Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the passage of time.  A not-so-wise person once told me that I am a “future thinker.”  For someone that I esteem to be not-so-wise, this was a rather shrewd observation of my character.  Said person made this observation in contrast to living in the moment, which is never easy to do.

BUT.

But …

The last couple of weeks have felt very present-minded.  Not thinking so much about Monday on Sunday, Tuesday on Monday, lunch at breakfast.  Trying to appreciate each moment for what it is.  Whether it’s a good or a not-so-good moment.  And funnily enough, this new-found kinda sorta nirvana has produced the sanest three weeks of my school year.  And best grades (overall) from my students.  And most calmly composed and well-thought-out lesson plans.

The irony of finding this (maybe temporary) peace during January is not lost on me.  Generally, each year’s kick-off month is marked by bleak skies, fleeting hours of sunshine and long evenings of pining for summer.  Amazingly enough, 3/4 of this usually dreary time has flown past and I am even looking forward to tomorrow morning.  (Maybe it’s because I’m on duty this weekend, so feel like I didn’t have much of one.  A weekend, I mean.  But I’d prefer to spin it and think it’s because I’m looking forward to the week.)

Even more shocking than a quick January is that I am actually looking forward to February. (No weekends on duty and one long weekend of course sweeten the deal more than a typical month #2 of the year, but I’m also looking forward to it in terms of my classes.)  I’m ready to get kids excited about direct objects, reading comprehension tips and si clauses….

Right.  Well.  Let’s not over-stretch it.

Here’s from whence I think my newly acquired peace came:

1. feeling more relaxed in my role, and

2. embracing the idea that I can only do so much. My new year’s resolution this year was …. wait for it ….

To not place expectations on myself.  That might sound odd, but I tend to get crazily intimidated by details and to-do lists and illusory perfection.  When I let that happen, I always feel like I’ve failed, no matter how great things might have turned out.  As 2009 came to a close, a very wise person (yep, my mother) advised me that I could not continue in that same vein.  She helped me remember me I cannot force my students to learn.  I cannot sit with them and force a pencil to their hand.  And gently reminded me that I cannot do everything right, and that I will only become crazy(ier) should I continue with these ridiculous expectations.

Per the (not-so) usual, I played the part of obedient daughter and actually listened to my mother.   I examined her insights, turning them every which way in my head and finally concluded that she was right.  I tend to be disappointed in myself because I spend so much time thinking about what I should do rather than what I could do.  In my life at this exact moment, the should would be 5 in-depth lesson plans plus additional options for outrageously differently paced students.  Possible? Nope.  But the coulds (taking a deep breath when I feel myself teetering on the edge, re-arranging my desk to have my many folders and books more accessible, giving cultural enrichment on Fridays as a reward for a long, hard week of grammar), have become clearer to me in recent weeks. And somehow this mountainous workload seems a teeny bit less like Everest and a teeny bit more, like, say, the Rockies.

Obviously I wanted to share this with my approximately 10 readers because turning shoulds into coulds can apply to anyone’s life, in whatever context speaks to you at the moment.  Career.  School.  Relationship.  Friendship.  Family.  Outfit choosing.  (Sorry I had to put that one in.  Sometimes it’s agonizing.)

The point is, at a certain point, you just have to close your eyes, hope for the best, and trust that, with some hard work and optimism, things will work out.  It’s nice to not think so much about what the next step is or where next month will lead, and just give 100% to the day’s project … whether it’s direct objects, reading comprehension, si clauses … or deciding between Vans, Chucks or Paul Smith tennis shoes.

Have two weeks really passed since the winter holiday?  I must admit to the bit of a pit that was  inhabiting my stomach at the end of vacation.  The excitement and comfort of the holidays with family and friends made C.T. seem somehow bleak and uninviting.  Thinking about mountains of lesson plans, distraught students and non-functioning yearbook software caused a couple of sleepless nights there at the end of break.  But you know what?  It’s actually been two of the best weeks of my school year.  Yes, I still have mountains of lesson plans.  Yes I still have distraught students.  Yes (no?) the yearbook software isn’t really functioning.  But I’m learning more and more how to trouble shoot the multitude of curve balls that get thrown my way as an educator.  And that is a good feeling for a lot of reasons.

