Metron Ariston

 A year and a half ago I discovered The Secrets of Jesuit Breadmaking, and my friend Ariella bought it for my birthday after I’d re-checked it from the library for several months. I fumbled through a few recipes in the fall of 2009. I liked baking bread, but found it extremely frustrating when loaves didn’t turn out. I started reading the author’s notes on making bread and watching videos on kneading techniques. At this time, I was mainly just making Olive Bread [Liv’s favorite]. For 2010, I decided to bake my way through my bread book. A new recipe, every week. Fair enough, I’d probably have been better off choosing one recipe and making it every week to perfect it, but my way allowed me to try lots of different kinds of bread while perfecting the skills we always use in bread making.

I didn’t make it through the whole year. Even though I made bread while in Montreal for the CPA, the week I spent in Germany [with Martha Nussbaum. Sorry, I can’t say that enough] was the first week I didn’t make bread. When I returned back to Canada I moved, which slowed me down a bit, and then I sliced through the tendon in my right index finger. Being splinted and unable to do dishes pretty much killed bread making.

Once the splint came off, I didn’t pick up my pre-Germany pace, but I still tried several new bread recipes a month. I made a repeat recipe only once; Olive Bread for Canadian Thanksgiving dinner.

As a side note, the best thing about being American living in Canada is two Thanksgiving dinners. Bring on the pumpkin pie, and vegan Turkey if Dylan is roasting it.

I’ve just returned home from visiting Tiffany and Davis in Connecticut, so I have just enough time for a final bread recipe. I flipped through my book, referencing my list of breads I’ve made thus far, trying to pick the perfect bread to end the year. I am limited in a few ways--having just returned, I’m out of several baking essentials, namely eggs and butter. The recipe I made will have to be fairly basic--or I could use a number of my vegan substitutions, which I did for a number of recipes. Remember when I actually was a vegan? Armed with my Christmas gifts--vegan cookbooks--I may take it back up. Damn butter, being so tasty in baking. If it weren’t for butter . . .

Anyway, I finally settled on “Brother’s Bread.” It seems appropriate, given what Brother Curry, the Jesuit who put together my bread book, has written: “This was the first recipe in our loose-leaf binder at Wernersville and this bread was probably made more than any other.” What better to end the year with than the first recipe in Brother Curry’s collection? I must confess, it will also be excellent in the “Peachy French Toast” I plan on making for New Year’s Day brunch. You have to check out the other amazing cookbook, from which comes the yummy French Toast recipe, that I got for Christmas: The Harrow Fair Cookbook.

Brother’s Bread is rising in the oven. I could tell from the feel of the dough as I kneaded it that it will be fabulous. Mmmm.

Here’s a few favorite bread-making memories from the year. Following that, I posted a list of all the breads I’ve tried this year. I have not yet made all the recipes in my book, but it’s getting close. I starred some of my favorite recipes, and indicated which ones failed to turn out.

Top memories:
Last New Year’s Ariella and I made Challah, but we forgot to add the eggs at the appropriate point. We added them right before kneading. I was sure it would be a disaster, but it turned out to be one of the best recipes I made--probably Ariella’s magical [Jewish?] touch.

When Ariella was in Toronto and I was watching Sushi, I baked bread at her house because it allowed me lots of Sushi-cuddling time. Ariella’s smoke detector is sensitive and it started going off. I couldn’t get it to turn off, I couldn’t get the smoke to leave the kitchen, and Ariella’s landlady came into her apartment and berated me for trying to bake and trying to take the smoke detector off the ceiling. Oops. I think this disaster occurred while making Spy Wednesday Biscuits.

Another time I was making bread at Ariella’s, I made a poppy-seed loaf for Dario, who adores poppy seeds, as a surprise, only to find that he spontaneously went to Toronto for the weekend. It was gone by the time he got home. Sorry, Dario. I’ll come to Montreal and make it for you.

Having Adam in town when I made sourdough. You have to knead that sucker for twenty minutes, not the usual eight to ten. We took turns, and made three sourdough loaves that week.

Making three-seed bread on my birthday. First bread since my finger injury! Breadmaking has become a regular practice in my life, and I was probably pretty grouchy that I hadn’t been baking for so long. I couldn’t have done it without alot of help from Patrick because my finger was still splinted at that time--at least, I couldn’t really knead--but it was lovely to be baking again.

