Milk and Cookies

When I was pregnant with my little ones, and for quite a while after they were born, I would bake myself a couple of fresh chocolate chip cookies every single night and eat them along with a cold glass of milk. *sigh*  Few things in life are as delicious or as comforting.

Thank you, Nestle Toll House.

It’s been a rough week, what with our ongoing battle against lice, so this evening, I indulged.  And it was good. So good.

As you can see, tonight’s cookies were served on fine Wall-E ware. Yes, we are bastions of high style here. (Ooh! Ooh! Name the movie: “Why don’t you do what you dream, Bastian?”)

Moving on…

So while I enjoyed tonight’s chocolate-y deliciousness, I found myself thinking about the symbolism of the cookies and milk and Wall-E.  I’m an English major.  It’s what we do.

Depending on whether we’re talking about the cookies or the movie, there’s a little bit of metaphor, a little bit of allegory, but it boils down to nostalgia – there’s that old nostalgia thing again – though this time with the added twinge of fallacy.

I’m not going to go too in-depth, don’t worry, but let’s think about this. Cookies and milk are yummy and fabulous on their own, sure, but there is also a bit of harkening back to childhood and comfort and calm.  Even so, cookies may be scrumptious, but they also are not healthy.  Their sugary, buttery, chocolate-y goodness can negatively impact your health if you indulge in too many.  It’s something we don’t think about as kids, but something that sneaks in as we’re older.  We ignore the bad of cookies at times like tonight, when I choose to think about yumminess (and not about lice)… but the knowledge lurks and lingers.

Same with nostalgia. The phrase “you can never go home again” doesn’t mean you physically can’t go home, obviously, or that you can’t move back to the place where you grew up and be happy.  It means that when you return, you’ll see things through new eyes, and sometimes what you’ll find is that things are different than you remember from childhood. Places. People, too. And while the rosey, heart-leaping blush of returning – for a visit, for a reunion, for a reconnection – can highlight the good and the joy in ways you never imagined, extended exposure can bring to light some less appealing attributes that youth and inexperience held at bay.

It’s like how in Wall-E, people were encouraged to “remember” Earth in a way that didn’t really exist anymore. When they returned to Earth, they had to come face to face with the reality. Similarly, sometimes what you envision in your memory, what you try to make real in the face of the fallacy of your self-designed illusion of how things once were, butts up against reality. Hard. And that can be disconcerting. Even a little heartbreaking. 

The reality also can be simply lovely, as I found when I went home this past summer. But that’s for another post at another time.

So anyway, tonight, I baked a couple of fresh chocolate chip cookies for myself. And I ate them along with a glass of cold mik. Tonight, they were simply… cookies. And they were delicious.

Cheers.

Flying with a Sucker

People who have known me for a long time will tell you, sometimes with evil glee, that I have eating issues. No, I don’t have an eating disorder, unless you consider mild addiction to pizza and Nestle Tollhouse Cookies an eating disorder (she says as she single-handedly finishes off a small pizza). Speaking of which, have you seen this DiGiorno and Toll House Cookie combo frozen dinner?? My friends brought it to my attention, and they are now only to be referred to as “The Enablers.”

Anyway, I have an unhealthy sensitivity to others’ eating behaviors. Open mouth chewing makes me uncomfortable. I flinch at gum popping or snicking. Noisy eating – loud smacking, chomping, talking with mouths full – make me feel outright nauseous.

No, this post is not about my issues with food. It’s simply the back story you need to know to appreciate fully the experience I will share with you now.

Yesterday, I flew from Atlanta to Phoenix. Those of you who have flown in the last few years know that the airlines perform an exercise at least once a year during which they sort out how to squeeze just a few more seats into the limited cabin space available. I’m convinced that soon they will require us to share seat room – literally – with our rowmates by crossing each other’s legs in a complex fashion, or maybe just by snuggling.

On my cross-country flight, I was squeezed into the middle seat between two very nice people who struck that lovely balance between friendly and non-invasive. Until just before take-off, it seemed as if this would be a snug but pleasant flight. I even found myself slightly taken with aisle-seat neighbor’s very fancy painted fingernails with their hot pink background bedazzled with silver and gray starburst patterns.

Then… the sandwich came out. Actually, I’m not sure that the term “sandwich” does justice to the odoriferous, insanely greasy meal-in-bread-in-a-long-paper-pocket-thing that aisle-seat neighbor extracted. We hadn’t even left the ground yet, and the entire cheap-seats cabin was imbued with a scent that can only be described as bordering on nostril-cauterizing. Several rows away, heads turned with noses squinched up, faces bearing confused expressions that clearly communicated, “What IS that? Is something decomposing in the air conditioning system?”

