A Year in Japan

If you've enjoyed reading this blog, I ask that you consider reading the book that was FINALLY born of all this writing.  

Available for NOOK at www.bn.com ($7.50), or in paperback per email request to ayearinjapan2005@gmail.com ($15, including shipping).  

70 black & white pages of bliss - at least, it  was bliss for me to write.  

Thank you for reading.  :) 

A Year in Japan

Lauren's 'Asian' Dressing

I whipped up this salad dressing last week and thought it was too good not to share.  


Mix the vinegars and the oils in whatever proportion you like; the key is that the total vinegar to total oil ratio is 1:3.  I just pour everything out into my tablespoon measure as I go along, so I know the end total will be 1:3.    


In a ceramic bowl, mix:
-good-quality balsamic vinegar
-red wine vinegar 
-1 Tbsp. red miso paste or ginger miso paste 
(the ginger miso I found at a Kings supermarket)


With a fork or whisk, blend miso paste evenly into the vinegars.


Add:
-pepper
-sesame seeds
-black sesame seeds (optional)


Mix again, then into the vinegar+miso mixture add:
-toasted sesame oil (a bit expensive, but SO delicious and worth it!!)
-olive oil


Blend thoroughly with a fork or whisk...et voila!  I love this combo so much that I don't even add anything else to my greens.  It makes for a pretty elegant pre-dinner salad.  


This dressing would probably be good with freshly-grated ginger, too.  


Enjoy!

Ex Files

Yes, I'm doing it: I'm writing a post about ex-boyfriends.  I briefly considered how cliche and taboo this is, but let's face the facts: writing that risks nothing isn't interesting to write...much less, to read.  Writing is about sitting alone, just you and a laptop or you and a notepad, and it feels isolating, even self-indulgent, because everything else around you fades away.  But in reality, writing is really the equivalent of cutting yourself open and exposing your guts to anyone who happens to run across your words.  It's the opposite of isolating.  And these days, people love to see guts, because it reminds them that they have their own.

A few nights ago, I sat here in my lovely bachelorette-pad of an apartment, staring at my walls, when it hit me that there is a string of debris from my ex-boyfriends strung throughout my life.  I can't get rid of it.  I told my mother this, and she laughed.  I love cleaning and purging and getting rid of objects that I don't need.  It has become an important ritual for me after a break-up to purposefully get rid of any material things that would remind me of a particular man or any negativity from the past.  I want my present to reflect my present.  But it dawned on me that the few men I have loved, who have touched my past, have left their fingerprints on the current mold of who I am today and how I live.  I got rid of stuff, but my life still carries parts of each of them.  Whether I chose to end the relationship, or whether they did, they have all contributed to my life in ways that will not disappear or be easily tossed into the garbage. 

There was the Drummer, who taught me that being too uptight can get in the way of loving someone else.  Dirt can always be washed away, and people should always be the #1 priority.  If your boyfriend doesn't feel like he's more important than your house, then he is not getting the love he deserves.   

There was the BAD one, who taught me that I always have permission to trust myself and trust my gut, because it is right 99.9% of the time (if not 100).  It's okay for me to follow my intuition and not have to explain a thing to anyone, or even to myself!  What I feel deep down is the truth for me, and there's no reason to apologize for that.  This lesson will serve me forever. 

There was the Super Hot & Intelligent guy who taught me that not all men are created equal, and that nothing is as it seems.  But what he really left me with is an appreciation for New England.  (The geographical variety in our country is what makes me love it so much.  America is beautiful!)  I'm still dying to visit Maine, and when I do one day, I know I will think of this guy, and I will appreciate the beauty of the coastline as if he is there with me.  Even though he broke my heart, his enthusiasm will project into my future...and it will feel good.

There was the Super Nice guy, who supported me in everything, even while introducing me to something I previously thought I hated: running.  He taught me that, unlike my prior 27 years of experience of feeling absolutely miserable when running, I can actually enjoy it, and I can love the way it makes my mind and body feel.  That knowledge, and running--period--is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life.  Super Nice guy also taught me the value of hearing someone you love say, "I am proud of you" - especially when you consider them your equal.  "I'm proud of you" is not a phrase that should be reserved for your children or employees.  Best friends, bosses, siblings, girlfriends, anyone! will benefit from hearing you say this out loud.  Tell them.  Super Nice guy also gave me a sweet technology set-up, allowing me to synch my computer with my big-screen television, which means that I can watch Netflix on my TV.  It's like a magic trick that continues to impress my guests, but it's nothing I did on my own.  And, let's not forget the high-interest savings account he taught me about.  Nobody can argue that this man did not change my life. 

There was the Super Type A Inflexible who showed me that I can still wear my prom dresses, and he introduced me to an amazing tailor.  Now the dresses are cocktail length and look good enough to wear in 2012.  Super Type A Inflexible also shared his love of photography with me, and actually gave me a digital camera.  I love the thing, I use it all the time, and his gift has shown me that I have a decent eye for photographs!  I really enjoy exploring different perspectives with a basic point-and-shoot.  This guy even gave me a print of his--a photograph printed onto a canvas--that I will probably never desire to take off my wall.  It's a butterfly, and butterflies held meaning for me before him.  But Super Type A Inflexible took the time to share a beautiful image with me, and when I glance at it, I feel peace.  He gets the credit for that.

