Confessions of a Sometimes Hipster

I live in the hipster Mecca of my city.  That may not be a big deal to my West Coast friends, but it’s kind of a thing if you’re in the Midwest–we are into things like snowblowing and tater tot casserole.  I did not move to this area intentionally.  I did it because it’s a really cute apartment with nifty 1920’s period features and cheap rent that included free heat…  But, nonetheless, I live in a place with quirky restaurants that cater to whatever weird diet you may have.  (Vegan? No problem.  Gluten free?  Everything on the menu fits the bill.  Something as blasé as vegetarianism or lactose intolerance doesn’t even warrant an honorable mention.)  We have nary a big box store to be found, but I can think of three different vintage record shops off the top of my head.  We are also known in our city for our hip dive bars where all the cool kids (so cool that we don’t bother with the “usual” party clubs, you see–we are hipsters here, after all…) like to go.  There’s this one bar that is literally open randomly, and only when the owner feels like opening it–there are no posted hours.  So it’s open now, randomly, on a Wednesday night, but there is a real possibility it will be closed when St. Patrick’s Day rolls around this Friday–go figure.  I once saw a guy in a purple leisure suit ride past on his unicycle.  I live in that kind of neighborhood.

My friends (especially the ones who got married in their twenties and now live in the suburbs with their SUV’s and 2.5 kids) have started telling me that I’m kind of a hipster.  I used to deny it, but I’m beginning to think that maybe this would be false advertising.  I wear a lot of leggings and the messy topknot is the my Saturday hair jam.  I’m a big fan of baggy sweaters, scarves, and Converse.  I even own a pair of fake Buddy Holly style glasses that I wear when I want to look smart and get people to take me seriously.  My house is full of secondhand treasures and random retro kitsch that nobody really likes except for me.  I own a picnic basket and use it on the regular in the summer months.

Right now, I am wearing a burnt orange puffy vest, circa 1974.  I like old movies and classic red lipstick.  I like to make stuff from scratch and have at various points tried to make my own: shaving cream, candles, lip balm, and face masks.  I read poems.  I have toyed with the idea of getting an old typewriter because it just sounds so romantic to write letters on a typewriter.  (My mom talked me out of it because she said it hurts your wrists after a while.  That, and I didn’t know where to get tape for one if I bought it…)

I feel like, though, hipster-dom has robbed me of my nerdiness.  I liked all that stuff back before the hipster movement made it cool, and watching black and white movies and Glenn Miller were things only nerds like me did.  I simply refuse to allow some early  20-somethings rob me of my nerd-dom!  In the words of my sister, “Emily, you’re a natural born hipster–you always liked that stuff, so it doesn’t really count.  You’re not being ironic.  You’re just being you.”

Plus, I do have my little passive-aggressive, anti-hipster jibs.  Let the record state that I absolutely despise quinoa.  I think the texture is weird and it tastes like what I imagine prison food must taste like (i.e. like absolutely nothing.)  And while we’re at it, I think kale is gross, too.  (Unless its slathered in olive oil and sea salt and baked into kale chips, thereby completely nullifying any intrinsic health value…)  I can’t get into the heavily made-up eye look.  It’s just way too much work, let’s be real, here.  I also hate beer as a general rule, so something crappy like P.B.R. is definitely not part of my world.

And at the end of the day, I’m just not ironic enough.  And when I say “enough,” I mean, “at all.”  I mean, I’m a child of the 1990’s who still associates the word “ironic” with Alanis Morissette.  And, anyway, I actually really like all the weird hobbies I have and old clothes I wear, and I don’t really have enough cares to be bothered by what other people may think about it.  If that makes me a hipster, well, then I’m in.  I figure it just makes me “Me.”  I’ll still be like that when hipsters go the way of Hammer Pants and The Rachel.  And I’m good with it that way.  And there’s nothing ironic about that…don’t ya think?

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The Quest for Hygge

Hygge.  Before you waste five minutes trying to figure out  how to say that, it’s pronounced HOO-guh, and it is basically the philosophy that puts the Danes routinely at the top of every study as the happiest nation in the world, despite the fact that it is dark and cold there for most of the year.  Basically, hygge is a concept of family- and home-oriented coziness that strongly features homemade food, comfy clothes, warm socks, blankets, candles, and spending intentional time with the people you care about.  The Danish people have elevated this to a national standard, around which the whole culture revolves.