Just after aisle-seat neighbor extracted this loveliness, the plane started to taxi toward take-off. Aisle-seat neighbor reached across me and window-seat neighbor to open both window blinds, declaring, “Sorry, but I need to be able to look out during take-off. Otherwise, I get motion sick.” Good. She-who-must-eat-pungent-food-this-moment had just revealed to me her alternate identity: she-who-may-regurgitate-pungent-food-onto-my-lap. Super.

Once we were airborne, aisle-seat neighbor obliviously proceeded to slowly, very slowly, ingest her sandwich imposter thing, reaching her bedazzled, beclawed fingers into the long paper pocket to pinch off lump after squishy lump of swamp sludge to ingest. When she was mostly finished, she turned to her friend across the aisle and asked, “Do you have the napkins? I could swear I brought napkins. Didn’t I bring napkins? I know I had napkins.” Etc etc etc. She said the word “napkins” at least 35 times, then proceeded to clean her fingers by sucking on them.

Lest you think at this point that I’m exaggerating the ickiness and greasiness of this sandwich, I will share with you now that aisle-seat neighbor’s next move was to locate a stain stick in her purse. She proceeded to stain stick several spots on her clothing (including one on her ankle??).

THEN (yes, there’s a “then”), aisle-seat neighbor extracted one of those single-use tooth floss things and proceeded to start loudly, rapidly flossing her teeth. *snick* *snick* *snick* *snick*  

Aim Single-Use Floss Pick

I don’t want to know where food particles lodged in her teeth ended up. What I do know is that her flossing didn’t entirely satisfy her, as she spent the remainder of the flight loudly sucking her teeth about once every minute. And picking her teeth with her fancy fingernails. Oh, and she flossed again at some point during the flight. *snick* *snick* *snick*  Then she went right back to sucking and picking.

About midway between Atlanta and Phoenix, however, window-seat neighbor revealed himself to be either my Guardian Angel or perhaps my Fairy Godneighbor. Without a word spoken between us, he put one hand on my shoulder and with the other knowingly handed me his brand new, subscription copy of Cooking Light Magazine. I love Cooking Light Magazine, and my own July issue had not arrived before I left for this trip. It was new to me, and oh so appreciated. Reading it cover-to-cover kept my mind mostly occupied for about 45 minutes, leaving me defenseless against the sucking and the picking only for the time it took us to descend into Phoenix. Long enough, my friends. Long enough.

Do you have any food issues or horror stories you'd like to share?

*By the way, I recommend Googling the phrase “single floss” if you have a moment. Odd results.

Hope and Awe

This past week, I had the great honor of being able to participate in helping a family in need. There was a fire near our house where the hydrants failed, and the families and firemen had to watch helplessly as the homes burned to the ground. What a tragedy, and what a travesty. And yet…

What I’ve been privileged to witness in the few days since has been nothing short of inspirational. In this day and age of greed and depressing news and Charlie Sheen and economic woes, a bunch of people – some I know, most I don’t – reached into their hearts, their homes and their wallets to give something to one of the families whose home was destroyed in the fire. This family was left with no residence, no clothes, no belongings, nothing. And today, thanks to the kindness of friends and strangers, they have a few precious items to help them feel a little less lost and a little more hopeful.

Now, I take zero credit for any of this, of course.  These folks are friends of a friend of a friend – I guess they’re friends thrice removed? But when I say I’m honored to have been allowed to help out, that’s no exaggeration. There is nothing as fulfilling to the heart and soul than knowing you have helped someone else, nothing better than knowing that you have contributed to someone’s security or happiness: no bonus, no country club membership, no flat-screen TV or Super Bowl win. Not even MARTA parking lot cookies. Nothing.

What’s even more amazing and heartening, to me, is the response of my neighbors. Two people I’ve never met before came to my door to donate whatever they could. Even more amazing (just how amazing could this get, you ask???), these individuals thanked me for giving them the opportunity to help someone in need. Let me state that again… these individuals didn’t know me prior to two days ago, and they definitely didn’t know this family, and yet they were grateful for the chance to give whatever they could to these people who find themselves in such a desperate situation.

If you haven’t done something meaningful for someone else recently, give it a try. I guarantee you’ll get back more in inner peace – many times over more – than what you gave.

MARTA & A Thousand Rose Petals

Earlier this week, when I got to my MARTA station to make my way to school, I noticed that someone – a MARTA attendant? a helpful blog reader with a cleaning obsession? – removed the broken cookies from the MARTA platform. Hurray for progress and cleanliness!

It’s kind of comforting, in a dull, yawny way, when my MARTA station returns to its typical state of boring boringness. Therefore, imagine my shock and… and… dismay? rapture? shock again?... when Thursday brought a new surprise at my MARTAstation! There I was, trudging down the stairs from the parking deck toward the entry platform, when I saw this:

What is that, you may ask? Snow in Atlanta in Springtime? No! In fact, this photo shows a pile of white rose petals. The photo does not do justice the rosey petaly vision that was the MARTA station. There were thousands – literally thousands! – of white rose petals strewn about the floor. Petals in singles and pairs around the main area. Petals in tiny piles around the MARTA pass machines and in larger piles (like the one in the photo) around the various stairwells and columns. White rose petals swirling around commuting feet and skittering across the pavement on small puffs of breeze.

