On Making.

Hello, you absolute marvel. I have a few things on my mind.

I don’t really believe in New Year’s Resolutions. Maybe it’s because I have a bad memory. I’m not even 30, and I already don’t seem to remember things the way a lot of people do. If you mention a city I’ve been to a few times, I’ll probably remember something that happened there once, but not the most recent time I went there.

I’ve been working at my job for the past 3 and a half years, but I haven’t memorized my own work phone number. Or my extension. Anyway, I can’t remember if 2019 started at a bar in Portland, or if I was somewhere else. I mix up the years family members died, friends got married, and any other catastrophe or celebration occurred. My precious baby brother’s birthday was last week - I cannot tell you how old he turned. Seriously, I have tried to figure it out and am too embarrassed to ask. (24? Maybe?) Apparently, this is something I have in common with Montaigne. So guess it’s okay.

Anyway, my point is, if I tried to make sense of where I was at the beginning of 2019 and where I am now, I would go crazy. I might as well try to solve a Rubik’s cube. Lucky for me, I am almost constantly “working on” things with myself (and I’m working on that itself, with the help of a therapist), and already had a couple of projects in progress, just in time for the new year.

One was what seemed to me at the time a lofty aspiration - I wanted to cook all my own meals for 30 days. I had heard an interview with food writer and recipe developer David Tamarkin about his book/program, Cook 90. I bought a digital copy of the book (thrifty!) for the new e-reader I decided I needed (not thrifty!) and read it cover to cover a few times. I’ll admit, I got kind of obsessed. I’ve always been Really Into the idea of hard work, of kneading bread and making your own kombucha and pickling your own vegetables, of standing in the kitchen late into the night, when the house is quiet, body aching a little, watching a bubbling pot closely. It always seems so virtuous to have energy and apply it to simple, everyday needs. To be an intellectual who tends bar instead of grading papers. To be some sort of homesteading crone, wise and efficient from years of feeding herself and others. To me, cooking seems powerful, almost like magic.

I’ve been situated right in the middle of a Long Dark Night of the Soul (is that a reference to something? or just something people say? I should google that), and have been dumping the contents of my bank account at the swift feet of Postmates for the past few months. I spent the holidays here in Portland, with friends and on my own, and I found myself with a lot of time at home. It seemed the perfect time to stop thinking about cooking and start actually cooking.

I’ll admit, I had very little faith in my ability to cook my own meals for a week, much less a whole month. I figured on day 3 I’d be eating cheese for dinner and on day 4 I would be eating out of a takeout container. But I surprised myself. I actually followed a plan, for once. It hasn’t been a month yet, and I’ve had a few meals that just didn’t work out - today, for example, I found that I had left my beautifully packed bento in my fridge at home, and would have to make do with something from the food carts - and I felt genuinely dejected. But I’m really, really trying, and I’m giving myself room to try.

Predictably, I’m always trying to “fix” my depression. And I’ve been thinking a lot about the root of it. Like, where do these feelings come from? And while I’ll save the answer to that question for my therapist, a big part of it is that I don’t have a very high opinion of myself. I don’t really believe that I can do the things that I want to do, that I deserve the things that I hope for. But this month, cooking for myself, pickling vegetables, making a little extra pasta on Friday night so I can make that pasta frittata I’ve been eyeing on Saturday morning, thinking about what might be an easy lunch for me on Wednesdays when I Don’t Wanna, has taught me to take care of myself, to consider my body and my emotions, to think about my health and my joy, more than anything else I’ve tried. Finding ingredients in the fridge and combining them creatively when I am too tired to make the recipe I was planning, or when I decide to feed a friend, too, instead of just me, reminds me that I am creative and clever, that my instincts are good. That I know what I’m doing. It’s an amazing feeling, and I am getting addicted. I don’t think I’ll ever be a make-your-own kombucha, 40-year-old-sourdough-starter-in-the-pantry kinda person, but I’ll be someone who relies on herself for her own nourishment, who sees a picked-over pantry as a challenge, not a discouragement. Already, I respect myself more, and I see that I shouldn’t have had to work so hard to earn that respect.

The other thing I am “working on” is something I feel is a bit more whimsical, and a lot harder for me. I’ve started to learn to sew. I am a woman with large hands, rickety joints, very little in the way of dexterity, and even less in the way of patience with myself. Handicrafts of every description have always frustrated me. This year on Halloween, my costume was made up of several fairly simple parts that I had to buy on Amazon. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I knew the basics of sewing, I could complete it in a weekend for a lot less money. My mom used to sew when I was a kid, making any costume I could think of (Cleopatra, Xena, Uma Thurman as Poison Ivy, an Elephant - you know, the classics) with seeming ease. One of my college roommates, who would sew in our room and took several costume construction classes, sews professionally now. It has always struck me as challenging, and impressive.

In November, I took my first sewing class. I was dazzled by the instructor, Mimi, a small woman with a cool haircut that was going grey. She had floral tattoos and knew, it seemed, everything there was to know about sewing. If you can’t tell by now, I love competence, and Mimi had it in spades. She taught us how to wind a bobbin, thread the very fancy Bernina machine in the classroom, and sew a drawstring bag. I left wide-eyed and excited. My second class, in which another super competent, super cool wonder woman named Erica taught me how to make a make-up bag, was a roller coaster of emotions. Over the course of three hours and a lot of goofing off with Ann, the energetic woman who sat beside me, I felt excited, overwhelmed, ashamed at how long it takes me to measure and how janky my cutting can be, scared of breaking the fancy Bernina, scared of the very business-like serger (which just, like, has a knife in it! Metal as fuck!) breaking me, embarrassed at how much I needed to ask for help and how slow I was going, and finally, confident enough to fix a seam in my zipper that I had accidentally cut with very little premeditation and a non-zipper specific presser foot (this scared the shit out of Ann, for the record). By the end of the class, I was a little sweaty, and upon looking at myself in the mirror, I found that I had pressed my lips together a bunch while wearing red lipstick, leaving me with a weird clown-y smudged smile on my face (Thanks for the heads up, 9 other people in class!), and I had made a cute lil bag.

During my sewing class, I made a million little tiny mistakes, which, for the record, I fucking hate. But instead of beating myself up and feeling like shit, I just kept reminding myself that I was new. That the final product would probably be fine. That there will be more classes, more fabric, more bags, and I just kept pressing. I was so proud of the little bag I made, I brought it with me to work the next day, and showed any coworker who stopped to talk to me for more than a few seconds. With sewing, I’m learning to trust the process. To believe that there are skills I can gain, even if there isn’t latent talent. To find joy in the fuck ups, the fear, and the weirdness. To give myself a break - and maybe, just maybe, have faith in my future self.

I’ve been quite self-indulgent, here, my love. And perhaps a bit saccharine. But my point is, there are so many things out in the universe that you haven’t made yet. So many skills and lessons and fears and joys to learn. My hope for you, in this new year, is that you are awake to them. That you pay attention. That you surprise yourself. Even if you don’t, I love you all the same.