Most recently there was...I don't even know what to call him yet...so I'll settle for Country-Music-Loving-Lawyer.  My credit was always good, but Country Music Lawyer gave me pointers for improving my credit score, which I was able to successfully execute.  He also encouraged me to get a rewards credit card, and I found one that awards you 2 travel miles for every dollar you spend.  It has saved me $200 in four months.  So now, I view the way I spend money a little differently, thanks to him.  Country Music Lawyer also taught me that if I am not the breadwinner, I am not comfortable splitting all the bills 50-50.  Money is so incredibly personal and has such an intimate relationship with our pasts, our futures, even our feelings of love and romance.  I stretched out of my comfort zone, and what I have learned about myself from that experience, I have come to accept.  Lessons learned from Country Music Loving Lawyer I will be able to apply with confidence and understanding in my next relationship.   

This list in no way summarizes, or demeans, my relationships - nor does it exalt them!  But it was important for me to note that, even when people seem able to discard other people so easily, it's impossible to claim that someone you allowed into your life did not affect it.  If these men had been different, then my present life would not be the same, and I think that's something worth appreciating.   

Now I Ain't Sayin' I A Sushi Chef...

...but I ain't messin' with my dinner!

Well, not sushi, really.  Still deep in the throes of my missing-Japan-being-a-vegetarian-a-la-Julia-Child phase, I decided that instead of missing my favorite Japanese quick meal, I was just going to make it myself.  Onigiri are what I like to think of as the Japanese version of a sandwich: quick, nutritious, easy; requires a few basic ingredients but can be dressed with anything you might have on hand.  The process seems simple enough: take something flavorful, wrap it in the center of a tightly-packed ball of rice, and then wrap the whole thing in a sheet of seaweed.  Voila.  Your perfect 7-11 lunch.

Let me just take a moment to honor the Japanese 7-11, where you can choose from a huge list of edibles, including dried squid, fresh salads with hard-boiled eggs, my favorite types of onigiri, delicious soy "desserts" that fall somewhere between tofu and ice cream, actual (green tea) ice cream...Dried squid excluded, oh 7-11, how I miss you so! 

The whole process of making onigiri was, of course, more involved than I anticipated.  Let's start with the basics.  My favorite type in Japan had a little ball of salmon in the middle.  A coworker friend (here in Jersey) kindly informed me that instead of buying, cooking, and then demolishing a filet of salmon, I could just get a can of the stuff, like tuna.  This was news to me!  So I happily brought home a can of salmon, "skin and bones included."  This will be easy enough, I thought, especially since salmon is so flaky, I'm sure I can get little pieces to flake right off.  That part I was right about, but I wasn't actually expecting the salmon to slide right out of the can in a cylindrical shape.  On to my plate I poured a tuna-smelling glob of salmon fat, skin, scaly-feeling stuff, a spine, bones, and finally, some flaky fish.  The fish parts I could not recognize upset me, and the fish parts I could recognize just upset me more. 

I had a flashback to the time--upon the recommendation from a very kind, respected teacher in Fuji City--I left the grocery store carrying 2 whole samna fish, eyes and all.  I'm not sure what samna translates to in English, but it was rumored to be delicious, and I was going to filet and cook those suckers up myself.  I remember calling John, the only other non-Japanese person for a twenty-mile radius, to ask if I could borrow his kitchen and his sharpest knives.  I'm not sure why I decided to attempt fileting the fish in John's kitchen instead of my own, but I remember being glad I wasn't at home.  John had a lot more cooking experience than I did, so I figured, if I got stuck, he could help me out in a pickle (or samna, in this case). 

John sighed over the phone.  "Sure, Lauren, you can try it here, but fileting a fish is a lot harder than it sounds.  You need extremely sharp knives, which I don't have.  And when you can't do it yourself, I'm not going to help you, because I already know that I'm not good at it." 

Fine.  He warned me, but for some reason, I didn't believe him.  I thought a little elbow grease could surely get me through a fish.

Flash forward an hour.  John's in his living room watching TV and I was staring down at the slick, glimmering mess I'd created trying to butcher these poor fish.  It looked more like a grisly murder scene than a cooking expedition.  John was right - it was a lot harder than I thought, and his knives weren't sharp enough.  Fish guts spilled over onto the floor, making me wish I'd attempted the whole thing in a bathtub.  For some reason, the fact that fish actually had blood came as a shock to me.  I had only expected to see the warm, red liquid from mammals, or other luckier creatures I'd never dream of cutting up whole. 

So tonight as the salmon lay before me on a plate, I thought back to that exhausting night in Japan and had to giggle.  I could handle some bones, some fat, and some skin.  But I'm still glad this is the only kind of 'meat' I'm eating!

Here's what I had left over after picking out the choicest flakes of flesh:

I decided this occasion called for:

!