Here’s the weekly list. If you ever want a loaf, let me know. I love baking them! My favorites [yes Becca, you can have more than one favorite] are starred, my least favorites have crosses.

1. Week of December 27 : Challah ★
2. Week of January 3: St. Alphonsus Rodriguez’s Raisin Bread
3. Week of January 10: Apricot, Orange, Cranberry Bread
4. Week of January 17: Sister’s Herb Bread [did not turn out]
5. Week of January 24: Yeast Rolls
6. Week of January 31: Rick’s Cranberry-Walnut Buttermilk Loaf
7. Week of February 7: Bran Corn Bread ★ [also, made Sister’s Herb Bread and it turned out]
8. Week of February 14: Poppy Seed Braid Loaf
9. Week of February 21: Date and Walnut Bread ★
10. Week of February 28: Sweet Potato Bread ★
11. Week of March 7: Green Chili Corn Bread
12. Week of March 14: Brother Buchman’s Cracked Wheat
13. Week of March 21: Sourdough
14. Week of March 28: Spy Wednesday Biscuits
15. Week of April 4: Jesuit Easter Bread
16. Week of April 11: Brother Andrew’s Pumpernickel Bread [did not turn out]
17. Week of April 18: Bagels
18. Week of April 25: Holy Thursday Apple Bread
19. Week of May 2: Whole Wheat-Wheat Germ Bread
20. Week of May 9: Onion Bread ✝
21. Week of May 16: Brother Leikus’s Oatmeal Quick Bread [substituted applesauce for oil and eggs]
22. Week of May 23: Honey Whole Wheat
23. Week of May 30: 100% Whole Wheat
24. Week June 6: Sweet Potato Cornbread
35. Week of August 22: Three-Seed Bread
41. Week of October 3: Loyola Buttermilk Bread
43. Week of October 17: Rosemont’s Bread ★
45. Week of October 31: Brother Fitzgerald’s Basic White Bread
48. Week of November 21: Pane di San Giuseppe (St. Joseph’s Bread) ★
49. Week of November 28: Altar Bread
51. Week of December 12: Johnnycakes
52. Week of December 19: Christmas Morning Cinnamon Buns ✝
53. Week of December 26: Brother’s Bread

Recipes from the bread book I made prior to 2010:
Olive Bread, French Bread, Potato Bread, Pan de Sal [did not turn out], Wernersville Corn Bread, Maple Corn Bread, O’Brien’s Oatmeal Bread [did not turn out], Irish Soda Bread, Overnight Basic Italian, Cracked Wheat Bread ★, Oatmeal Bannocks, Zucchini Bread

 I have to pick up my exam in a few hours, then I will have twenty-four hours to complete it.  I slept in till seven-thirty and had a decadent breakfast of cinnamon raisin toast with almond butter and an macintosh apple.  By the way, I've never had macs until I moved northwards, but they're better than granny smith's!

What does one do while one kills time?  I did some laundry, watched the new True Blood episode, and changed the sheets on my bed.   I made up some tea to steep in the sun so I'll have a treat this evening.  Yesterday I organized my books.  I have some lovely hydrangeas that I got for my birthday, and I put a few in a small vase for my desk to cheer me up when the stress got bad.  

I guess I could eat second breakfast?  Nah, wouldn't enjoy it, not hungry.  Well, there is the NEVER ENDING pile of dirty dishes.  Time to get busy!

 I will write my area comprehensive exam [feminist philosophy] on Monday.  It is a twenty-four hour take home exam, and I have to write four questions for a total of about thirty double-spaced typed pages.

I think I am stressed. My body absorbs emotions and outputs crying.  Yesterday I cried while washing dishes.  Right now, I just burst into tears while reading about surrogacy.  It will be a long, exhausting weekend if I keep crying like this.

Wish me luck!

 Background Knowledge:
a. After yesterday's visit with my therapist, I only have to wear my splint at night and when I engage in "dangerous" activities.  
b. I go running right after I wake up, and I don't usually wear my contacts so my eyes can wake up slowly.  I can see all right without them, I just can't read.