What happened to create such a scene? Well, I have a few ideas:

• Some lovely young man, holding tight to a large bouquet of white roses, proposed to his beloved as she disembarked from her MARTA train. In a fit of rapturous joy upon her acceptance of his proposal, this young man threw the roses down on the paved MARTA floor and carried his intended off to his only slightly rusted, off-tan, 1994 Mazda 626, awaiting him on floor 4 of the parking deck.

• The night before my arrival at the MARTA station was the first, and ultimately the last, night of a new business idea.  You know how you can be at a restaurant or a romantic locale and there are nice men and women wandering around selling roses to add to the ambience (and profit) of the place? Well, perhaps someone got the idea that this would succeed during evening rush hour and would bring joy to the masses heading home from a long day at work.  And perhaps one of the rush hour commuters, after a particularly bad day, disagreed… hence, white rose petals scattered everywhere and a new business idea ended in its infancy.

• A traveling magician arrived at the MARTA station after a long flight and a seemingly equally long ride up the north-south line. As he exited through the turnstiles, he noticed an odd agitation coming from the covered birdcage he held. Whipping off the blanket covering the cage, he realized that he’d accidentally fed his magic doves a volatile concoction of beans, hot sauce and strong coffee (an easy error to make, of course). Realizing what was about to happen, this magic man grabbed his wand and yelled, “Abracadabra!” at the exact moment that the edible explosives took their deadly toll. Fortunately for all around – except the doves, of course – the magic trick worked, and rather than the mess that could have ensued, the MARTA station denizens found themselves in the midst of an explosion of thousands of white rose petals.

Those are my ideas. What do you think happened? Please share!

Thank You, MARTA!

I’ve been at a bit of a loss the last few days for blog material, between abject exhaustion and relatively continuous immersion in schoolwork. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s been an overabundance of horrible, tragic, overwhelming, devastating [insert other expressions of distress here] news coming in from around the world, and I just don’t feel like commenting about that here. Here is for fun (generally).

So there I was this morning, beginning my long slog to school and feeling glum about having nothing to ramble about to ya’ll, when MARTA came through for me. Twice, even!

After shuffling along the platform, I chose a sparsely populated MARTA car and sat down. After getting settled, I looked up and saw this:

MARTA passenger.

In my exhausted state, it took me a few minutes to realize that this MARTA denizen was no longer - shall we say - animated. Somehow, this lovely specimen had gotten its little footsie (scientific term) stuck, so there it remained even after its untimely demise, adding ornamental flair to the otherwise bland décor. Not only had no one knocked this thing off the wall between when it initially became entrapped and when I sat down, but no one removed it or even paid it much mind during the entire half hour I was on the train… AND no one seemed to bat an eye that I was taking its close-up.

After my class, I took the train home and started up the parking garage stairs. When I hit the third landing, I encountered this (minus the key chain):

Frankencookies, with keychain next to them for perspective.

Megan, you may say, what is so profound and fascinating about a few broken cookies?  Try this on for size: That broken cookie has been on this landing in this stairwell at least since I started school. At the beginning of January. Today is April 7. If you’re math-challenged, that’s three months (and counting). And I don’t think the pieces have budged from their original resting places. Even better, I’m not sure if you can tell from the picture – I have an old-school phone, not a fancy new smartphone that takes National Geographic quality photos – but the cookies are not noticeably decomposing. At. All. Is there such a thing as a Twinkie cookie?

Anyone want to come with me to the MARTA station to try a nibble of those cookie pieces to see if they’re truly in edible condition?  I’ll bring my good camera for that.

When I Grow Up…

When I grow up, I promise to:

• Stop kvetching about my group project teammates (aside from Project Coach) who can’t seem to get their heads out of their arses to contribute something to our project that is due in 2 weeks. Something. Anything. Please.
• Be able to hear the word “moist” without feeling required to text it or email it immediately to my sister, who finds the word revolting. Moist.
• Quit wearing pigtails. Except when I run. Or when it’s summer. Or when my hair is long.
• Try to grasp the importance of mani-pedis.
• Reconsider my sheer adoration of my white hairs. (They are not gray. They are bright white and make my hair look sparkly.)
• Admit that I want the red wine, I don’t need the red wine.
• Stop eating cookies for dinner. At least as far as you know.
• Stop laughing when my 3-year-old says, in frustration, “Fucking ridiculous!”
• Finally break down and watch Rocky. (Don’t judge me.)
• Finally break down and have my Grease, Hair & Hairspray festival (you know what I’m talking about, M.E.).
• Quit procrastinating doing my schoolwork by writing blog posts.

Okay, so maybe I won’t really do that last one.  What do you promise to do when you grow up?