But chief among them is of course the fact that it allows me to quietly enjoy my artsdevivre evenings.  As usual, this includes puttering in the kitchen, listening to Carla Bruni and absentmindedly pondering the meaning of it all.  (Oh and Harry Potter.  Right now, my artsdevivre most definitely includes Harry Potter. Which dedicated reading may or may not explain the sparse artsdevivre entries the past week or so.  Prior to that I was just being lazy.)

It’s also oh-so-nice to revel in the Christmas gifts my sweet family so thoughtfully bestowed upon me a few weeks ago.  A bit of identity crisis following my first return home from Paris going on four (ouch!) years ago, convinced me that I was destined to be a chef.  Ha.  You would be laughing too had you ever seen me in the kitchen.  Those of you who have I feel confident are, at the very least, chuckling.  Unnecessary tears over sugar cookies pop right into mind.  A top chef never will I be, but I do thoroughly enjoy the coziness a kitchen provides.  Thanks to said identity crisis, I usually receive some fun and/or cute kitchen gadgets for each holiday.  Tonight I had the pleasure of draining my tofu noodles (as always, don’t knock it till you try it) in my nifty hooks-over-the-sink-edge colander, sauteeing my spinach and marinara sauce with an adorably cheeky light turquoise spatula stamped with an oh-so-useful measurement conversion chart and even of weighing my frozen shrimp on a handy little kitchen scale.  Fun!

It might not be the snazziest or flashiest Thursday night one ever read about, but it’ll do.  Feeling alert enough to compose a little artsdevivre ditty, and gently reminding everyone to appreciate their own is beauty enough for me.

Just like gifts, the holidays come in all shapes, sizes and experiences.  A soundtrack to this year’s would include:

Rain pittering-pattering on my mom’s roof

My oldest brother’s snore

Key board clicks and clacks

The slurp of red wine (courtesy of yours truly)

Yep.  That’s it.  I bet that’s decibel levels quieter than your family’s Christmas.

For many years in my family, it was quite different.  Every year on Christmas morning, my grandmother (who was quite the matriarch) required everyone’s presence at her house bright and early.  Once arrived, dare not leave.  When my parents had my oldest brother, they put their foot down and diplomatically invited my father’s parents over to join the festivities.  Although it took some getting used to, eventually Grandma Rose and Grandpa Welford (aren’t those such classic grandparent names?  I love them …)  realized that being with their children and grandchildren trumped their raucous, gi-normous, all-day throw down.

Now, I gravitate to small, intimate gatherings of several close friends and/or family members (usually it’s a fusion), quiet music (that sometimes gets louder in direct proportion to wine consumed) and one-on-one conversation.  Surely this is a product of the majority of festivities in which I took part growing up.  It’s not that I’m incapable of appreciating big parties, but it’s just not my comfort zone.  The big family gathering will be on Sunday and it’ll be nice to catch up with my multitude of cousins once/twice/three times removed.  But for now, I’m enjoying the peace and quiet that only small and intimate gatherings can afford.   

So no matter where you find yourself today: at home, abroad, alone, with everyone related to you, just immediate family, friends that are like family, or maybe even strangers, take a moment to stop and observe the sensory experiences surrounding you.  Really hear the noises.  Taste the foods.  Feel the warm hug or the cozy blanket.  Smell the food cooking.  No matter what your setting, I think it’ll slow you down and help you appreciate your own life’s artsdevivre.

What is it about the holidays that makes you reminisce?  Every where I look/read/see/hear, I am reminded of a bygone era.

Any Christmas tree inevitably takes me back to arguing with my brothers over who got to put what ornament on the tree.  Board games transport me to uncountable Christmas eves debating who deserved how many points in which round.  And the movie a Christmas Story … well … it just speaks for itself. I hear “You’ll shoot your eye out!”, and am instantly curled up on the couch breathlessly waiting to see whether or not Ralph will get his coveted gun.

In fact, watching a Christmas Story transports me to a time that  I never even knew.  It recalls milk shakes, records and radio programs rather than frappuccinos, ipods and youtube.  The retro home decor I search for in vain at the antique mall were commonplace during a Christmas Story.

I haven’t quite put my finger on why just yet, but there’s something comforting about witnessing that every day slice of classic Americana.

Although we can never have mid-20th century America back, it’s nice to think about and/or watch from time to time.  Try it out for yourself.  If you need any help, rent a Christmas Story. Or just flip through the channels like I did … i think you’ll find it!

