Today I am. . .

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a cat. I slept all day in the sunshine on my bed with no pants on, I have hairy legs, I like to balance on walls when out for a walk, I dislike being contained on a leash, and I often knock over glasses of liquid. 

a statistic.  I am one of those quintessential English majors people murmer about when they pass on the street who leapt out of college ready to change the world with my words and make a living doing it. Over 30 job applications later, and a paper trail of submitted articles and stories that stretches from here to Chicago, I have made exactly $750.00 with my trusty pen and ink, and am now waiting tables and going to grad school.  And, in a seemingly unrelated event, I just got a pair of birkenstocks and have lost most interest in brushing my hair, both very English-grad-student things to do.  Bring on the wrap skirts and cropped hair, I’m not showering till I graduate in 2015!

An educator (and I haven’t even gotten my teachering creds yet).  At the trusty Broken Dreams Café (names changed to protect the innocent), I asked an omelette-craving woman if she wanted swiss or cheddar cheese in that traditional French breakfast  item.  The following happened:
Me: glistening in the dew of the invasion of the Labor Day tourists:  Swiss or Cheddar?
Egg Maven – hmmm..whats the difference?
Me: puzzled pause shrouded in politeness: One is yellow, one is white.
Biscuits and Gravy Husband: I’ve told you before, sweetie, you like cheddar.

Sidenote: This family had 5 children, whom, while being well acquainted with syrup and it’s many applications, ordered scrambled eggs as “the yellow parts of eggs with no hard white part” (hence my fallback on color schemas when explaining the various kinds of dairy to their doting mother), and managed to kill the bamboo garden that is a talking point of the Broken Dreams Café.  Two thoughts: I thought it was impossible to kill bamboo, and I bet that those kids knew what Velveeta was.  

A writer.  Besides the obvious fact that I am penning this blog, I have two articles coming out in local magazines this month! Check out Distinctly Montana and Outside Bozeman for the newest words from yours truly.   Outside Bozeman sent me an ominous email yesterday telling me to expect a “very small check” at the end of the month.  Nothing like keeping a girls dreams reigned in, eh?

A baker:
Recipe for Food Bank Cake When Your Kitchen Isn’t Actually Unpacked Yet
1 white cake mix from local food bank (thanks for the donation, neighbors!)
2 whole lemons, zested and juiced
1 more egg than the box recipe calls for denser, poundier, cake.
Add all ingredients to large mixing bowl, or small pot if you can’t find mixing bowls, and mix well. Use tiny, tiny, fork if you can’t find whisks.  Add zest and lemon juice.  Bake until done at 350, or bake at close to 350 if you can’t read the chipped off stickers on circa 1980 mini easy bake oven. 
Glaze:
Healthy portion of powered sugar
1/2 cup of milk
More lemon juice
Mix together in small bowl, or coffee cup if that’s what closer.  Glaze should be the consistency of the milk that was left in the refrigerator from the last tenants, a little thick, but surprisingly smooth.  When cake is done, immediately turn out onto plate, or cutting board, or anything flat that is unpacked.  Poke holes all over cake with anything long and pointy since if you couldn’t find your mixing bowls there’s no way you’re going to be able to find the toothpicks; screwdriver, bits of the bamboo garden you rescued earlier,or in my case, kabob skewers, and pour glaze over cake.  Decorate with fresh flowers picked on the way to the barbeque.  Enjoy.  

A piece of canvas
Almost 3 years ago, the seeds of an idea to have Indian Paintbrush, the o most holy of flowers, tattooed on my person took root in my mind.  Now, Its been two days since Sara Martin of Sara Martin Tattoos caused this idea to blossom.  The experience was surreal, beautiful, painful, and perfect. As I lay sweating (I seem to be sweaty in all my posts lately, sorry about that) on Sara’s table eating sage flowers, she turned the ridges of my ribs into rows and furrows of a skin garden. So stoked, so proud! Picturas to come soon.

And so, since I dream of the sweet potatoes with fresh thyme, pork fat, and garden onions that are roasting in the oven as I wrap this up, I can only say that I yam what I yam.

p.s. I am aware I used the word “teachering”. I’m trying to get it to catch on before I actually become one of those and do that.

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