I am the green bean casserole

Looking for this picture made me really hungry...

As with most things, I blame my mother.

She's always been the queen of grammar, scolding innocent passersby for their ignorant misuse of lay and lie. I would never describe her as "subtle;" she used sexual references to teach her eighth grade Catholic class ("'Lay' needs an object. You can only 'lay' someone or something...")

Lately I've been referring to her as "The Tornado." Wherever she goes, whatever she feels or thinks, she whips everyone and everything within arm's length up into her wild tempest of feeling. I've been spinning around in her stormy wake since conception, and I can't get enough... but I digress.

When I had trouble sleeping in high school, she asked me why. I explained that I had so much spinning around in my head: music and feelings and stresses, oh my. And she told me to write it all down. So I did.

Sometimes when I have a stray thought, I like to entertain myself by tracing it back through the conversation in my head, charting how I got to thinking so intently about, say, why green bean casserole has those oniony chips in it.

Suppose I am the green bean casserole right now, sitting at my desk at one of the most highly acclaimed papers in the country. How did I get to this point, why am I writing?

And it all comes back to her. There have been others along the way—teachers and mentors and authors and experiences. But it all started with an overly loud head, a brown lined leather notebook, and my mother.

For the Love of Music

I’ve always had a weird relationship with music. Back when I was a little more involved in it, I would hear harmonies in my head. I could sometimes hear two different songs playing at the same time. Even now, there’s always something playing in my head (Currently “Paperweight” by Joshua Radin).

I blame my mother. We used to joke that her grave stone would say something to the effect of “She had a song for everything.” Because, well, she has a song for everything. She knows the lyrics to every kind of song, from Simon & Garfunkle to WWII fight songs. And the smallest turn of a conversation, the most insignificant mention of a tiny detail could prompt her to sing. So I guess that’s where I get it.

You know how people say that scent is the sense most linked to memory, like you smell something and it’s as though you’ve jumped on a time machine. Like yesterday, for example, when I was walking home and got a whiff of Chanel #5, street grime, and hamburgers. And I felt like I was 15 again, walking down Thayer Street in Providence.

But I’m that way with music, too. Songs remind me of people, that’s a given. People I thought about while listening to them, people who burned me the CD, people whom I went to concerts with. It goes beyond remembering people though. Listening to certain songs sends me back to events, feelings, phases in my life. One verse of Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling” and I’m back in my ex boyfriends car the summer of 2009, driving through San Diego with outrageous sunglasses on and dancing in our seats, despite the seat belt’s determination to keep us still.

When I hear Ben Folds' “Luckiest,” I’m teleported back to fall of my freshman year of college, when my life was very (very) different. I’m sitting on my bed-slash-desk in Melvin Hall with my heated blanket because the heater was horrible. I’m pining for the first guy I ever thought I might marry. And reading every free second I could.

And whenever I hear The Script’s “For the First Time,” I’ll be reminded of my time in New York.

Music has a way of comforting me, of reminding me. I once wrote this essay about Ghanaian culture, about how much their lives revolved around music. And then I related my own stories and my own connection to music and ultimately argued that I, too, was Ghanaian. Pasty white Ghanaian, but African nonetheless.

 

For the Love of Food

I once messed up a box of Kraft Mac N Cheese. I am an absolutely hopeless cause when it comes to working in the kitchen. But that isn't to say I don't have a passion for it. If and when I devote the time (money) and effort to it, I thoroughly enjoy cooking. And when I can't find the time to cook, I still enjoy eating just as much. I've been spending the past couple of minutes looking through Cook's Country, some cute little foodie magazine I'd never heard of but that has amazing pictures and makes my mouth water.

It got me thinking about food, though. I walk home down Ninth Avenue and pass dozens of delicious-smelling, boutique-y, small, eclectic restaurants. Yes there are some that look like they've contracted some sort of STD, but the gems shine comparatively brighter compared to the ethnic grunge of Hell's Kitchen. I'm hungry all the time. And I'd be lying if I said I haven't Googled the best Italian restaurants or picked out where I'm making my parents take me when they come to visit. But this isn't the first time food (or the lack thereof) has defined me. For as long as I can remember, it's played an active and constant role in my life. So I decided to compile some little anecdotes about how food brought me to the three most incredible women I've ever met.

--

Mom: My mom's rule when it came to grocery shopping was that whichever child went got to pick out something they wanted. For my brothers, that meant taquitos and ice cream, but for me it meant something weird. I remember the first time my mom and I found celeriac. And persimmons. She was always experimental and fun about food. Even when we didn't know what something was, we would buy it and then look up how to cook it in The New Joy of Cooking when we got home. Celeriac was middle of the road, but oftentimes our science experiments yielded incredible results. I remember I once picked out Chinese long beans because I thought they looked like some sort of monster hair. But when we brought them home and learned how incredible they are sauteed, we were in legume heaven. Mouthgasmic bliss, right there. The first time I went vegetarian my junior year of high school, my mom did it with me as our Lenten sacrifice. And though I craved Carls Jr. jalapeno burgers almost as much as chocolate, we made it fun. I remember looking through vegetarian recipes and trying to make eggplants sound appealing. We made these ricotta cheese Italian roll-up things once and I swear the prep work took two hours. But they ended up being amazing.

