The Recipe

So I have been taking advantage of food these days. Using it to keep my spirits up and high. Which it never, ever fails to do. Even in the sad little closet I refer to as my kitchen.

Food has always played a huge role in my life. Sometimes negative. Sometimes positive. Right now it is a positive. Like, kittens playing, positive.

I go out of my way to create reasons to cook. Football game? What to make for dinner? Movie Night? What delicious snacks can I serve? Girlfriends coming over? What sort of cheese should we have?  Sunday? What shall I bake? Cold winter night? Which new soup recipe should I try?

There is something that happens to me when I set foot in a kitchen. When I take a handful of freshly chopped onions and toss them in a heated pan. The sound it makes. The sizzling. There is no other feeling like it.

I get lost in the mixing, chopping, stirring, and tasting. The rest of the world seems to get blurry. All I can see and all I can smell is the food in the pot, on the cutting board, or roasting in the oven. Just typing about it gives me peace.

To walk through the door, put my purse down, unload the groceries, put music on, and cook. Its the greatest gift I can give to myself.

This has been a successful little project. Although not a cheap one, however, it seems to be preventing me from drowning my money and sorrows in wine. Instead putting my time toward something that feeds me, both figuratively and literally. So I spend the money. And so begins a night of bliss. And a nice home cooked meal.

Phil seems to be benefiting from this new found hobby. He enjoys taste testing my little experiments, all of which are delicious. Or so he says. I can see his face light up when he sees me busy in the kitchen. It makes me happy to be the source of that smile.

It is funny how the smell of anything in the oven when you walk through the door can make any home feel like a home. Even mine.

So this is it.

This is how I will get through.

This is my recipe.

And I have all the right ingredients.

Message In A Bottle

I have not told a soul about this blog. Not a family member, not a friend. No one has seen it or read it. (exept maybe a drunkin evening with friends that neither myself, nor my reader probably remember)

This is comforting in the sense that I can write freely and I do not have to censor myself in any way. But at the same time it would be nice to just send a mass email to everyone, or post the link on facebook. This way I will forever be able to avoid the dreaded question.

"So how have you been?"

When this question is uttered my whole body tenses up. I start to feel dizzy. And all I can do is smile and respond "great!" If anyone knew how much more I had to say, they wouldn’t have asked in the first place. I have so many answers to that question. It just depends on what day you ask me. But to keep it simple, I just respond "great!". I prefer it on this ledge alone.

It makes the lives of both me and the listener much easier.

But in this chest of answers never spoken, a world of mystery exists.

Megan found Chad's journals. Journals beginning with his first transplant and continuing on, in one form or another, until the end. I remember him starting the first journal. Chad was not one to indulge in writing as a form therapy. He was more the "sweat it out" type. But after his first transplant he had to figure out new ways to handle the roller coaster he unwillingly boarded six months earlier. He wasn't ready to write directly after his diagnoses or even directly after his first transplant. It took four months for him to get his thoughts down on paper.

It was a black book and he had pasted a picture of himself post transplant in it. In the picture he looked like a transformed human being. He was thin, the hair all over his body was black, and to some he was unrecognizable. I have yet to see the journal but Megan has confirmed that the picture is still there. The one I took, so that he wouldn’t forget.

Chad never offered to let me read his journal, and I simply never asked.

My curiosity got the better of me, and when I was out to dinner with Megan, (who has been tirelessly typing up every word of these journals) I asked if she could send me a few entries. She promptly sent them. Two of them. The first two.

Starting December of 2001.

I thought when I received them I would get comfy on my couch and dive in immediately. This was not the case. My head is sometimes smarter than my heart. Sometimes.

These journals symbolize so much. I was afraid to read them for so many reasons.


• I would learn new things about a person I thought I knew everything about.


• I would learn new things about a relationship I had with someone who is no longer here.


• When I am done learning these things that will be it. There will be nothing left to learn.


After a week or so, I read one entry and it broke me down so far I could almost taste the bathroom floor. To hear him speak of me the way he did, to hear him describe the love he felt for me made me ache.

It was too much.

The second entry has been tucked away in an orange envelope on my shelving unit. Tucked away until I am in the right place. When I can read it and feel proud. When I can read it and feel warmth.

This day may never come but at least I know that there is still a small piece of paper living in my house that contains information about him that I have yet to learn.

I can visit him whenever I want, and this keeps him alive.

There's No Place Like Home

I can breathe again.

The last few months have been trying.

Trying to find hope. Happiness. Satisfaction. Comfort. Shutting out friends and family. Lonely.

Happiness was a chore. Smiling? Impossible.

Sad. Mad. Weak. Dark. Bored. Uninspired.

I got so caught up in the big bad stuff, that I forgot about the small great stuff.

The smell of Banana Bread baking. A crisp fall day, where you need a sweater but you can still feel the heat of the sun on your face. The feel of a clean apartment. A good laugh with my girlfriends. Great sex with my boyfriend. Folding laundry. Curling up with a great book. A beautiful sunset.

All things I need and can not live without.

The only option left was to run away. Plane ticket. Take off. Landing. Freedom. I could start over, where no one knows me. I could be whoever I want.

I wish I could say this thought doesn't still cross my mind, but that would be a lie.

However, I don't feel like it is my only choice anymore. I feel like a can handle the life that I have been given. I feel like I can close my eyes, adjust, and figure it out. Whatever IT may be.

Somehow, through the fog and blurred edges I made myself sit still instead of running away, and in doing this, I found my way home. A place that houses my security, my confidence, my strength. A place I have been running from for a year.

As I wipe my feet on the welcome mat, I exhale.