Brrr!  I am happy to report that temps here in C.T. have taken quite the nose dive in recent days.  Although many lament the cold temperatures of winter months, I love love love them.  Do you know why?  Because I adore nothing more than being warm.  A contradiction in terms, you say?  Please allow me to elaborate:

While I wholeheartedly recognize the carefree bliss of summer months (sun dresses, flip flops, ice cream trips and freezing-cold rosé wine … ), I much prefer adding layers to peeling them.  My sneaking suspicion is that this inclination goes back to my adopted French roots.  Ever since I wrapped my first scarf à la française during a semester abroad in college, I haven’t been able to resist adding that extra layer of warmth any time the temperatures drops below 60 degrees.  During my two-year Richmond Hiccup, I would get so frustrated with central-Virginia’s attempts at chilly temperatures.  They obstinately hover between 40 and 60 degrees with a handful of half-hearted attempts at dips below freezing.  Combined with a smattering of unproductive mornings of wintery mixes that invariably give up and turn to rain, it leaves much to be desired.  Two long weekends in Chicago (December and February) during the Hiccup convinced me that cold was the way to go.  I loved rushing from the metro to the restaurant to the store to the wherever.  It reminded me of my cozy and gray Paris of winter months…

I didn’t think that weather between Richmond and C.T. could be all that different (what difference can four hours north really make?), but I was very pleasantly surprised this past weekend.  When I unlocked the girls’ dorm Saturday morning (a duty weekend), I could not believe my eyes.  In just a half hour’s time a yucky, wintery mix had miraculously morphed into a beautiful, silent, intense snowfall.  Enormous flakes careened from the sky in a headlong rush to make contact with the cold and crunchy grass.

Before I knew it, the entire campus was covered with a several inch thick blanket of perfectly pure whiteness. Now, rushing from the metro to the restaurant to the store to the wherever proved to be a far cry from rushing from the dorm to the cafeteria to the short bus to the classroom, but it held its own allure, too.  The snow was of course much prettier to observe in my current unspoiled landscape as compared to a noisy, loud and crowded city.  And I didn’t feel the pressure to actually rush.  In fact, I actually stopped and admired it a bit.

While inside my cozy little apartment, I swear my coffee tasted just a little warmer and Christmas music sounded  just a little Christmas-ier.  Although the snow was pretty much gone by the next day, it was a nice kick-off to the winter months and gave me hope that we’ll get a real one before it’s all over.  And by the way, I checked.  Richmond did, indeed, have a yucky, wintery mix on Saturday.  C.T. wins.

It’s funny how once you decide things are a certain way, they really are that way.  What I mean is, you find meaning where you would like and run with it.  Several books, in combination with my own experiences, have completely convinced of me this hypothesis’s utter truth.

Book 1: The secret

The book that taught me I am my thoughts

I don’t mean to hit you with a product endorsement, but I really do think that everyone should read The secret.  Yes, I know it’s an international success and that many people turn their collective noses up at it for just this reason.  But the truth is, The secret makes COMPLETE and TOTAL sense.  If you haven’t read it and think you’re above it, don’t.

In a nutshell, it tells you that you are your thoughts.  So if you think negatively, then well, you’re destined to a life of gloom and despair.  However, if you think positively, many amazing things await.  Even if it’s not always easy to remain positive and upbeat, it’s such the better way to live.  I used to love complaining and gnashing my teeth and worrying everything to death.  I am fighting off vivid images of my friends and family collectively falling to the floor in laughter at the insinuation that I no longer do these things.  But honestly, despite allowing myself to get swept away by my daily stresses and student problems, I have managed to cultivate an “It is what it is” attitude.  As one of my wise brother says “control the controllables.”  So even though I may complain about Student X that did such and such, it’s really more for entertainment’s sake than for real and true losing of sleep over the issue.