Now on to the next step, gathering the other "surprise ingredients" that can comprise the centers of your rice balls: French cornichons (I'm sooo cosmpolitan!) and Japanese umeboshi (pickled plums).  These little guys are SO powerful that the carton actually states, "One per day," as if it's a warning.  One per day or else what, I'm not sure.  According to macrobiotics, umeboshi are very good for alkalizing the blood, easily curing all kinds of ailments, including hangovers.  Currently I am neither unhealthy nor hungover, but I wanted to give these guys a go since I haven't eaten them since 2005.  Plus, they are VERY flavorful, and I was in a pack-a-punch kind of mood.

 

I seasoned the salmon with soy sauce while the sushi rice was cooking, and then I seasoned the rice with two of my FAVORITE Japanese ingredients: (regular) sesame seeds, and black sesame seeds:

Alright, NOW the fun part!  First of all, don't be an overeager idiot like I was and start spreading "warm" rice all over your palm before it has a chance to cool a bit.  I was so hungry and excited to start that I burned my hands.  It's also imperative to have a little bowl of saltwater at your fingertips, because if your fingers are dry whenever you handle the rice, you'll have sushi rice stuck all over them!  So keep your fingers moist.

Since I have small hands, I found it easiest to press the rice directly onto the rice paddle, smoosh my surprise ingredient in the center, and then slide the rice off of the paddle into my hands, like sliding a pizza off a pizza stone.  Then, with (wet and salted!) hands, I cupped them together to squeeze the rice into balls around the center ingredients.  Smoosh everything tightly, so it's compacted! 

I am not a crafty girl, but fortunately for my sense of aesthetics, I'm a quick learner.  You can see the dramatic improvement in each rice ball below.  I started at 11 o'clock and went counter-clockwise.  The 1 o'clock ball is clearly the best:

Then it was on to the seaweed wrap!  It came like this:

And unfolded into this:

Which promptly gave me the idea to make one big onigiri burrito with all my leftover ingredients:

(I told you I was cosmopolitan!)  Then I thought, Hey, why not pretend I'm a sushi chef!  I'll roll the seaweed and then cut it into smaller rolls and eat them like sushi!

But, as it turns out, I don't have the right kind of knife to successfully saw through seaweed while keeping everything neat and tidy.  Again I was reminded of the samna experience, and I laughed.  If you're making anything Japanese, even if it's "finger food," you gotta' be serious about your knives.

I did make real onigiri though, in the right shape, and I enjoyed every bite.  The smell of the nori before it hit my lips was the closet thing to time-travel, as it immediately sent me right back to Tokyo.

YUM!!

Clearly, I have a newfound appreciation of my beloved 7-11 convenience food.  More experience would probably make them quicker and easier.  I saved some rice balls for breakfast and put the remaining ones in the freezer. I can't wait to eat the rest of them.  :) 

This post has made it official: if I so choose, I can be one of those people with enough time at home to actually cook, AND take photos, and then WRITE about it.  What a great night!  Now if only I had some green tea ice cream...

Many thanks to the blog Recipe, interrupted for the onigiri-making instructions!!

Carnivores, beware: this requires a strong stomach. ;)

Lot of changes and emotions lately - fear and sadness over the loss and devastation in Japan; admiration for my family in the very Japanese-style kindness they extended by offering safe, radiation-free housing to my friends and their families; my elation over leaving a bad relationship; my 28th birthday and either an early mid-life crisis or a delayed quarter-life crisis; my realization that I had happily and single-handedly gone through half a gallon of ice cream and too much wine in a mere week...WHOA.  There was a moment in time that became the eye of my hurricane...when I was cooking and the TV droned in the background.  I tuned in, without looking, when I heard one female character ask another, "What's the nicest thing you've ever done for someone?"  I stopped stirring my pot, raised my head and repeated the question to myself. And then I stammered out loud.  "Uhh...." I drew a big, fat blank.  Well, I had just made dinner for a friend and her sick husband.  "That was nice of me," I thought.  But was I changing anyone's life?  Hardly.  Twenty minutes of blank thoughts and pot-stirring later, my mind a reel of empty filmstrip, I suddenly remembered that I've been running a book club for the past three years!  I enjoy that, certainly, but I also view it as a form of community service...  I really try my best to be an exceptional friend, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and that doesn't always work out as planned.  Um...

So, I looked further back into my life.  I've been extremely lucky, and I've worked hard, and that combination means I've been able to accomplish some pretty awesome things.  But what do those accomplishments mean for anyone else?  I realized then how exactly my entire life has been all about me.  I started to feel an itch, perhaps a very early clicking of gears of my 'biological clock,' an annoying little presence that conjured visions of myself in my deathbed, thinking, "Gee, you had a fabulous life.  But what exactly was the point if it was all about you?" 
These thoughts were tumbling around in my head at the same time I began reassessing my health and my diet - because it entertains me - and thinking nostalgically of certain aspects of my lifestyle in Japan. 

Then I picked up a vegetarian book.