It felt nice to run in the cooler weather, and because I ate a ton of rich foods over the weekend.  I was in such a good mood, I decided not to wear my splint.  I have a standard path that I take, and it's all paved, so I wasn't too concerned about falling.  When I hot the university, I impulsively decided to run through the trails rather than on the paved path.  I hadn't done that in awhile,  For a second it seemed like an unwise decision, since I had no contacts in and no splint.  But I was familiar with this section of trails, and I tend to run a bit slower on the trails.

So, there I was, pleased with myself and thinking about how awes--omely I was tripping over a tree root, crashing to the right side.  My right, unsplinted, injured hand side.  I lay in the path, Becs old iPod, which I am borrowing, and my keys flung to one side.  You could hear the faint beat of music playing in the stillness.  I lay in the path for a moment, checking my finger first to see if I hurt it too badly, then inspecting my other scrapes.  Because it seemed like the thing to do I muttered--out loud--"Fuck, I suppose running IS a dangerous activity,"  and started laughing.  

Luckily, I braced myself with my forearm rather than my hand, and beside a small cut and bruise on my right knee, I was golden.

After the fall, closer to home, "Guilty" by Marina and the Diamonds came on the iPod.  It seemed appropriate.  "Guilty on the run, and I know what I have done.  Guilty on the run, and I'm never forgiven."  That was me, guiltily running home, hoping my therapist and my lovely housemate, who takes such good care of me, would forgive me for my trespasses.  

I suppose the real question should be about repentance--will I be wearing my splint the next time I go running?

Today is so lovely that I couldn't resist riding my bike, even though it's difficult to brake with my finger splinted.  When I was leaving my cat-sitting gig and getting on the bike, some part of my bike got hooked to one of the numerous holes in my shorts.  I couldn't stabilize myself because my right hand isn't functional enough to hold the weight of my bike, so I slowly toppled over onto my bike.  I mean very slowly.  It didn't hurt, but I must have looked ridiculous lying on top of a bike, having problems untangling myself because of how my bag fell awkwardly on top of me, and because of my hurt hand.  It took a minute or so.

I live to amuse.

I made a lovely vegan zucchini-walnut-carob cake yesterday.  And, here are a few promised finger pics.  Sorry, but I don't know how to "hide" them.

This morning on the bus, going to see my hand therapist, I read something beautiful:

"You and I need each other more than the world needs either of us."

 My birthday will be here in a little less than a month.  I don't feel old, or wise, or witty.  I feel a bit baffled, but that's it.  

I'm sitting in East Village Coffeehouse, my favourite coffee shop in London.  Well, it's pretty much the only one in London I frequent.  I'm supposed to be studying, and I'm reading Iris Marion Young, which is always a pleasure.  But I'm a bit distracted by self-indulgent thoughts about my birthday.

Really, I could be anywhere.  I could be at Dr. Bombay's Underwater Tea Party or the Indie in Atlanta, or I could be in Starbucks in Jackson (I'm ashamed to say, but perhaps Jackson-Henderson was worse for good coffee than London), or my dear Ugly Mug in Memphis.  I'm always reading something and being distracted by my own thoughts.  I've only traded paperbacks and a journal for a laptop and scanned articles.  Hey, I am currently without the use of my right hand.  And who wants to write with their non-dominant hand?  Not me.  

I have officially lived in London longer than I lived in Atlanta.  THAT doesn't seem real to me.  There are pals I haven't seen in over five years. 

And it is strange to think of how little and how much I have changed.  I think I was pretty rotten as a teenager, and in university.  I was self-absorbed, arrogant, and judgmental.  I was cold.  Perhaps I am still cold.  

When I started writing, I felt a bit awed about how quickly years seemed to have gone by.  But as I think about it, and about what strikes me as unsettling, I realize that I'm not baffled but afraid.  So here's my list of fears, just in time to greet my twenty-sixth birthday.

I saw Zach last month when he came to pick up his belongings before I moved in with Becs, and the coldness I felt scared me a little.  We were foolish to have gotten married, and foolish to think that we could both follow the life plans we'd developed even though they conflicted.  Of course, there were those "irreconcilable differences" as well.  Geez, what would Zach say if he knew I was a vegan now?  I do not love him.  I do not want to love him.  But why the coldness, the hard anger that I wrap about myself before we must interact?  We were friends for such a long time, even before we were lovers and spouses, and surely something from that friendship deserves some warmth?  Or perhaps I'm not as mature as I want to be, and I'm not ready to let go of my hurt.