My mom didn't make me lunches until I was in high school (a little behind the curve, but I didn't mind). But her lunches were incredible. As my brother's high school girlfriend said, our lunches were "circus lunches," full of different food groups and color. When I was vegetarian, she catered to that, making falafel and packing hummus and celery. With the exception of the ever-present bag of carrots (which I always gave away), I loved every single lunch I had.

Last summer, when I went to Europe with my mom, we had an absolute blast. I've never met someone so experimental and inspiring. We would never order the same thing, always order wine and dessert, and we challenged ourselves to try things we might otherwise write off--like fresh anchovies and sardines in northern Italy or mussels and frites in Belgium. In Sienna, we stumbled around the tiny walled city for probably an hour looking for some Rick Steves-approved place before finally "settling" for a whole in the wall close to our hotel. When we saw the menu was entirely in Italian, we just signed to the waitress/owner that we'd have whatever she wanted to make. And we ended up with a porridge-y soup, some stewed meat, and spinacci (even I could read that). As we found out later, the meat was boar, not beef. But I didn't care in the least. I was too busy listening to my stomach purr.

Bo: I wouldn't necessarily call Bo's food choices diverse, but the girl knows what she likes and I have to give her that. Half a hamburger at The Cheesecake Factory, Steak at Jake's, pasta at Sammy's Woodfired Pizza. And Machaca at Rod's. Even if she weren't my best friend, I would love her for sharing Rodrigo's with me. Somehow, that little hole in the wall has seen me through some amazing transitions in my life. So many of my high school ghosts visit the restaurant (can I call it that?) that under any other circumstances, I would avoid it like the plague. But Rodrigo's is one piece of PQ that I will never quite let go of. Rodrigo's is the common stomping ground and it's a place where Bo and I can go and just be us, her and me, the Shis. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the Machaca is the shit. Hot or cold, drowning in salsa and spilling everywhere. Noms.

J: I still remember my first lunch with J. I described it once in conversation... It was awkward because I think we both knew intuitively that we were going to be close. But we had to get all the small talk and details out of the way first. But really. I remember wearing my pledge pin. I remember which corner table in Stetson East. And from then on, I spent almost every single dining hall meal with the girl. Over Colin-the-omelet-master's omelets and those amazing little rolls they have by the pizza stand, we learned the ins and outs of each others lives. We cooked Easter brunch together (or she cooked and I ate WAY too much), we made eclaire cake together (OMG, yum). Last summer I came to visit and we all had the most incredible potluck (shout-out to the "Stinky Salad"). This year, we both had kitchens and we were able to experiment even more. I remember the first time she made me a salad with a fried egg on it. I nearly died. Or making a pumpkin pie a week. Or having steak at her parents' house.

In a show of apology and gratitude to some guy friends who took care of me one best-to-be-forgotten weekend, I made enchiladas in their stunning (albeit disgustingly dirty) kitchen. The next Sunday, she made bolognese. And then one of the guys made chicken parmasean. There in that kitchen, we grew even closer. Whenever she felt inspired to experiment, I reaped the benefits. When I've been sad or upset, there's always been a heaping plate of deliciousness to cheer me up. And I remember one night when she hauled her butt across campus to the news room to bring me some southern corn chowder. I can say without hesitation or any iota of regret that my relationship with J is tied to food, to our shared appreciation for it, to our love for cooking it, for our zeal for eating it. I'm more than excited to share a (much cleaner) kitchen with her in September. The freshman fifteen will be nothing compared to the middler midsection. Bring it on.

--

Food is so much more than a life force. It's a bridge connecting me to the people I love. It's a hobby and a skill. It's something I can look forward to. Though my family couldn't always come together and eat dinner (hockey and Scouts and theater and choir kind of mess with the Daniells family calender), we strove to have breakfasts together. And not the cold cereal kind. But omelets and bacon and the good stuff. The kitchen table was, and subsequently always will be, a place of conversation and community. Kind of funny that food can be so simple, but such a binding (and delicious) force. I'm loving it.

Poem: Pieces

When we disagree, it's like two steel trains,
hurling toward each other at hundreds of miles per hour,
bracing for the collision,
preparing for arguments with evidence and persuasion.

And when we do collide, it's a never ending rush,
of emotion and perfect syntax.

When we fight, it's all business and momentum.
Never relent, never give up.
She taught me that.
Come to think of it, she'd make a great lawyer.

She'd make a great anything, actually. Especially a writer.
I'm guessing her brain barf is far more snarky than mine,
I'm a novice, she's a master.

Whenever she's around, there's no writer's block.
We just sit and talk, laugh, expand, explore.
She's so full of ideas and turns of phrase and transitions.

I'd like to think that I've stored away little pieces of her,
her stoicism, her sarcasm,
her super sly winks from across the room.
Her eyes, her laugh, her taste for adventure.

