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Still summer, but it's been cool enough—and we still have the A/C on—and I've been sufficiently unwell (depression/anxiety/undersleeping lowers my body temperate & make me sensitive to cold; a silver lining) that I can wear my hoodie come evenings. My shameful, half-destroyed hoodie, with holes chewed in it by the guinea pigs these years ago, with the wrist cuffs cut off, at least three sizes too large; and I love it. It's a comfort object and I need me some comfort objects rn.
Still summer, and wildfires today caused an air advisory; the sky is a dim orange, thick and heavy. I've been wondering how to anticipate the approach of autumn when global warming is simultaneously Objectively One of the Biggest Problems, Perhaps the Largest Problem, the problem to make my family's woes look small—except that I am too deep in my family's woes to even contemplate a global crisis.
Went to the bank with my mum to sort away unused college finances. I was simultaneously grateful that she was willing to help (because, as I told her, and she acknowledged, this is not something I could right now handle alone) and perpetually ashamed to be the 30-year-old co-banking with a parent. It was one hell of a trip for the poor teller, though: obliquely explaining why I couldn't handle it myself; explaining my dad's cancer during the minor rigmarole of figuring out which accounts to use; explaining my grandmother's death when my mother mentioned putting more money into another account. She—my mother—is aiming to have easily accessible monies in a number of accounts, so that the events immediately after his death are easier to manage. "We're not a really happy family right now!" I explained to the teller with that sort of panicked laughter that comes with exposing an emotion to a stranger. Bank employees are a strange bunch—almost all the ones I've worked with have been kind and patient; there must be something about volunteering to do dry fiscal paperwork that demands it. But it's like a switch flips when they start to shill a bank deal: "deposit this much of your dead mother's inheritance in order to earn $100-500 cash-back to spend on your husband's funeral!" and it just ... beggars belief. I could have sworn that we were all, three minutes ago, emotionally vulnerable and conscientious human beings.
My birthday was on the 18th (two days ago). Devon baked me a flourless chocolate torte—above and beyond my favorite desert except, perhaps, straight-up chocolate; it was quite a project (or, at least, a learning process), but also a labor of love, and if anything it came out not sweet enough, which is a nice problem to have if you have my taste buds. He gave me Kingdom Hearts Dream Drop Distance, to complete my project to actually play the side-games before KHIII comes out. His parents gave me a Gund Chub Bear, who arrived today (almost a week ahead of schedule) and, y'all, he is floppy and wider than tall and just ridiculous; I love him. I went to see my family on Sunday the 19th, while my sister was in town. We had pancakes.
Sunday breakfast was my family's tradition throughout my childhood, and it's still a big part of how we come together. My dad makes french toast (with challah bread) and added waffles when we were older—and when I was much younger we used to make ebelskivers. But pancakes are the most traditional. His recipe comes (I believe) from the New York Times Cookbook—they're different than most pancakes, not thin, but not fluffy/cakey. They're particular. My sister and I can't eat anything else. Once, when he was traveling for work, my mum tried to make them on a Sunday—we couldn't get them to flip properly, it was a disaster. They became the pancakes only my dad could make.
My sister is learning to make them, or at least did most of the cooking this time. Learning to make because neither of us live at home now but we still sometimes want to eat pancakes; doing most of the cooking because my dad was recovering from a recent celiac plexus block and was too dizzy to stand through the whole thing. But it still felt like something happening because my dad will die—a skill to inherit before it's too late. It's so difficult to be there—every interaction is laden with a thousand thousand meanings. But avoiding visits is profoundly counterproductive. They were good pancakes.
Still summer, and wildfires today caused an air advisory; the sky is a dim orange, thick and heavy. I've been wondering how to anticipate the approach of autumn when global warming is simultaneously Objectively One of the Biggest Problems, Perhaps the Largest Problem, the problem to make my family's woes look small—except that I am too deep in my family's woes to even contemplate a global crisis.
Went to the bank with my mum to sort away unused college finances. I was simultaneously grateful that she was willing to help (because, as I told her, and she acknowledged, this is not something I could right now handle alone) and perpetually ashamed to be the 30-year-old co-banking with a parent. It was one hell of a trip for the poor teller, though: obliquely explaining why I couldn't handle it myself; explaining my dad's cancer during the minor rigmarole of figuring out which accounts to use; explaining my grandmother's death when my mother mentioned putting more money into another account. She—my mother—is aiming to have easily accessible monies in a number of accounts, so that the events immediately after his death are easier to manage. "We're not a really happy family right now!" I explained to the teller with that sort of panicked laughter that comes with exposing an emotion to a stranger. Bank employees are a strange bunch—almost all the ones I've worked with have been kind and patient; there must be something about volunteering to do dry fiscal paperwork that demands it. But it's like a switch flips when they start to shill a bank deal: "deposit this much of your dead mother's inheritance in order to earn $100-500 cash-back to spend on your husband's funeral!" and it just ... beggars belief. I could have sworn that we were all, three minutes ago, emotionally vulnerable and conscientious human beings.
My birthday was on the 18th (two days ago). Devon baked me a flourless chocolate torte—above and beyond my favorite desert except, perhaps, straight-up chocolate; it was quite a project (or, at least, a learning process), but also a labor of love, and if anything it came out not sweet enough, which is a nice problem to have if you have my taste buds. He gave me Kingdom Hearts Dream Drop Distance, to complete my project to actually play the side-games before KHIII comes out. His parents gave me a Gund Chub Bear, who arrived today (almost a week ahead of schedule) and, y'all, he is floppy and wider than tall and just ridiculous; I love him. I went to see my family on Sunday the 19th, while my sister was in town. We had pancakes.
Sunday breakfast was my family's tradition throughout my childhood, and it's still a big part of how we come together. My dad makes french toast (with challah bread) and added waffles when we were older—and when I was much younger we used to make ebelskivers. But pancakes are the most traditional. His recipe comes (I believe) from the New York Times Cookbook—they're different than most pancakes, not thin, but not fluffy/cakey. They're particular. My sister and I can't eat anything else. Once, when he was traveling for work, my mum tried to make them on a Sunday—we couldn't get them to flip properly, it was a disaster. They became the pancakes only my dad could make.
My sister is learning to make them, or at least did most of the cooking this time. Learning to make because neither of us live at home now but we still sometimes want to eat pancakes; doing most of the cooking because my dad was recovering from a recent celiac plexus block and was too dizzy to stand through the whole thing. But it still felt like something happening because my dad will die—a skill to inherit before it's too late. It's so difficult to be there—every interaction is laden with a thousand thousand meanings. But avoiding visits is profoundly counterproductive. They were good pancakes.
