Ginger tea is good for what ails you. I mean it--whatever is wrong, be it nausea, cold, sore throat, malaise, ennui, terminal misanthropy, my ginger tea will cure it. (Okay, I'm still a misanthrope, but at least I am a happy misanthrope with tasty tea.)
Have a non-recipe: Cut a few slices of fresh ginger root (no, powdered ginger is not okay). I have discovered by experimentation that you can leave the skin on with no ill consequences, which is good, because I am lazy. Boil them in some water for however long it takes (usually: too long) for the tea to smell delicious and gingery. And look a little yellow. Pour the tea into mugs (you can even leave the ginger slices in, depending on how strong you want the tea). Squeeze in a few drops of lemon juice. Add honey to taste (by which I mean, add lots of honey, because it is delicious). Stir. Be healed!
Drink it while it's hot, because it becomes vaguely repulsive (to me) when cold. I read somewhere that you could use rosemary instead of lemon, but why mess with perfection?
I am home (obviously), the only place where I have the luxury of fresh ginger, or a pot to make tea in, or a stove to put the pot on. Bliss.
Earlier, Nancy and I were exercising our creativity by composing an alphabet of despair.
Allow me to demonstrate.
a is for angst b is for beatings c is for cry myself to sleep d is for despair e is for ennui f is for failure g is for h is for i is for j is for k is for kvetching l is for m is for melancholy n is for negativity o is for p is for paralysis q is for r is for s is for shame t is for u is for v is for w is for weeping x is for y is for z is for
We've had some brilliant contributions. How many letters can you think of?
I was having a conversation with a friend today in which we discussed Mercator projections, cartograms, and other cartographic quirks. To this discussion, I contributed my considerable geographic knowledge.
In this, our darkest moment (by which I mean the last day of reading period), we take pleasure in the little things.
Standing over the radiator vent. The smell of steeping raspberry tea. Snow covering the Charles.
This was my view for a while in this latest, interminable paper-writin' marathon:
That is, indeed, the underside of a table in a dark, windowless room. You haven't hit rock bottom until you are actually lying on the floor, too exhausted to stand.
You might think I couldn't possibly produce more self-indulgent whining, but I assure you I can. Just wait until next semester!
My parents and grandfather have a comfortable routine at home where they eat dinner, do dishes, watch one episode of a television show on a rented DVD, and head down to bed. It's very homey and companionable.
The only difficulty is in finding a television show that all three of them can watch. My grandfather is a little more deaf than he likes to admit, so it has to either have English subtitles or be blasted at "oh, the poor neighbors"-level volume (usually, both). It can't have any sex in it or it offends my mother and grandfather's sensibilities. A certain level of violence is acceptable, but anything graphic or upsetting is too much for my mother.
One of the sort-of compromises we occasionally watch is Law and Order, and in a recent episode, I found a surprising cultural reference.
Detective Whatever-His-Name was investigating a neuroscientist who became obsessed with a serial killer she was studying, and he searched her apartment for evidence that she was in a sadomasochistic, submissive relationship with him. The evidence he found?
A Yukio Mishima novel, which he called "domination porno for intellectuals."
I love that not only did mainstream American popular culture make a Japanese literature reference, they got it totally right.
I am sitting in a Starbucks, drinking something extremely warm, sweet, creamy, and minty. It's bustling and warm in here, and their Christmas decorations are still up. The baristas are all cute in girl-next-door ways (the pudgy indie girl, the bespectacled brunette, the delicate-boned middle-aged lady).
This JASCy photo was taken outside the original Starbucks in Seattle! (60th JASC Seattle site wooo.) My dumb grin in this picture is immortalized in JASC publicity materials!
I'm here because I got a Starbucks card as a holiday present (yippee), but I don't think I'll come back. Not because the coffee isn't delicious (it's sooo goood--please see the following YouTube video to experience the full extent of the goodness of this coffee), but because I can't overcome my guilt at knowing that I'm destroying Harvard Square.
This is how good the coffee is. So good.
Harvard Square used to be, and to some extent, still is, a quirky little neighborhood full of weird and stylish stores and cafes. Some of my absolute favorite local fixtures are Little Tibet, which has had a "Going Out of Business" sign up for two years running, Oona's, the trashiest thrift store in the world (I'm going to miss their $2 shirts sooo much), the Garment District (filthy, hideous clothes for $1.50 a pound!), and most of all the Harvard Book Store, with their bargain and remainder basement (this is where at least 50% of my discretionary spending goes).
But there's no question that Harvard Square is changing. Some of the biggest fixtures are now Au Bon Pain, Chipotle, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts... There's something sad about it. A lot of the charm of Cambridge is in the dives, the student hangouts, the more-pretentious-than-thou cafes, the obscure used bookstores. When we patronize the enormous corporations that move in, we help erase that and turn Cambridge into something indistinguishable from the rest of America.
So no more Starbucks for me. My conscience can't take it. The next time I want to study somewhere with caffeine outside my room, I'm going to Cafe Pamplona. It's on my way to class, so I've walked past it almost every day for three years, but I've never been inside. I'm beginning to think about all the things I'm going to regret not seeing or doing in Cambridge. While I know I'll miss all the funny little shops and students hangouts, I'm sure I won't regret not spending more time in Starbucks.
“If you are a dreamer,come in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer. If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire, for we have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!” -- Shel Silverstein