Book 2: I really wish I could remember the title, if you are interested enough to leave a comment, I will find it for you
The secret was the first book that sparked that “you are what you think” addiction in me.  So I began to think of myself as a writer even though I wasn’t…persay…writing…anything.  As the compulsion to write got worse and worse, “poof!” just like magic, the next book I needed fell, quite literally, into my lap.  As a bon voyage gift last spring in Paris, my wonderful former boss (Hi, Simone!) gave me a fascinating  book about Jungian philosophy and the power we exercise over the “story of our lives.”  An especially intriguing concept for a budding, would-be writer.  Basically, it explains how there is no true coincidence.  We choose to find coincidence when and where we would like. And we choose to ignore the coincidences that do not fit into the story we choose to make of our lives.  Which leads me to…

Book 3: The sacred path of the warrior

The book gently reminding me to slow down

Right now, I am really pushing to maintain a more true and authentic sense of calm as I navigate my way through an extremely dense forest of teaching and advising and editing and listening and…you get my point.

So late one night this week, I found meaning in this book about an ancient Eastern philosophy that actually informed Tibetan Buddhism.  I saw it as an eerie coincidence I happened to pick up the book at the exact moment in time I’ve have been trying to slow myself down.  But was it really a coincidence?  According to Book 2, no.  I chose to read the book.  I made a conscious decision to try and lead my life as gratefully as possible.  Form your own opinion, but before doing so, oblige me and read my favorite excerpt thus far:

“Discovering real goodness comes from appreciating very simple experiences.  We are not talking about how good it feels to make a million dollars or finally graduate from college or buy a new house, but we are speaking here of the basic goodness of being alive-which does not depend on our accomplishments or fulfilling our desires.  We experience glimpses of goodness all the time but we fail to acknowledge them.  When we see a bright color, we are witnessing our own inherent goodness.  When we hear a beautiful sound we are hearing our own basic goodness.  When we step out of the shower, we feel fresh and clean, and when we walk out of a stuffy room, we appreciate the sudden whiff of fresh air.  These events may take a fraction of a second but they are real experiences of goodness.”

And that, my reader friend, is when things came full circle for me.  Author Chogyam Trungpa managed to articulate much more eloquently than I the premise of artsdevivre.  Happiness can’t come from outside circumstances.  It comes from finding contentment with the circumstances you currently have.

I pictured myself languidly waking up at 10.00 a.m., mosying into the kitchen, brewing the perfect cup of coffee and writing my heart out.  I pictured myself writing about the beauty of vacation, the perfectly clipped recipes I’d found and the comforting purr of my mom’s newest kitten, Lucy.  I pictured Lucy obediently seated on my lap while sentences flowed from my finger tips through to my well-worn keyboard.  A sweet fantasy, but alas, a fantasy.  

Webster’s defines vacation as “a respite or a time of respite from something : INTERMISSION.”  In this literal sense of the word, I am very definitively on “vacation.”  I am not at school and am working on not working.  

In spite of my hopes to the contrary, I am still dutifully waking up at 6.45 a.m. on the dot every morning.  Each day, I scrunch my eyes shut in an effort to coax myself back to sleep.  To no avail.  I am, however, successfully mosying into the kitchen to make coffee, albeit earlier than I had hoped.  And Lucy.  Well, she’s cute and all but not exactly the type of animal that allows much cuddle time.  As for the writing, you guessed it.  Writing/blogging tends to fall to the bottom of my list each day since it’s my extra.  I was sure that over vacation I’d find the time.  Between late nights with friends, catching up with family, and searching for the perfect recipe, writing once again fell to the bottom of my list.

Seeing as tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I decided this morning that the as-yet-to-occur recipe-clipping needed to take place.  It actually has morphed into recipe-surfing. My mother has a severe addiction to clipping any and everything from magazines.  Her pile of publications grows, taking on a life of its own and seemingly defying the laws of physics as the stack gets taller, refusing to fall. Before she can throw them into the recycling bin with good conscience, she dutifully flips every, single, last page and clips the recipes, articles or quotes that interest her or spark her fancy.  Clipped articles are then inserted into a very scientific filing system: random ziploc bags.  I think that this may be (subconsciously…or maybe not so) why when I started to think about my contribution to tomorrow’s meal (true to fashion at the last minute), I avoided actual paper and scissors.  I opted for some good old-fashioned food blog surfing.   