Of course, there's also her obsessive planning,
the frazzled freak outs, the curtness.
And both our noses can pop.

Growing up, it was always my dad that I turned to,
about boy problems and general frustrations.
Meltdowns and freak outs.

Once, when I was crying after a breakup,
she looked at me, dead-faced and said,
"Why are you crying."
But she was always strong like that.

At the time, I thought I needed hugs,
and copious amounts of chocolate.
But really, I needed her perspective. I survived.

She passed along to me her love of wine,
And her recipe for the world's best margaritas,
her stubborness, her determination.
Her my-way-or-the-highway-ness.

During high school, we shared weeknights on the couch,
an hour with Lorelei and Rory and Jess.
And Wheat Thins and cream cheese.

I spent school mornings in the car with my dad,
angstily belting out Taylor Swift.
But those nights were for her.

She knows my favorite foods and my taste in books,
the way my cheeks get pink after a third glass.
She laughs at the fact that I constantly hear music,
as if some ADHD-ridden DJ is spinning in my head.

We share a love for good shoes and toe rings,
and for our perfect little black lab
(who she not-so-secretly loves more than me).

At one point in the Netherlands, we stopped for a bit
and spent an hour sitting crosslegged
on the floor of some Dutch bookstore.
It was one of the simplest joys of our European adventure.

She's wild, tamed by marriage and domesticity.
But wild nonetheless.
I would hope that she passed that along to me, too.

I love you, Ma.

###

Today's Obsession: Bahamas Beachwear

So I'm super excited. There's a chance (fingers crossed!!) that I will be going to the Bahamas with my parents the first week of May, which would be amaazzziinnnngggg. I'm puckering up for some major Daniells' butt kissing. Anyway, today is a beautiful, sunny day, but the weather is below freezing. So I'm that much more excited.

Naturally, today's obsession is beachwear. I'm more than excited for the sunny sunshine (yes I just said sunny sunshine. Whatever) and cocktails and have been scouring Victoria's Secret for some beach-ready ensembles. Though I'll be saving my money to help pay for the ticket, I can dream nonetheless.

The suit: Salad Dressing syndrome stepped in on this one. I can't decide, but I'm loving this suit... and this one, too! I like that they have two very different strap designs so I don't have insane tan lines once I return to dreary, cold New York.

Forever Sexy push-up Bandeau Top and Foldover Scoop Bottom, $66

Very Sexy (R) Embellished Racerback Triangle Top and Low-rise Bottom, $86

The accessories: I'll be sure to pack my Neutrogena face sunscreen, but would love to fight the rays with these super-stunner aviators from Forever 21. I've been on the lookout for aviators that flatter my face since, well, birth and here's hoping these cheapies do the trick.

I'm kind of hoping that my hair is a significantly lighter shade by May, but when I'm not sun-bleaching my hair, I can hide it under a nice wide brim hat like this one from Jigsaw (told you hats weren't out of style).

Forever 21 F0806 Sunglasses, $5.80

 Jigsaw Wide Brim Straw Hat, ~$52 (32 pounds)

Reading material: The most important part :) While I'm not devouring the most recent Marie Claire editions (heck, maybe I'll have a byline in one of them!), I'll be reading from my list of beach reads that I will have somehow managed to cram into my suitcase. Although when you're traveling to a place that requires minimal clothing, there's a lot more room for the good stuff. Some potential sunbathing reads include: 

• Bumped by Megan McCafferty--McCafferty is the author of the Jessica Darling series, which are all very digestible reads and basically got me through high school. Whenever I feel like my writing isn't sassy enough or true to self, I pick up one of her books as a gentle reminder. This book isn't a part of the series, but is sure to have the same sass. Plus it comes out the week before I would leave!
• Georgia Bottoms by Mark Childress--This book actually comes out tomorrow, but I likely won't get around to reading it until later. I've been very interested in literature that focuses around the South because my beloved biffle, Lauren, is currently living in Georgia. Childress also wrote One Mississippi and Crazy in Alabama.
• 1984 by George Orwell--I know 1984 isn't exactly a beach read, but it's on my bucket list to read five books on my list (Yes, I have a list that refers me to another list). And I've been meaning to read it since I read Animal Farm, basically in the hopes that it wouldn't be as bad. I typically like dystopian novels and hope this one would be just as enjoyable as an Atwood or Huxley.

I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a cute bag to throw all my books and sunscreen into. The World Food Programme sells shabby-chic bags and shirts from American Apparel. Each Feed Bag purchased pays for food for a foreign child for an entire school year. They aren't cheap and only $20 goes to the actual charity, but it's a bag and a gift all in one. Winner?

Feed Bag 1, $60

Lots of goodies on today's obsession... and to think, just a few hours ago, I had no clue what I wanted to feature. Can't wait for a little Vitamin D therapy and a chance to see my parents. Here's a **BIG** kiss to you, Mom and Dad. I love you!! Woof.

P.S. Obsessed.