After a few months-hiatus from facebook, my lovely housemate convinced my to rejoin.  The sheer amount of information felt threatening as I began to re-negotiate it.  The thing I noticed most was the number of my acquaintances who are now parents, or expecting their first child.  I see pictures of former classmates with these toddlers and statuses referring to their partners as "fathers" and "mothers" and this disgusted knot starts to form in the pit of my stomach.  Not because I find children frightening--well, I do--but I feel as if somehow I'm refusing to grow up and the rest of the world is passing me by.  That I'm wasting time in a nowhere career because I'm not brave enough to do anything else.  I'm not trying to diss on philosophy.  I sincerely and cheesily believe that philosophy is the most noble career a person could have--if said person is good at it.  I am not.  I'm mediocre.  I'm fuddled and jumbled and incoherent.  And alas, these traits do not a good philosopher make.  A publisher just rejected a paper I wrote, so I'm a bit sensitive.  

I'm afraid that I can no longer love God.  Empiricism is no religion for me, and I currently have the most worked out theological views that I've ever had, but no strong metaphysical commitments beyond a strange kind of pantheism that I tie to Christianity, and which can be hashed out in language of dignity rather than spiritual terminology.  What happened?  I get frustrated by church and the answers I get to questions that strike me as serious problems.  I get angry at how flippant people seem to treat objections that I have, even though they probably dn't have to requisite background to fully appreciate my point.  Again, I'm being mean and unfair.  And who will I be, if not a Christian?  The most formative aspect of my upbringing, which I cling to desperately for whatever reason, and yet my fingernails get shorter and I can't gain any traction.  

Someone I admire greatly wrote this recently in her blog: "When I get some traction, somewhere, I know how to look to the horizon and keep my feet on the ground."  Perhaps I simply need more traction.  

I am also deathly afraid of werewolves and vampires.  Telling me they don't exist won't help.  Giving me the statistical arguments for why they don't exist won't help.  I believe in them anyway.  How's that for irony? 

Just so you know, I'm not a total wuss.  I have the best living situation I think I've ever had.  It's restorative.  I'm practicing yoga seriously and feeling great.  Still hate my fat cheeks, though.  There are two people who have loved me most of my life and one whom I met in Atlanta, and I know they will all continue to love me no matter what.  Full stop.  I'm finishing a satisfying mug of coffee roasted locally by my second-favourite local roaster.  I'm still getting paid to do philosophy, however poorly I do it.  That strikes me as a not-too-shabby way to spend a few years.

 Sliced through a tendon in my right index finger.  Typing painful, but I wanted to share.  I would post pics, but I don't want to gross anyone out.  Will provide upon request =)

buytigers.com/

 I'm giving a practice talk tomorrow, practice for my workshop presentation next week, and it's making me nervous.  To procrastinate from working on it, I'm reading for my area comp.  I'm also considering my next meal.  I'm often considering my next meal.  

Should I eat lunch before I go to school, or should I pack a lunch and eat it during my meeting?  I had breakfast at eight-ish, so eating at noon may be a bit early.  I could eat two small lunches.  Hey, where is my lunch box?  I picked it up from Lee-Anna's on my way home yesterday.  I had left it there after a party a few weeks ago.  Is it in my room?  Hrm.  I put the lunchbox in the back pack full of books that I was taking to Goodwill, so I wouldn't be biking around with so many bags attached to me.  I also had my everyday bag, with my books and wallet and stuff.

And then it hit me.  I handed the backpack to the Goodwill volunteer, with all the books and my lunchbox inside.  A former boyfriend of one of my housemate's had left the bag at our place, so it was also going to Goodwill.  "Here you go, backpack and all," I said to the volunteer.  

Now, sitting alone in at the kitchen table, listening to CBC TWO, I utter a dejected "Shit" out loud.  Goodwill has my lunchbox.  My beautiful, boxy, insulated pink lunchbox.  Now I will have to go to all the Goodwill stores in London to find it.  Or just replace it.  Or not replace it at all.  We do have fridges at school.

Why am I always losing things?  Like my lunchbox, and whatever dirty tupperware had been left inside.  Oh no!  My ice pack too!

Tragedies of a student's life.