And while I still have not found what I need in terms of food ideas, I did happen on a post that spoke to me.  True to artsdevivre form, it seemed to be just what I needed, when I needed it. I think you should read it, too.  But in case you don’t, here’s the skinny:  

In the post, food writer Luisa Weiss describes her own journey to writing a book, and wonders where it “all began”, her love affair with writing.  Although her path seems to make more sense than my own (she wanted to be a writer, got a job in publishing, started a blog and is about to embark on publishing a book about her life), reading her story made me want to continue to create my own.  And most importantly, to listen to my own heart, follow my own dreams and not be afraid to take risks. Whatever those risks may be. I did it a year ago when I moved back to Paris. Ironically enough, artsdevivre has been a bigger risk than moving back to Paris ever was…Paris was home, comfortable.  Writing was something I always proclaimed to want to do, but didn’t actually do.  And I certainly didn’t let anyone read it when I did.  

Now that I do write, I feel more connected to my own life somehow.  Maybe it’s because each part of my day is done with more intention, and attention.  I examine the parts of the whole, wondering if they are interesting enough to write about.  

Of course I dream of being published one day.  But you never know what is going to happen or why or how or where. My vacation visions  are the cold hard proof.  If Luisa Weiss hadn’t experienced the many things she has, maybe she would not have had the material or reflectiveness to write her very own book.  Mine is in there somewhere, too.  Hopefully, artsdevivre is helping to coax it out.  And for now, it’s good enough that someone actually said to me recently “You’re a writer.  You know what I mean.”

I made this list in a period of my life lacking inspiration, so I had to create my own… The past year and a couple months have been nothing but inspiration from all sides, so I haven’t really felt the need to look at it or dream of far-away lands and exotic experiences.  For some reason, I felt compelled to open the document this morning.  Although my current job is inspiration-ful, re-reading it managed to inject even more inspiration into my much-needed daily dose.  

So, without further ado, here is my list, in it’s totality:

1. Do Tai Chi in a park in China

2. Attend a wedding, in India

3. Become fluent in a third foreign language, preferably Arabic

4. Ride a camel in Egypt

5. Take a cooking class in Tuscany

6. Publish a book

7. Own a Vespa (lavender) 

8. Visit the Temple of Baalbek

9. Ride a gondola in Venice

10. Set foot on all the continents, Antarctica pending….

11. Go on an African safari

12. Sail the Greek isles

13. Eat sashimi in Japan

14. Get my nose re-pierced

15. Own a Kelly bag

16. Write for a travel publication

17. Ice skate at Rockefeller Center during Christmas

18. Visit the Grand Canyon

19. Go scuba diving

20. Live in another foreign country (other than la belle France) for an extended period of time…

21. Go to a World Series baseball game

22. Go to a World Cup football match

23. Make a mean espresso, and the perfectly frothed milk to match

24. Host regularly fabulous dinner parties

25. Read the classics, Western and Eastern

26. Read the French classics, in French

27. Finish my d@$n scrapbooks

28. Go hang gliding in Switzerland

29. Celebrate Christmas in Scandinavia

30. Go to the Christmas fairs in Strasbourg and Nuremburg

31. Eat lots more Spanish frozen yogurt

32. Adopt a Bernese Mountain dog and Westie Terrier.  Name them Penny and Lenny

33. Go ice skating at Christmastime in front of the Hôtel de Ville.  Remember to wear a cute hat

34. Learn to make strawberry rhubarb pie

35. Go on an Alaskan cruise

36. Visit Haiti

37. Finish painting my room at my mom’s house

38. Go to a premiere of some sort

39. Do the Peace Corps, or another service program

40. Become adept at Yoga and Pilates

41. Witness the Northern Lights 

42. Catch a fish

43. Visit the Egyptian pyramids

44. Ride on a dog sled

45. Spectate at the British Open 

46. Go to an haute couture show, preferably Christian Lacroix* 

*Sadly, since I first wrote this list in the fall of 2006, Christian Lacroix has stopped making haute couture.  But just because something you had wished for can’t come to pass in exactly the way you had hoped, it doesn’t mean another, even more interesting experience can’t replace it.  Usually it ends up even better.

If you don’t already have one, create your own list!  It’s fun!  And if nothing else, a great way to spend a couple minutes with your head in the clouds.  A worthy activity at any time.  

P.S.: Any readers that have good ideas about how to accomplish some of the more difficult experiences on my list, please contact me … !

Today I finished my first trimester of teaching.  With some spare time on my hands, I lapsed into my exhausted habits developed over the past couple weeks:  an unsuccessful nap and mindless t.v.  I felt bored so read back over some artsdevivre entries.  I noticed that the most recurring theme in my writing was stress.  Stress from work.  Stress from technology.  Stress from students.  In the frenzy of my first weeks of teaching, artsdevivre morphed from a blog about the beauty-filled life into a blog about the bright spots in an another wise bleak day.