I started out on my quest for hygge on a whim, really.  Work life was functioning at a resting temperature of HIGH STRESS ALL THE TIME, which left me without the emotional motivation to go out or “be social.”  I just wanted to retreat into the hobbit hole of my apartment and shut out the world.  Wandering around social media in a quest to not do whatever I was supposed to be doing, I stumbled upon this article about hygge.  That article led to several more, which led to a Pinterest board, which led to the purchase (and reading) of The Little Book of Hygge, by Meik Wiking.

I read all about the importance of light (and good lighting–no hospital-style, industrial lighting for the Danes, oh no.)  I read about the importance of creating a comfortable and cozy place to relax and simply be. I read about a cultural way of thinking that put the process and journey of spending time with people you care about before anything else.  It’s the idea of “less is more.”  “Quality over quantity.”  The Little Book of Hygge threw out examples like making food with a few friends (even if the end product is a disaster), sitting around the kitchen table and playing games while drinking hot chocolate and eating homemade cookies, snuggling up in sweats with a blanket and a good book.

I was hooked.  I wanted that.  I wanted my home to be a place that was warm and cozy, where people came, and we made memories and shared each other’s lives.  I wanted to slow down my life to make time for things like board games.  I wanted hygge.

My first attempts started out small.  I made the pilgrimage to IKEA and bought a bunch of candles and invited a friend over to make fondue.  We spent a ridiculous amount of money on all the right cheeses to make a real Swiss fondue–and then we sat for two hours around the fondue pot and caught up on the past three months of life.  It was slow.  It was natural.  It was amazing.  And I wanted more.

Armed with this first small success, my book about hygge, and an article from thekichn.com about how to host a crappy dinner party,  (it’s a great article–read it here!), I started making it a part of my life.  Whenever someone suggested getting together–the unspoken American subtext being “at a restaurant or coffee shop”–I always jumped at the opportunity, and offered to host as my house.  I sent out text message invitations for “B.Y.O.S.” (Bring Your Own Slippers) events.  I got out a big pile of blankets whenever people were coming over.  I stocked up on hot chocolate and coffee.  I lit candles–so many candles!  I bought some games at Goodwill and had people over to play Scrabble.  I got really good at fifteen minute cleaning, and told people that, while my house may be a little dirty, it was full of love.

And do you know what?  All my friends really liked it.  They didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t sweep my kitchen floor or that the cream cheese, cherry hand pies didn’t really turn out.  Everyone agreed toward the end of the night that it was fun, and we really should do it again.

I think our lives are so fast and so Instagram-ed, that we’ve forgotten that everyone else is imperfect, too.  Oh, I know when I say it, you think, “Well, duh.  Of course nobody’s perfect,” but in practice, it’s easy to believe that the pictures we see on social media are the way everyone’s life actually is.  You find yourself thinking, “I must be the only person who can’t get it together and leaves my purse and shoes right by the door as soon as I come in” and “I must be the only person who can’t figure out how to hang a really nifty, chic portrait collage wall…”

But really–we’re all in that boat.  We’re all standing and looking at the picture of the cupcakes on Pinterest, then the disaster on our counters and thinking, “Well.  That didn’t work.”  We’re all just little, imperfect people, doing what we can. Messing up.  Making mistakes.  Trying again anyway.

What we need, more than perfect lives, are people who share our imperfect lives with us. I think that, at its core, is what makes hygge so powerful to me.  It’s inviting people in.  It’s dropping masks of things none of us can be, anyway.  It’s putting people ahead of image.  It’s making real memories–not an airbrushed Instagram version.  It’s just–hygge.

The best thing that happened to me today

Life is busy. I know that is probably the most obvious statement you’ve read today, but sometimes, I just have to say it out loud to validate my stress–life is busy!

For this reason, this year has been especially frenetic for me.  Ever since we went back to school in September, I’ve been behind a perpetual eight-ball. Or, for a more accurate (though less poetic) metaphor, I’m Indiana Jones, and that giant, Raiders of the Lost Ark bolder is rolling faster than I can run.  I spend my days rushing from thing to thing, task to task–from report cards to concerts, to lessons, to church, to the grocery store, to coffee–it never stops!  Welcome to 21st century American life, right?

I say this not because I want you to feel sorry for me, but because I know a lot of you are in the same boat. You know.  You get it.  You’re probably making a mental to-do list right now.  So, I’ll say it again.

Life. Is. Busy.

And when things get busy, I put on blinders, stick my nose to the grind stone, and just push. I don’t think, I don’t pause, and I certainly don’t stop–because I don’t want to break down crying at all there is to do and get even further behind.  I just have to keep going.  In my mind, there is no other way to survive.