If you have ever spent any quality time with a book on vegetarianism, then you are well-acquainted with the nightmarish horrors of meat (and even dairy!) production and what it does to animals...not to mention poor people; our rain forests; our water supply; our ozone layer.  Alicia Silverstone's book The Kind Diet reports that it takes 2,500 gallons of water to produce one 16 oz. steak, and that's the same amount of water you'd use taking 6 months of showers.  If you have never been truly curious about how your meat is actually procured, I'll spare you the details - but just know that's much, much worse than 'we breed animals for food, and then we kill them early.'  While I acknowledge that the following is dramatic, I believe it's an accurate analogy to say that that line of thinking is akin to summarizing the Holocaust as 'a period of time where a lot of people died.'  The truth is much more horrific than that.

So I sit here thinking, "Now that I know of all of this, how could I really detach myself from the knowledge, shrug my shoulders over my rib eye and whip out a knife and fork?"  I want to celebrate life, and other living things, and not cause unnecessary harm.  I want to know that the life I lived, while fabulous for me, also made some kind of a difference for someone else.  And I decided that not eating meat is a very good place to start. 

I'm very excited because today is the first day in years (years and years!) that I have chosen to forgo dairy.  (I was a vegetarian for 6 years in my previous life*, but I always ate dairy products).  Today, buying soy milk is just as easy as buying cow's milk, and I have a really strong inkling that as the months go by, I'll see a difference in how I feel, similar to the changes I experienced in Japan.  Not to mention, after living in Japan for a year, I have no problem embracing any and all types of soy products.  It's a magic plant!  And, the calcium argument doesn't really work, because guess what?  Calcium is in the soy milk, too.

So.  Please help me as I go forward, to be mindful of my choices and how they will affect the peace and well-being of other living things on this planet.  Deep down I know that if a little piglet came up and nuzzled my leg (because they are affectionate, intelligent creatures), I would want to grab him and comfort him just like a kitten.  I don't know too many people who would willingly slaughter a kitten.  What is the difference, really?

It may sound like a very Zen philosophy, but I don't believe in a hierarchy among living things.  I believe in protecting myself if necessary, for sure, but nothing was put on this earth for the sake of anything else.  I believe in evolution and the fact that we're all struggling to coexist within life cycles and food chains.  And I really want to believe that this is a Christian attitude, as well, because of the one line in the Bible that holds more meaning for me than any other: The Kingdom of God is inside you and all around you.  God is in the spider we freak out and smash; in the old, tired, arthritic dog; in the harsh wind, and the trembling leaves on a tree.  God is in your best friend; your boss; your elevator man...and cows, and pigs.  

To steal a quote from the poet David Whyte, "The world was made to be free in." 

For everything to be free in.  If I can contribute to that, then I'm going to try.    

*Why I 'stopped' being a vegetarian in the past is a long story, but suffice it to say, I was living in the homes of different people, in different countries, and as a guest of these other cultures, I wanted to adapt.  It has taken a while for me to come back to myself, and remember why I made those choices...and remember that I can re-make them, now.  For that freedom, I am grateful.  

Jockey Hollow

"Warm" winter hike and mini photography experiment with Tom...it was great to get some fresh air.

Gratitude

http://zenhabits.net/why-living-a-life-of-gratitude-can-make-you-happy/

Cranford, NJ

Felicitations, Isabelle!

www.monsillage.com

I love the birds!!

Working in Manhattan - Initial Impressions

Forget aromatherapy, because this goes way beyond that: there are some fragrance oils that unleash waves of emotions in me, and this is in large part how I identify them. Lime, grapefruit, wormwood oil...they all make me deleriously happy in slightly nuanced ways. I love that in some languages, the verb "to smell" is the same as the verb "to feel," because sometimes I can't tell the difference. I'm not exactly sure how I smell musk, but I know when it's there, because I feel it.

I love my job.

Acceptance

from my teacher, and from Native American philosophy ~

Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation – some fact of my life – unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in the Creator’s world by mistake. Until I can accept life completely on life’s terms, I cannot be happy. I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world, as on what needs to me changed in me and in my attitudes.

Tip-Toes

I've known about my impending job training for a while, but as the day finally draws near (just two more weeks!!), the reality of it is actually starting to hit me: I'll be commuting to mid-town Manhattan to train & test my nose with one of the best perfumers out there, in one of the most widely-known and well-respected places of instruction in the fragrance industry. Training as a 'nose' in New York City has such a glamourous ring to it, no?

Even as I write this my stomach forms little pretzels. I am nervous. I want to be a good learner. I want to improve. I want the teacher to think I'm a good student. I am dreading the early morning winter commutes: wake at 5am (if not earlier), walk to bus station, ride bus, cram onto subway, pass a warm cozy Starbucks without the time to actually drink any warm cozy coffee, smell for 8 hours a day with nothing but a 30-minute lunch break and speak to, well, no one.

