photo via cute overload
This has been a weird week. (Anyone else?) Now, heading into the weekend, I feel like this cute pup. (But really all I want to do is take a nap.) Let’s have some links:
Jodi Ettenberg, a former lawyer who now travels and writes about street food, shared a compelling essay about Pleading for Bun Rieu Soup.
There’s a lot of music I don’t really listen to anymore because of the boys I associate it with. On the Hairpin, Lily Heron shares a list of Men I Might Regret Sleeping With Were it Not for the Music They Introduced Me To.
DIY and paper folding are not really my forte, but maybe I could manage these cute heart-shaped origami bookmarks.
Australians officially have the coolest weddings. Peep the bride’s nails!
And an amazing backyard wedding.
I’ll never stop loving Up, and this remix, by Pogo, is totally awesome.
I left Boise at three, hoping to make it back to Portland before dark. I drove away from the scrubby brown mountains, the Treasure Valley dipping out of sight behind the southern ridge. A few tumbleweeds drifted over the highway, and I tried not to think that it might mean something.
My camera is broken, so during my visit I didn’t take pictures of the pretty white petals falling off of trees, or of the Boise is… installation, boasting that the city is “rad,” and “growing,” and “most dope.” I didn’t take pictures of the mountains, or the blue sky, or the river meandering through town. I didn’t take pictures of the thrift store skirt I wore for the first time or the wind turbines spinning wildly.
Heading northwest out of Idaho, the speed limit jumps to seventy-five and my palms were sweaty on the steering wheel as I zipped past semi-trucks and pickups and sedans. As I crossed into Oregon, I saw the rest stop where N and I stopped when we first arrived in September, taking silly photos next to the sign welcoming us to the state. I saw the hotel where we slept the night before we drove to Eugene, and I sped up, ready to get home to my sweet boy.
Around LaGrande, you begin to climb. There are rolling hills, dried-out yellow and dulled green. Sagebrush grows here and there, and cattle graze on grass that looks mostly dead. What goes up must comes down, and before Pendleton, a steep downgrade twists and turns and I steeled myself for the sharp curves, wishing it were over. After Pendleton, it’s a long, straight, flat drive, and I count the miles down. I stopped for gas just before leaving, and I think I can make it on one tank. I wait for the mile marker to equal the amount of miles I’ve driven—half way there.
I am delighted when the Columbia River comes into view. The landscape turns lush green, and rocky cliffs loom above me. To the right, the river, and then Washington state. I drive through the Dalles and Hood River, and the sun dips lower. Out of the corner of my eye, the three-quarter moon is a whisper in the blue sky. Mount Hood comes into view, a towering, snowy peak. I feel like I am almost home, and I feel like I will never get there. I think about how nice it is that Portland has started to feel like home, that I don’t hide out crying on Friday nights anymore. I think about cooking meals with the cool tile floor under my feet, dancing to old school soul and funk. It’s a different life, but it’s a good one.
The sun disappears beneath a cliff and then reappears as I meander westward, tracking the river’s course, and the sky begins to blush purple and pink and orange. The moon glows brighter. Everything looks gorgeous in the light and it’s the first time I truly appreciate the beauty of the Gorge. I wish I had my camera, and I wish more that N was with me. Driving west makes me think of him, the times we have traversed the country together. The muddy Kentucky lake we swam in, the time we unknowingly drove a wooden horse trail in N’s too-heavy pickup truck in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Mosquito bites and campfires and beers kept cold in the snow. I wish that could be real life.
I look at the sunset, and I think: I want to be happy. It’s something I’ve only ever sort of been, and the thought makes me cry and then I feel a little ridiculous. Again I wish that N was with me; I don’t want to see anything beautiful without him beside me. And I wish that I could at least take a photograph. I worry that I will forget this moment.
The next day, N and I climbed to the top of the Gorge, looking down at the River and the cliffs and the trees. The cars on the highway looked so small. The sun was shining, a small miracle in Oregon, and I wished we could stay to watch it set, capping a better version of the day before.
photo via buzzfeed
I saw this sticker on a semi-truck, rather than the typical curvy naked chick silhouette, and was delighted.
photo via ebay
Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood.
Dude gets me, as always. This lonely weekend is tough. I couldn’t sleep last night—tossed and turned, then gave up on sleeping and watched a movie and TV, made a cup of tea. I went to get Skittles in the middle of the night. It’s not like me. Now I feel jittery and on edge, about ready to jump out of my skin.
I drove to Boise today, my first long, solo highway drive in quite a while. Much of the drive was really beautiful—I drove through the Columbia River Gorge, and the high desert of Eastern Oregon holds its own charms. I am terrified of semi-trucks, though, which makes interstate driving a little harrowing. I passed one truck, which had a sticker reading:
My life consists of:
Needless to say, there was no “How’s my driving?” phone number.
Surprise, Dryden Lane is now a blog about cute, innovative food guys. Lior Lev Sercarz sources high-quality spices and spice blends that are, by all accounts, mind-blowingly great. He also does spice therapy—he learns about an individual’s past, creates a custom spice blend, and instructs the ‘patient’ to put the spices on everything for several days. One reporter said that it brought back intense childhood memories. How neat is that?
Mostly, I’m dying to try this trick:
Lev Sercarz dropped a pinch of Mishmish (Blend No. 33, with crystallized honey, lemon zest and saffron) into the bottom of a glass and covered it with an inch of lager. The bitterness and hoppy flavors were gone — the beer smelled and tasted like a gingerbread milkshake. (I reproduced the trick for Garrett Oliver, the brewmaster at the Brooklyn Brewery, and he, too, was struck, staring into the glass as if he had glimpsed his future at the bottom.)
photo via new york times
Funky wallpaper! I’d like to think that if I sat at this gorgeous desk, I would be the most productive girl in the world. (ha!)
wallpaper and photo by catalina estrada