Sunday, January 25, 2015

It's catching


I mentioned in my last post that I'm unspeakably grateful to my friends. I didn't mention the friends who don't actually know me. Ah, but I know them! They tell me all about their days and lives, from their hopes for 2015 to the espresso they brewed for breakfast this morning. I know their spouses, their parents, their children.

Lest you think by this point I'm some expat stalker, I should tell you that they're very up-front with this kind of knowledge, not just with me, but with the entire internet. These are the good people of the blogosphere, namely, the food blogosphere. They are the Molly Wizenbergs and Adam Robertses of the world.

I make a routine check-round of all my favorites once every few days, sometimes more, if I'm feeling particularly bored/lonely/hungry. In my mind, I refer to them on a first name basis--let's see if Luisa's found a new apartment yet. Fortunately, my best friend and I are very like-minded in this respect, and we'll bring them up in casual conversation this way, like mutual friends: Did you see how fast Deb's son is growing? Check out Jenny's meatloaf--tried it last night, insanely good.

Their posts and pictures are an invitation inside their lives--but a cozy invite, not a stiff, formal one, written out on card stock. In my mind, they're inviting you to their kitchen table for a cup of coffee and a chat and maybe a cookie, like you're a neighbor who stopped by. It takes me out of my own apartment, with the soaked, aggressively-dripping bath rug hanging from the heater because my shower routinely floods and there's nothing to mop it up with except said rug.


My longtime favorite was Molly Wizenberg (and if you haven't read A Homemade Life yet, you're seriously missing out), but over the past few months, I've made a slow turn to Megan Gordon, Molly's real-life friend. If Molly is my opposites-attract friend, Megan is closer to my soulmate. (Sorry Molly--I should have known when you 'fessed up to loving Bruce Springsteen and various bands I've never heard of. We can still be close, right?)

At first, I turned up my nose at Megan, her blog, and her book--whole grains? Who does she think she is, telling me how to eat? But living in a bad homestay compels you to do something--anything--instead of interacting with your host, which is how I found myself melting into Megan's writing. And I found out, Megan never tells you how to eat. She's just so darn enthusiastic about her way of life, and about life in general, that you find yourself wanting to try everything she suggests, to see if her attitude is catching.

I bought her book shortly after succumbing to her blog, and it's quickly become one of my favorite cookbooks of all time. Megan writes beautifully (and it's nice to find kinship with someone else who worked a stint as an English teacher), and her recipes are simple, but they revolutionize even the most basic of dishes. For me, oatmeal was always an "eh" breakfast: fine, but not something I'd rhapsodize over. But Megan's! It's toothsome with every bite, not mushy, with just a hint of cinnamon, and infinitely adaptable, whether you're looking for a sweet or savory breakfast. I find myself running to the kitchen to make it these mornings. (Well, running the three steps, I live in a studio.)

These days, I find myself looking forward to reading Megan's blog if I'm having a bad day or just need some cheer in general. When the weather's grey and the train from work seems to take even longer than usual and I miss home, I think to myself, let's see what Megan's up to.


I could consider writing the Book of Megan. For now, I'll just give you the oatmeal.

The Very Best Oatmeal
adapted, barely, from Megan Gordon's Whole-Grain Mornings

*Megan advises using a bigger pot with a lid for this so the oats cook more evenly. I concur, and if you don't mind making this a two-pot dish, you can toast the oats in a frying pan or skillet for maximum toastiness. You can definitely toast them in the same pot, though. Also, during the toasting step, watch and smell the oats carefully; they can go from toasty to burnt rather fast (which I know from personal experience). Even slightly burnt, though, these are still pretty damn good (which I also know from personal experience).

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 cup/100 g rolled oats
1/4 cup/60 ml milk, soy milk, or nut milk
Generous pinch of salt
Pinch of ground cinnamon
3/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon/195 ml water

1) Melt the butter in your large pot or frying pan over medium heat. Add the oats and toast, stirring every so often, until they smell toasty and fragrant. Takes about 5-7 minutes. (This is the part where you want to watch for burning.) If using the same pot, empty the toasted oats into another container.

2) In your large, heavy-bottomed pot, bring the rest of the ingredients to a rolling boil over medium heat. This won't take very long, so keep your eye on it. Add the oats and gently stir, just once or twice, to incorporate them into the liquid.

3) Cover the pot and turn off the heat. Set a timer for seven minutes. Don't stir or peek! Resist temptation. Go wash your frying pan, if you used it. Set out your bowl. Get your mix-ins ready. Do not check that oatmeal. Trust me on this. After seven minutes, uncover pot and check the oats. You can recover and let them sit for another few minutes if they're a little wetter than you'd like, but I'm usually too hungry to do this.