When I first became interested in the fragrance industry I'd read about perfumers who trained with my company. In the back of my mind I was really awe-struck, and somewhat jealous, and wondered how they were lucky enough to make it. To me that was the pinnacle of 'making it,' yet I only allowed it to be a quick whisper of a daydream. I never actually said to myself, "I want to go THERE," because of...fear of failure...a fear of not making it. Even though it was a goal in the back of my mind, I knew it was a very high reach. And I am a pretty small girl.

But the lesson is learned: reach, reach reach. Keep stretching and reach. No matter what. And this is why, despite my years of frustrations, disappointments, and disapprovals of boyfriends who have unlikely goals of becoming famous drummers and songwriters (goals which have always, without fail, thrust large wedges between us), I can't blame them for wanting. Not only can I not blame them, but also, I have to give them their own room to reach.

Because when you realize, half-unbelieving, that a dream of yours is coming true, you can only hope that the same thing happens for the people you love(d), and that they can grasp their own little piece of happiness, too.

Yes, yes I do.

I'm not quite sure why my car became such a vehicle for my identity - a marker of my roots. I bought it in North Carolina, with my parents, on a road that's remained nearly unchanged since I was 2 years old. (They did add a Lowe's). Shortly after I seized newly acquired cute little car, along with all my other important possessions, and hurled myself north into New Jersey. At one point I ended up dazed and confused after one too many jug handles on Route 1. I stopped to rest at a diner and found myself crying into my pancakes and dirty cup of decaf coffee, wondering where the hell I was and what I'd gotten myself into - another leap with no knowledge of what was on the other side, and no one to help me land. Eventually I made it to my new place and laid my head to rest...and since then diners have taken on a whole new meaning for me. They no longer represent fear and loneliness, but love and predictability. But I digress.

As I moved from Piscataway and internship to Wayne, new job, apartment, and subsequent new apartment, having no clue what my future would look like, at least my past was plain as day: the North Carolina license plate that remained on my beloved little North Carolina-born Honda was like a Get Out of Jail Free card. Don't like my driving? Oh excuse me, you see, I'm not a NJ native, I'm come from North Carolina. We do it differently in the South, I'm sure ya'll understand. I wasn't supposed to use the EZ Pass lane? I'm so sorry, you see, I just moved here and am still learning the ropes.

I wasn't feigning not knowing what the heck I was doing. I genuinely did not. That NC plate was the last shred of public evidence linking me to my real home. I didn't feel comfortable in New Jersey. When I finally settled into my job with a home address I maintained longer than 2 months, it was time to update my car insurance. To do this, you must also *sob!* replace your charming Kitty Hawk NC license plate with the anemic-mustard-yellow NJ plate - not only on the back BUT ALSO on the front of your vehicle.

Suddenly, you and your car have faded into the sea of NJ traffic flowing down the parkway or just plain sitting on Route 3 and there are no more 'but's about it. You. Live. in. New. Jersey. And everybody knows.

I must say, after having lived here for 2 years, I'm a much better driver than I ever anticipated. I've been known to equally frighten and impress New Jersey natives...and well, that's downright normal in these parts.

Giving up the NC license plate was like giving up the "I'M NOT FROM HERE" stamp I wore securely on my forehead. The plate was the last string connecting me to my past, the south, and all the culture with which I grew up. I wanted to console myself by mounting it on my wall, a memento and reminder of my roots. But before I had the chance, a very official-looking letter in my mailbox demanded that I return my license plate to its proper home in NC. Where I was not.

So, with the swift replacement of a sheet of metal on my automobile, my move was complete. I lived here.

Fast forward to two years later. I have a GPS built into my car and every day I thank my lucky stars for this guiding technological wonder. I cannot image my life in NJ, not to mention NORTH Jersey, without the GPS to dictate my turns, let me know when I've missed one, and when to make a U-turn if possible. I use my GPS every single time I go somewhere new.

Until tonight.

All day there was a veritable tropical storm. The rain was in perpetual car-wash-fog&mist-mode making visibility very difficult. I was on my way to a date at a previously unvisited location. I had a vague idea of where the restaurant was and a vague idea of how to get there. I glanced at mapquest before I left work. I passed four car accidents before reaching the half-way mark. And just at the half-way point, where was the crucial merge onto Route 1, I was derailed: another accident blocked the ramp completely, and I was forced to continue straight. Hmm, I thought calmly. The restaurant is pretty much northwest of where I am right now. So I can probably make it there with a few strategic turns.

And then the strangest thing happened! I made it! No frantic button-pushing on the GPS. No mapquest consultations. No phone calls to friends or waiting date. I just...made some turns and arrived safely at my destination.

I navigated through unexplored NJ territory with no gadgets! The day you make no less than 4 major merges in thirty minutes without the use of a gadget or internet browser is the day you realize: you. REALLY. live. in. New Jersey.

And you're getting good at it. :)

And you're starting to feel more comfortable there...like you're back in your own skin.

And the date was fun, too.

Live & Learn

Recently, a wise man said, "When otherwise sedentary objects become projectiles, it's time to stop." Or as he later quipped, "When shit starts to fly, it's time to say goodbye."

I'm 26. This is an important lesson I learned when I was 25. It's a lesson I never thought I'd confront.