So when my brother got on the phone tonight and said, “Emily, tell me the best thing that happened to you today,” I stopped short.

He didn’t ask, “How was your day?”, “What are you up to?” or even “Tell me about your day.”  Nope.  “Tell me the best thing that happened to you today.”

When I get busy, I get negative.  My whole life revolves around the things I “didn’t“–the time I didn’t get to spend on something because there wasn’t any time.  The millions of things I didn’t check off my to-do list. The run I didn’t go on.  The recycling I still didn’t actually take out. The sleep I didn’t get.

Being negative is easy.

So when my brother asked me that, I really had to stop.  Despite all the frantic busy-ness of the day, there was a lot of good.  My 7th graders gave their class piano recitals, and everyone survived.  My 8th grade choir sounds beautiful and they can tell. I had good conversations about “real stuff” with some of my friends.  The ukulele club I run is full of kids who are geeking out on music and it’s marvelous.  The new dish I tried for dinner worked. There is good–so much good!

It was a humbling moment for me.  I can be so selfish and narrow.  I’m quick to reduce my life to the empty dollars-and-cents of checklists and “have-to’s,” and I completely brush off the incredible little blessings that litter the path I walk.  Real Life isn’t easy (as I’m fond of telling my students who are in a rush to grow up, “Adulting is hard,”) but it is beautiful.  You just have to look for it.

“Tell me the single best thing that happened to you today.”  Tell me, and remind yourself, of the beauty in the life you’re living, the shimmering moments of wonderful–even in the chaotic messiness of Real Life.  Because the light shines brightest where the darkness is deepest.  And hope rises above a sea of despairs.

So tell me.

Tell me the single best thing that happened to you today.

 

Ash Wednesday

I kicked off the month of March today with Ash Wednesday.  For all of you non-religious or non-Christian types out there, Ash Wednesday is recognized in the western church as the beginning of the forty days that precede Easter (the high point of the whole Christian year, no matter what the marketing campaigns may try to convince you about Christmas…) It is traditionally a time of fasting, restraint, as Christians all over the world re-read, tell, and reflect on the story of Calvary.

I am your standard, non-denominational protestant for my druthers, but I have to tell you, my high church friends really know how to do those special, stand-out days in the Christian year.  So when my friend, “Ryan,” a good and practicing Catholic (and my chief “Faith, Religion, and Philosophies on Life” buddy) asked me if I wanted to go with him to Ash Wednesday Mass, I went for it.

There were definitely some funny moments, including but not limited to when we were kneeling during the preparation and blessing of the Eucharist.  (We will ignore the fact that I almost got my shins taken out as I didn’t realize the kneeler was coming down right when it was…) They were singing a song that apparently everyone  knew by heart except for me, so I’m trying to (discretely) thumb through this twenty page bulletin trying to figure out where on earth we are.  We Protestants tend to keep our songs all on screens in the front or out of one hymnal, and our memorized songs are pretty much limited to the Doxology, which is ten measures long–twelve if you count the “Amen.” Bulletins are strictly places to include announcements and the name of the sermon.  Anyway, so here I am, trying to figure out where on earth this dumb song is so I can sing it, but trying to do it discretely, on a kneeler, without giving the person in the pew in front of me paper cuts.  Finally, Ryan can’t take it anymore and he takes  my bulletin, but I feel much better when it takes him a while to find the song, too.  But, fortunately, it is a refrain that we sang a bunch of times, so I still had time to sing it once I got there.

There is nothing quite like being the low church protestant at a Mass.  I’m getting better at it, though.  I have learned, from past experience, that when you say the Lord’s Prayer, you stop in the  middle so the priest can say some things.  (Not that I ever barreled right straight through and was in the middle of the “forever and ever” before I realized I was the only one talking or anything.  Because I totally didn’t…)

But, for all the getting lost and confused, and trying to make sure you’re standing at the right time, I love visiting my Christian brethren and sister-en of other backgrounds.  And as I was sitting in church tonight, I reflected on how amazing it is–all over the world today, people from so many denominations, nations, and backgrounds, all gathered together to recognize the darkness of our world, our need for a Savior, and focusing our attention and spiritual eyes on the road that leads to the cross.  It is a powerful thing to think about.  Even though we are all so different–some stand and some kneel, some shout praises and some are silent in wonder, some sing songs hundreds of years old and others songs with ink that’s barely dry–we all end up in church.  Through all of our uniqueness, our foibles, and our preferences, we are all still bounded together in the One we worship.  That is an awesome thing.  And that makes my bruised shins worth it.