4) Serve hot with your favorite mix-ins, sweet or savory. Megan advises a splash of cream and a little brown sugar, but my personal favorite is Nutella and bananas. To each his own.

Serves 2-3, although it's so good that I usually end up eating it all over the course of a few hours. You can reserve the leftovers, refrigerated and reheated in the microwave, but you'll want to add a little more liquid if you go this route.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

To be honest

Well hello there. I don't know if this is sooner or later than you expected me to be back, but either way, it's good to be back here.


I'm sitting in the window of the Mainz Hauptbahnhof (main train station) Starbucks, drinking a decaf latte and trying not to make a face at the kid staring in the window at me. His dark, unblinking eyes are unnerving me, and I'm nervous enough already about writing this post. Shoo, German child, shoo.

I've contemplated writing this post many times; to be honest, it scares me quite a bit. I thought of writing it back in September, then October, then November, and then I went through a period where writing seemed impossible, and I decided it was best if I put it on the back burner. But, for the first time in a long time, I woke up this morning with the itch to write. What's more, I knew exactly what I would write. I've felt the beginnings of the itch for a little while, but I put it off, wanting to make sure it was sincere. It is. So here I am.

If I'm being completely sincere, I'm human like the rest of you, and I'm terrified of the backlash. I'm afraid of being treated differently, looked at strangely, getting whispers. I've always been the paranoid sort. (My nickname in high school was Nixon for a while.) But being afraid of being seen as vulnerable isn't going to get me anywhere in life, and at a time when we have more and more people speaking out about this sort of thing, it feels fitting to add my voice to the conversation. Nothing's going to get done if we don't speak up. And so, when I tell you that depression's a bitch, and it's what's been keeping me silent for months on end, what I'm doing is asking you not to look at me sideways. I'm asking you to take a cup of coffee, sit down with me, and listen. Feel free to ask questions, but do try to keep an open mind.


People have many different ways of describing depression; all of them are legitimate. In my own experience, depression is the meanest playground bully; he's the punk who takes your lunch money, then holds you in a head lock until you're gasping for breath and begging him to stop. You say anything he wants you to say so he'll let up--and he still doesn't let up. He'll sometimes let you think you're getting away, a brief respite, a moment of sunshine, and then he pulls you back into that headlock, even more relentless than before.

I've had this in my life before. If we're being more precise, I have a specific type known as adjustment disorder. Normally I'm not depressed, but particularly stressful periods of my life can send me into a tailspin of hopelessness and anxiety. And god knows I've had the stress. For a while, I chalked everything--the insomnia, the heaviness of each day, the sudden inability to focus on even a single page of a book--up to getting settled in Germany.

And then, one night in early November, I came back from a perfectly nice dinner with friends and felt desperate, like my time with them had just been a necessary distraction to save me from myself. I had a vision of sinking into a black hole, seeing only the sky above me, trying to claw the walls and realizing they were made of that slippery plastic material on playground slides. And I thought, oh, I'm depressed, aren't I. I called a therapist the next day.


I'm not telling you all this to evoke sympathy, and I'm certainly hoping I don't get the sideways look, although that's your choice. I'm telling you all this not to be a hypocrite. There's been more and more publicity on this lately, particularly when Robin Williams died this past August. In the wake of his death, a rash of articles popped up about depression, all saying basically the same thing: "We need to be more open about this." There was also a slew of statuses in every news feed I opened: "Friends, if you ever feel this way, feel free to talk to me."

 And then we stopped. Silence begets ignorance, and if we want to fight that ignorance, we need to keep this conversation open. We don't talk in whispers about cancer or heart attacks. Why do we do it with mental illness? Let's not, please. I'm not one to harp on and on about illness in general, but when we do need to talk about it, let's not say that one is more legitimate than the other, more deserving of treatment and discussion.


One last thing for today, before I let you go. The biggest thing that gave me the courage to share this in such a public space wasn't my therapist or my itch to write or any celebrity death, it was my friends. At first, I was beyond embarrassed to talk to them about my illness, to let them know that I was still emotional about events that happened months ago. I'm a capable human being; shouldn't I be over these things by now?

 I'm slowly learning not to be ashamed of my emotions, no matter what they may be. And when I did "come out," in a sense, to my friends, they were amazingly supportive. I know a lot of people say that, but it's really true in my case. There have been promises of help whenever I need it, code words indicating I need to talk about specific things, and three hour Skype sessions with lots of laughter. I'm so lucky to have such friends. I hit the friend jackpot, so to speak. You know who you are.

Let's keep this conversation open. Grab that cup of coffee, sit with me, and let's talk.