no way did my thoughts on the passage match hers. I realized that I would have never made that deduction without her help.  I went back to the text and tried dissect each word of Woolf’s dense language and find the source of her statement. Impossible.

Then, the painful realization that I don’t always read anymore. I skim constantly; it is a necessary skill for my hours spent at work on Digg or Twitter, but the antithesis of what I should be doing while reading Virginia Woolf, a woman who writes essays filled with words that can each hold enough significance to fill pages of Literary Journals. 

And so, sitting on the M57, I took out my pen and underlined words in the passage and drew lines between sentences in an effort began to practice my ‘critical thinking skills.’ If one page of the introduction had me stumped, how was I going to make it through the rest of the text?

I’ve come to realize that there is no better feeling than coming back from work to a home-cooked dinner. But, living with a roommate who does not cook, this rarely if ever happens. So, my solution? Spend an extra 5 minutes preparing a double-dose of food the night before and then just reheat after walking in the door.

Tonight I decided that it was time to make a double helping of Swedish Meatballs [well, at least what I decided to call Swedish Meatballs]. A fairly simple recipe, they are delicious, nutritious and fun to make. I’ll share my recipe with the disclaimer that I am a student of the ‘whatever feels right’ school of measurement.

1) Gather 1 lb ground turkey meat, 1 pepper, 4-5 mushrooms, oatmeal, a cup of chicken broth and an egg. 

2) Mix the meat, an egg and the tiny pieces of chopped up peppers/mushroom.

3) Slowly add the oatmeal until the extra liquid is absorbed [the oatmeal and egg help the meat from falling apart].

4) Separate the mix into 9 meatballs.

5) Heat up large frying pan [add enough olive oil to cover the bottom] and pan sear each of the meatballs [this can be done in 5 minutes or so, we're just hardening the outsides so they don't fall apart].

6) Once the meatballs are all seared, add the chicken broth and season to your liking.

7) Turn the heat to 2 or 3 [relatively low but not all the way], cover and cook until it smells delicious.

The photo above is my latest attempt [dinner for tonight and tomorrow]. I served the meatballs over Basmati rice [cooked in the same chicken broth] with a sweet potato on the side. Sometimes I use a little onion/fresh garlic in the meatballs, but I forgot to buy them. Let me know what you think!

The Weather Channel’s Pollen Alert tells me that these wonderful sensations are due to an attack by my arch-nemesis: Grass Pollen. It sneaks up on me every year. Long walks in the park and outdoor concerts seem like all fun and games until I wake up the next morning, eyes crusted shut, gasping for air. 

Thus, for now, I will abandon the fight, and stay relegated to the indoors. Maybe the thunderstorms forecasted for tomorrow night will be enough to clear the air and I will be allowed to break free from the prison that is my apartment. 

You’ve won this match Grass Pollen, but I’ll be back and next time, I’ll have a CVS bag with a new inhaler in hand.

Moving to New York City this summer coincided with my departure from YMCA Camp Woodstock, a place that has served as my summer home for the past nine years. I spent anywhere from two to 10 weeks each summer in the pines of Woodstock Valley, CT. In the past, the Fourth of July held little significance as BBQs and picnics were a weekly event. With the exception of some human fireworks [picture groups of children dressed in red, white and blue, screaming 'sizzle,' 'pop,' and 'crackle.']

And now, out of that perfect summer isolation, I decided that I wanted to have the full experience. I spent my day in Battery Park for the Jenny Lewis/Conor Oberst & The Mystic Valley Band concert. Showing stunning signs of foresight, we remembered food and water [although a blanket was left behind] and spent the afternoon in the grass.

After the show, we made our way to Westside Market to pick up the makings for Caprese Salad [Fresh Basil, Tomatoes and Bufalo Mozzarella] and made our way to the Village for a rooftop BBQ and fireworks display. It was the first night since I moved to New York that I’ve eaten food in someone else’s apartment with anyone other than my boyfriend. 

Not sure how to wrap this up but with a simple statement. I could not have asked for more.