 

“Finish Columbo Episode,” and other things on today’s to-do list

Today is the first day of spring break.  Last night, I folded up my lunch bag and put it on the shelf, where it will stay for the next ten days.  I washed out my travel mug and committed myself to only drinking coffee out of real mugs until April 4th.  I dropped my school bag at the foot of my bed and have no intention of picking it up until I go back to work.  I woke up this morning at a luxurious 7 a.m. and flatly refused to get out of bed until a quarter of eight just because I could.

I don’t have any plans for today.  I only just made the transition from jammies to yoga clothes (which are really just trendy jammies…)  I am almost done drinking my way through a 10 cup pot of coffee.  I get to sit at my kitchen table with the sun (looking far too wintery to be spring break as it reflects off the snow-covered roofs) streaming through the windows.  I have a list, of course–I’m a big one for lists–but my list includes things like, “Cut up and freeze pepper.”  (Yes.  I mean one, single pepper.)  “Call Mom–what to bring to Easter?”  And (my personal favorite) “Finish Columbo episode.”  (Yes, I did that.  On purpose.)

My need for lists probably says a lot about me as a person–the fact that I feel like I need to make sure things are written down, because I can’t remember everything to do it…

When I reflect on the speed of my life, and I mentally tally through the roll of my weekly “Expected’s”–my job, yoga class twice a week, the choir that rehearses for 3 hours on Wednesday, running at least ten miles, helping out with a youth choir, voice lessons, church–that’s busy!  Then I add all those things that aren’t every week–dinners with friends, visiting family, writing letters to my grandma, working on my novel, reading…I realize my life is really, really busy.

This is definitely not a “Oh, pity poor, Millennial me” moment.  I know I did this.  I choose this life–I love the hobbies I fit in because they make me feel more alive.  I treasure my friendships and they are worth creating the time to maintain.  I very much buy into the idea of “living life to the full.”  It will not be said, when I go to meet my Maker, that I did not avail myself of the opportunities in this life He gave me.

I used to just think about having to stay busy all the time–the more I did, the more successful I’d be.  I needed my lists and schedules to make sure I did the absolute most all of the time.  I didn’t want to stop moving because that would be like quitting.  I would be wasting time.  (And we all know, if there’s one invaluable thing in American culture, it’s time.)

But I don’t think that’s true anymore.  I’ve learned that doing nothing–checking things off my to-do list like “Drink all of the coffee”–is not wasting time.  It is pausing and stepping back.  That my body and mind and spirit need that rest.  That break.  (This is probably why God gave the whole “Sabbath” thing.)  When I take time back to do nothing, to be bored, to stare at the sun coming through my kitchen window, my heart sings a little song I don’t usually hear.  I breath a little deeper.  The knots of the stress of my zany, modern life relax.  I feel whole.  I feel better.  I feel alive.

Childhood in a time of peace

IMG_0510These are my salt and pepper shakers.  I will be honest and say that, most of the time, I only get them out when I have other people over.  On my own, it’s easier to stick with the pepper grind and the salt ramkin…or salt pig…or salt cellar…or whatever you call it.

These were an impulse buy at a thrift store when I was actually looking for something completely different (but the whole thing cost less than a dollar, I think, so why not?)  I actually bought them because of the tray.  I had never seen S&P shakers on their own special plastic tray, so I bought them.

Later on, when I was trying to figure out how to get their seasonings into them, I flipped them over and saw the “Product of W. Germany” written in relief on the bottom…back when West Germany was still a “thing.”  That made them cooler to me–because I have a product from a place that technically doesn’t exist anymore.

I was only in kindergarten when the Berlin Wall fell, and I remember being in first grade when the U.S.S.R. officially dissolved.  I remember sitting at my grandparents house–all the grown-ups watching the news.  I remember how shocked and amazed they all were.  I also remember not understanding why, but my six year old self sensed that this was important.

I was thinking about that the other day, when I was putting out my salt and pepper shakers for my friends.  I am probably among some of the youngest people who actually remember those events taking place.

I lived my whole childhood in a way not many Americans have had the opportunity in the 20th and 21st centuries.  My memories start with the fall of the Wall, the Communist threat a thing of the past.  I played and went to softball practice and sang in school concerts in a time of peace.  I was safe.  There were no “bad guys” lying in wait.  (This also made generic bad guys for action movies hard to come by…) I grew up doing fire drills and never worrying about something bad happening to me.  My childhood and our country’s sense of security ended at the same time.  My senior year of high school was defined by September 11, 2001.  The world changed, and we were not the same.