But then I gathered my things, and walked out.

"Resolutions," more or less

As Christmas Eve was the only time I attended a church service in perhaps all of 2008, I decided to listen intently to the sermon. (No, the idea of a religion binge doesn't seem appropriate, but I thought I'd make the most of my time while I was there). This isn't an exact quote, but the minister shared some words from Rainer Maria Rilke that felt like they were meant for me:

~ Be patient with all that is unanswered in your heart. Try to love the questions, and gradually, you will live into the answers. ~

I thought this was a good recipe for living in the moment instead of always wondering about the future, something with which I have constant trouble. Maybe in 2009 I can settle in more, and calm down a bit.

That, strengthen and expand my social circle outside of work, and make my apartment a cozier place to be. These will all take time so if I'm mindful, maybe 2009 won't fly by.

Painting

When he asked me if I could smell colors, I answered with a bored, eyelids-half-closed, "Yeah." Smelling colors can seem somewhat obvious -- rose can smell anywhere from blushing pink to blood red. Grassy notes smell bright green. Cinnamon, a reddish-brown. But I'd been putting these observations on the back burner ever since a perfumer got upset with my efforts to communicate in color. The top notes of her fragrance were very green and yellow, like apple juice made from Granny Smiths, and what the fragrance needed was a softer, more powdery effect, like laundy detergent in cornflower blue. I asked for what I needed using these color descriptions, but she didn't really understand what I meant. That was my last attempt to communicate using color. So when he asked me to paint the fragrances I smelled, I was a bit skeptical and frustrated over the "point of all this."

I clicked opened the box of watercolors and realized that it'd been so long since I'd done anything this overtly 'artistic' that I had to remind myself how to use the little cup of water. On the table in front of me were three unlabeled fine fragrances. Each one was completely different from the next. I had an unlimited amount of time to paint what I smelled. I dipped a blotter, inhaled deeply, and picked up the little paintbrush.

I don't know how long I painted, but when I finished, I felt amazingly calm and clear. I felt completely open and relaxed, like someone had massaged my brain. Painting perfumes seemed to give me all the benefits of meditation without the effort. It had been an active process that felt strangely...passive. It was like I'd skipped the whole process of interpretation, and the colors on the page simply WERE the perfumes. Each one looked completely different, but it all seemed so obvious and clear.

Later, he showed me watercolors done by perfumers using the same fragrances. In one I had missed a couple dashes of red, but otherwise, you could match my paintings to theirs. It was like discovering that I could speak a language I didn't even know existed.

I need to buy some paint supplies.

Le plus c'est la meme chose...

While the economy is a different story and no one really knows what will happen tomorrow, in the meantime I am really enjoying my job. I love using my nose, I love my company, and I am impressed by the people around me (their diversity, intelligence, experience, and warmth). The daily grind can be very stressful and fast-paced (sometimes I take a few moments to deliberately calm a racing heart), but instead of approaching the challenges with monotonous dread, I enjoy trying to tackle them. The difficult days fly by and I love that most of them yield something tangible to account for what I did all day. And hopefully, that something smells good.

Maybe I'm just approaching "that age," but more so I think my current environment has led me to think a lot about marriage. Basically, I don't understand it anymore.

Growing up I thought I knew what a good marriage was, why people got engaged, and why they stayed together. From my point-of-view as a child and then teenager, my own parents' marriage seemed solid, purposeful, loving, happy...pretty damn good. To a kid, the main point of their marriage seemed to be a happy family, but before that, they really did love each other. What could be confusing about that?

So my parents were together, and most of my friends' parents were together, and divorce was the exception. I wasn't so naive as to think that everything was perfect, but I was too naive to understand what could be SO BAD that people would want to break up their families and homes and live life apart. One or two times I tried to imagine what it would feel like if my own parents divorced, and nothing made me feel more insecure. In high school I didn't even understand why couples my age fought. At that age, what the heck was there to fight about? What was ever that big of a deal? I always had a crush on someone, and senior year of high school I really fell in love with someone, but nothing ever seemed like it would be the end of the world. I was nowhere near ready to settle down, even with someone I loved, because the timing just wasn't right. But I always assumed that day would come, it would be simple and straight-forward, and I knew myself well enough to prevent any issues that would justify divorce. I assumed my life and my own marriage would look a lot like my parents'. How else could it be?

Now I'm 25, and while I hear all the time, "Oh, you're still young," "Oh, you've got plenty of time," or just a "Pfft!" with a handwave to convey the same idea that my life is still but a speck on a timeline, I am not quite as naive as before. But I am confused. It could be that I grew up in the small-town south and now I live in rat-race-paced New Jersey. But a mere 10, 15 years later, divorce is not the exception. Staying together is. What is wrong with people? I understand that people make mistakes, and I'm not such an unforgiving perfectionist that I'm going to judge people who are divorced (not at all). But I just feel like the problem is larger, that as a society, nobody really knows what marriage is anymore. At work nearly everyone, everyone! is divorced, at best with sticky histories and at worst with horribly traumatic reasons for splitting up. But there are two women in their very late 20s who are engaged, and that's all anyone talks to them about. (Of course, they aren't talking about the marriage, they're gushing over wedding details). Does this make sense? Is marriage good, or not? Why can't this be black and white? As soon as a woman is engaged it's like she becomes a big walking wedding planner and everyone assumes she has no interest in talking about anything else other than hotel accomodations, white lace, and plates. It frightens me in a country where so many people get divorced that once you are engaged it's like nothing about you before that matters or is interesting to anyone else.