Most things I wrote about since school started were positive, but certainly did not add up to life’s simple pleasures.  I obsessively seek meaning, I’ve always been that way.  But sometimes you just  have to take things as they are.  And appreciate the truly simple things that brighten your day:

Like a yummy brand of cereal discovered.  Check.  Or apples and peanut butter.  Check.  Or an unexpected hug when you need it most.  Check.  Or a much needed vacation.  Check.  Or a funny almost-still-kitten that likes to watch her reflection in the t.v. screen.  Check.

The past months have been unexpected and overwhelming.  A self-professed control freak, I spent the majority of my time trying to figure out how to best organize my multitude of tasks in order to feel competent.  That can’t be done in three months.  Maybe three years.  Maybe.

So from this day forth, I promise to my readers (if they’re out there) and maybe even more importantly to myself, to slow down, observe and appreciate.  Who knows?  It could even help out my my pesky compulsion to figure out my new career.

I don’t know about you, but I certainly identify more with living to eat than eating to live.

Surely my love affair with food is another reason I am such a Francophile.  The only problem is I am an on-again, off-again pescetarian.  Not to insult any reader’s intelligence, but just in case, pescetarian means the only meats I consume are fish and seafood.  Sometimes I get a blank stare when I use that word, hence the explanation.

Anyways.  Food!  Love it!  I also love cooking and baking but it’s definitely one of those things I cannot do when I am already hungry.  If I find myself ravenous upon entering a kitchen, generally I consume half a box of crackers, or all of the leftovers in my fridge whilst standing up.  It’s kind of a scary sight.  BUT if I manage to get into a kitchen with a teeny appetite or none at all, then I can cook for hours.  And be set on meals for a week.  It’s great.  Today I did just that.

I recently finished My life in France, Julia Child’s memoirs of the years she and her husband Paul spent abroad.

 

Cover of Julia Child's wonderful memoir of living, cooking and eating in France

 

Like everything she did/touched/cooked, My life in France is a gem.  Although I must admit that at times, the book gave me a tummy ache.  Aversion to meat notwithstanding, it just became a little exhausting to read description after description after description after description after description…you get my point…of rich meals.  After a bit of time-distance between finishing the book and wanting to cook, I wandered into my kitchen last night.  I can’t drive anywhere right now (long story) so I had to make do with what I had:

Beans for making soup.  A can of tomato soup.  Almond milk.  Eggs.  Tofu hot-dogs.  Don’t judge me on that last one.

Lacking inspiration, I absentmindedly flipped over the bag of beans and studied the recipe for “Ham-hock and bean soup.”  Ick.  I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be snobby but the word “hock” just sounds gross.  In addition to the beans and the hock of ham, it called for water, canned or stewed tomatos, fresh garlic, chili powder and lemon juice.  Never one to admit defeat or waste, I decided to substitute my can of tomato soup in for the stewed tomatoes and hope for the best.  In between watching “The prince and me” movies (Again.  Please don’t judge.  I love a good princess story.), I poured the beans  out of the bag, threw out the “ham flavoring” package with disgust, ran water over the yummy legumes, realized my pot wasn’t nearly large enough and divvied up the beans and proceeded to soak the little guys over night.  Following a yummy brunch of blueberry pancakes (ahh, the joy of boarding school living), I set to simmering the beans for two and a half hours.  Then I added in my tomato soup, a little bit of rice (I read somewhere you can’t get the benefit of beans’ protein without consuming them with a carbohydrate) extra chili powder, garlic and a sprinkling of red pepper flakes.

While I have nothing on Julia (I am sure she wouldn’t have touched canned tomato soup with a ten-foot pole), the soup actually turned out much yummier than I anticipated.  I was worried the complete difference in liquidity between stewed tomatoes and tomato soup concentrate would really throw it off.  A tad bit of extra water seemed to do the trick during the last bit of simmering time.  I already enjoyed a bowl for dinner and certainly have my dinners taken care of for the rest of the week…and beyond.  If anyone I work with or know in the vicinity happens to be reading this, by all means ask me for some soup.  I would love nothing more than to share my creation with you.

Bon appetit.