I think about my childhood compared to that of my parents, that of my students–how different my world was from either of them.

My parents grew up in the shadow of the Cold War.  They had to do nuclear attack drills in school (precious little good, though, that these drills could have done.)  There was always the unspoken danger of Soviets, speaking eerily in Russian, lurking in America’s corners.

In many ways, it is the same for my students.  None of them know a world before the threats of al Qaeda and ISIS.  None of them know that there was a time you could get onto a plane without having to take off your shoes first.  They have grown up doing intruder drills.  For them, there is always the vague and unspoken threat of terrorists.

 

It makes childhood seem a lot more scary.  It makes me thankful for my time of peace.

Kitchen Renegade

I like cookbooks.  A lot.  As in, I actually read them, cover to cover, for fun.  As in, I own 44 (I literally got up from this computer to count them), and I have cooked multiple recipes out of 34 of them (I also just counted that).  As in, one of my favorite parts of the week is sitting down with a stack of randomly selected cookbooks to pick recipes and make my grocery list.  As in, I have been known to check cookbooks out from the library. On purpose. 

Most of my cookbooks are finds from bargain bins, community book sales, and charity shops.  Nearly all of them had previous owners, and I think I only paid cover price for two.  Like many things in my life, I believe in recycling.

Whenever I go to a Goodwill, I always make sure to do a flyby of the cookbook section.  I like reading the titles and seeing what’s there.  You tend to see a strong representation of cookbooks from last year’s diet “miracle” (Atkin’s, South Beach–I’m sure the Paleo collection will be in season in the next year or so…) and there are always at least four copies of that Oprah cookbook, In the Kitchen with Rosie.  (I guess every person in America must have owned at least five copies in 1998.)    Through my perusal-ing, I have gathered that, in the early ’80’s, people believed that the secret to healthy living was removing all the fat from all the things (titles along the line of Feed Your Family the Fat-Free Way, and Living Healthy: Old Time Flavor without the Fat).  It was also widely accepted, apparently, that it was only a matter of time before microwaves completely replaced the traditional oven (There is usually an entire shelf dedicated to things like Microwave Miracle!: 101 Microwave Oven Recipes for the Modern Cook).

I usually end up leafing through the oldest cookbooks there, myself–the ones from the ’60’s and ’70’s.  I like getting the window into a world that is so different than my own–a world where kids still took homemade birthday treats to school, getting together with friends meant someone was going to “entertain,” and Betty Crocker’s marketing team had not yet convinced America that from-scratch cakes are so much more difficult and complicated than ones from a box.  (They aren’t, incidentally.)

The recipes in these faded books are a lot better, by and large, than their modern counterparts.  I think it’s because when these cookbooks were written, people still, well, cooked.  Today, most cookbooks have recipes that call for about a million ingredients, at least a dozen of them impossible to find if you don’t live in one of the Food Capitals of the World (New York, London, Paris, L.A.), let alone Smalltown, America.  I mean, you can only cook recipes out of a book like Plenty (a truly beautiful cookbook–it’s like food porn) if you have about three to four hours, decent skill, a professionally outfitted kitchen, and access to some crazy ingredients.  And that book was a New York Times bestseller–a bestseller! I’d wager this cookbook sits in cabinets all over America with pristine pages while their owners eat Chinese take-out for the third time this month. 

Most people I know maintain diets that include a significant amount of restaurant food (be it from fast food, delivery pizza, or sit-down restaurants) supplemented heavily by premade food that we just heat up (chicken nuggets, burritos, frozen pizza, pre-portioned frozen dinners).  We live in a culture where we watch other people cook food on television while we pull the plastic film off the top of a Lean Cuisine.  We, as a culture, honestly believe that cooking is a thing reserved for professionals, retirees, and rich women with nothing better to do.

Let me say that in another way:

We have bought into the lie that cooking–the act of going into your kitchen and making something from scratch–is a luxury the average American can’t afford. 

That doesn’t sit well with me.  It bothers me that we think we’re “too busy” to do something that makes us so fundamentally human.  It bothers me that we’ve let marketing campaigns convince us that we “can’t possibly” make a pizza by ourselves or that we’re “too busy” to make chicken noodle soup that doesn’t come from a can.  I think we’re better than that.  I think I’m better than that.  I think you’re better than that.

So prove the marketing people wrong.  Take back the kitchen from the people on T.V.  Be a renegade.

Cook dinner tonight.

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