The media is no help, either. If you actually try to follow the rash of relationship advice breaking out all over the internet, bookstores, radio, and television, you can turn a perfectly fine relationship into a big mess. There's a "rule" now that if you're dating someone for a year, you're not supposed to talk about marriage AT ALL, then one night you sit your man down for an ultimatum, and if he's not ready to propose on the spot after you've kept the pressure off and never discussed marriage before, then you should dump him. Walk away and he should come crawling back to you with a ring. If he doesn't, then it wasn't a good relationship in the first place.

Never mind your actual feelings for each other, your bank accounts, your histories, your ages, your places in life. What kind of crap advice is that? Marriage is probably one of the most intimate, interpersonal, particular arrangements there is, but these "experts" dole out instructions like they're explaining how to butter toast. If you want your bread brown, keep it a secret and be happy with white for a year. Then suddenly, stick it in the toaster for 1 minute. If it doesn't pop up brown, then girl, you better head back to the grocery and find another brand. Does that strike anyone else as ridiculous? Who would throw out the bread before sticking it back in the toaster longer?

The other aspect of the media I find particularly frustrating is all the talk about cheating. On the morning drive to work, all people talk about is being cheated on, checking their significant others' cellphones for unfamiliar numbers, how more women than ever! are being unfaithful, how men who marry in their 20s are more likely to cheat, and cheat sooner, than men who marry in their 30s...it's so discouraging and hearing people talk about it all the time just makes it worse. It makes loyalty in a marriage seem like a fairy-tale. It's like cheating in a marriage is as standard as white cake in a wedding. I wonder how common it is to include cheating clauses in pre-nups. Vows basically don't mean a damn thing anymore, but if you can stick a lawyer and a lot of money behind it, maybe a promise will count for something. If you're a single girl and you actually pay attention to the media and the people around you, you don't understand why anyone actually gets married.

But then I think about how one day I'd like a family. First and foremost, I think I would like to raise children, and that's not something I'll ever aspire to do on my own, or even with "a partner." I want to do that with my family. I want to do that with my husband. And the other reason is that I love my boyfriend. We don't live together, but I like the idea of one day going home to him. I think he would be a good father. I like the idea of pooling our finances. I love his family. We like to eat the same kinds of foods (except for Indian, which I can have while I'm out with girl friends). I like the idea of security, of trusting someone, of needing someone who needs you. Of maybe buying a house together and staking out a tiny part of the world that is "mine" and "ours" and feeling at home after growing up and leaving North Carolina.

Despite everything around me, I still believe that I can create and maintain a 1990s southern marriage in 21-st century central New Jersey. Maybe everyone else does, too. Maybe that's why men keep buying rings and women keep saying yes, against all odds. Maybe I'm not as different from everyone else as I thought.

Smell & Taste

I'm happy to report that I will be joining the ranks of mid-Atlantic commuters... by starting a new job! I'll be working in fragrance development / evaluation with a great company, and I'm really, REALLY excited about this opportunity. Planning to stock up on audiobooks to make the commute more entertaining.

Recently I learned some interesting facts about smell and taste from Audiodigest's Family Practice CDs:

• "Taste information does not go through the medial temporal nerve and hypothalamus [unlike smell, so] the emotional aspect of taste is not as strong as that of smell." Even though rocky road ice cream may transport you to childhood, it won't do so as effectively as your mother's old perfume. It's interesting to learn that it's all because of the way our brains are wired and which nerves go where.
• Possible / potential causes of smell disorders: vitamin B12 deficiency, zinc deficiency, low thyroid function, cigarette smoking and yes, even alcohol consumption. Alcohol was shown "to produce smell impairment in 50%" of cases because of toxicity to the temporal lobe and other structures involved in smell and taste. Cut back on cough medicine to smell the roses!
• And, it's now generally accepted that there are 5 senses of taste: sweet, sour, bitter, salty, and umami, which refers to MSG and savory broth flavors often found in Asian cooking.
• As we age, sweet and salty flavors are the first to go.
• Most interesting is the fifth cranial nerve which allows us to detect texture, temperature, and "spice sensations."

I wonder if people who like spicy foods have less active or less sensitive fifth cranial nerves. I love the flavors of salsas and other hot mixtures, but often find them too spicy to enjoy. Perhaps alcohol impaires the fifth cranial nerve. That could explain why spicy Mexican food goes well with good tequila! And also why Mexican food is such a delight: a Margarita offers cold, sweet, and sour. Chicken mole offers spice and possibly umami. Cold but spicy salsa sends the cranial nerve for a loop, and it's all topped off with smooth, cold, sweet, creamy flan. Nothing like a good meal to get your brain in high gear.

Temptation

First, it was Bonne Bell lip gloss. In high school my best friend and I would amass our collections and revel in the flavor choices, like old misers running our knubby fingers through golden coins. Dr. Pepper, Strawberry Banana, Cotton Candy, Vanilla, Raspberry...we were shamelessly addicted to these candy-colored plastic tubes of lip flavors. We counted them, traded them, shared them, and laughed at our infantile obsession with little-kid "make-up." We gave ourselves up completely to the temptation and bought new tubes without a second glance. We were obsessed with Bonne Bell lip glosses, but our juvenile indulgence was acceptable because...we understood each other. These days I'm still impressed by the flavor offerings (and licenses with candy brands such as Skittles and Hershey), but as I walk down the Target aisles, I simply make a mental note and walk away. My temptations of late have moved to other departments.

It was never cigarettes or drugs, but instead, vices that were less obvious to the public. Smoking is hard to hide. But very, very few people know what your underwear looks like. In college I turned from lip gloss to lingerie. Before Victoria's Secret turned neon green and trashy, back when it was pink and white and feminine, that was my temptation. Lip gloss was tossed in favor of colorful bra-and-panty sets. I realize now that all of my indulgences--lip gloss, lingerie, perfume, chocolate--I can chalk up not to being vices, but simply to being feminine. I wasn't falling for anything, I was simply being a woman. Hah.

It all got worse when I went to France, the lingerie capital of the world. (Come to think of it, all of my obsessions intensified while I was in Paris). Lingerie boutiques line the streets like bakeries, and walking into one gave me the same feeling that walking into sugar-free candy stores in Madrid would give me many years later. Look at all those colorful choices. Indulgence is always sexy, with or without the calories.

And of course, laced throughout the years and the changing obsessions was the one that would always remain: perfume. Working in the perfume industry, with entire closets filled with every fine fragrance and body wash imaginable, my interest in perfume has not lessened in the least. But part of my job is also monitoring the cosmetics market. I am forever on the internet, in Sephora, in The Body Shop, looking for new fragrances but only after sweeping through the cosmetics aisles. It's another type of candy shop altogether. It's hard not to confuse eye shadow with cupcakes, lipsticks with candy sticks, cheek stains with fruit juices. Makeup is a delicious and, if not kept in check, quite expensive habit. When a coworker and I discovered our mutual obsession with lip products, it was like high school all over again. We trade information, we compare results, we drop brand names, we share new loot. (She started off with Bonne Bell lip glosses as well, a good 15 years ahead of me, but she progressed to Chanel long before I did. She was wearing Chanel in high school while I didn't buy such a serious lipstick until 2 years after college). But no matter. Now we're on to warming, stinging, plumping lip glosses and blusher compacts with zig-zagging summer shades and crisp magnetic closures.

Makeup is such a sensual indulgence. It's not just about trying to look "pretty." It's about pleasure, just like a good meal and a glass of wine. Color palettes flirt with your eyes, rosy perfumes tickle your nose, magnets and brushes and powders and liquids beg for your touch, occasional flavors talk to your tastebuds. It's a miracle I can separate Sephora from La Perla from Godiva, because when I use makeup, I may as well be smearing chocolate on myself.

Last week I broke down and bought an eye shadow compact. It was expensive, but it's covered in cushy fabric and closes with a delightful 'click.' (With more expensive brands, no detail is left to chance. Some designer on the other side installed hidden magnets to create a closure with a "luxury feel." I've been obsessed with makeup containers and closures my entire life. When I was little, my mom would ask me not to open and close her lipstick tubes so frequently, because if I continued I would wear down the bumps and the caps would no longer stay attached. But I love feeling the clicks. I love the smell of blue minerals ground into particle dust. I love the soft brushes on my eyelids. I love that it feels like I'm painting my face).

I knocked on my coworker's door to share the the latest find. She stopped her work, smiled with understanding and approval, and said, "Good for you, my dear. It's fantastic. Enjoy."

Silly, maybe. But it's marketing at its finest. Nobody needs more eyeshadow, but nobody needs any kind of temptation. I'm just sharing mine.

"Perfume School"

For everyone interested in studying perfumery, I'm happy to share with you what I know. The program I completed at ISIPCA (www.isipca.fr), called The Fragrance Academy, very sadly no longer exists. (It was a one-year program for non-French students in perfumery and evaluation). If you are not French but would still like to study fragrance, there is a 2-year program available to those with a degree in chemistry or pharmacology, called EFCM (European Fragrance & Cosmetics Masters). The first year is spent studying cosmetics and fragrance in Versailles, the second year studying business in Italy. I believe you can find application details at the above-listed website.

The only other perfumery schools I'm aware of are within fragrance companies themselves. I think your best bet is to try to get your foot in the door at a fragrance company, be it as a fragrance compounder, sales coordinator, etc. Work hard, express your interest in fragrance development, make a real effort to get along with everyone...and hopefully through this route, you will find a way to move up.