It is officially spring in Los Angeles now, which I know because I can basically no longer breathe through my nose in any real way, which is the kind of glam southern California life I assumed I was signing up for when I moved here. I don’t know what I’m allergic to, really, since many of the plants here look like what happens if you wander into a botanical garden on Mars, but there is truly something in them that my body is not a fan of.
My family called me today to say that a long-lasting mystery was finally solved. I had not previously known what time of day I was born; my mom isn’t around to ask, my dad didn’t remember, and the birth certificates for Arkansas in the 90s did not anticipate a subsequent resurgence in Star Magic. My sister, who is very invested in Costar, has been annoyed by this for several years. (My lack of investment does not, as far as I can tell, help.)
Today both sister and Dad were cleaning out a storage unit at home and discovered that there was some birth announcement thing that the hospital gave my parents on my birth and—lo and behold—it had the time on it. I was, apparently, born at 11:15 pm. It is unexpectedly disorienting to realize I was almost a March 11th baby!
Work has been challenging lately, and between that and the stuffy nose and the disorienting new knowledge about my birth time, I’m inclined to go spend a month sitting in a bathtub of goop, tending to my agonies. (One day I will read My Year of Rest and Relaxation but today is not that day.) I spent 10 hours at work today, and of course there is a great deal in the world more stressful than knowledge work, but I’m tired and dry-eyed and feeling worn out in an existential fashion.
I’m off to eat a burrito and stare into the middle distance. Apparently I’m a Capricorn moon.
Shit to read
Big third quarter pandemic energy here.
I worry about the impact of lowered safety concerns at the same time as I desperately want to sit inside my friends’ houses.
Onfim the long-ago child proving that children have been the exact same for basically forever.
This is start-to-finish wild if you’re a true crime fan.
I think this is my summer project. Just building a wardrobe of rich person clothes from 1929.
A grim reminder of the ways in which remote work impacts others.
As someone hoping to buy a house in the short term, neat!
Yeah it seems like therapy apps are absolutely bad.
Shit to eat
Boil water and then cook four eggs in it for eight and a half minutes; ice bath them.
Roast a few handfuls of cashews, and chop them up.
Zest a lemon.
In a bowl, put two big hand pinches of the pre-grated parm that you buy because life is short, the cashews, the lemon zest, a teaspoon of salt, black pepper, and half a packet of left over pizza delivery red pepper.
Stir it up.
Take the asparagus that’s languishing in your fridge; pull out any ones that are gross, chop off the ends, and slice it into small bite-sized pieces on the diagonal. Into the bowl with it, stir.
Juice two lemons; add their juice. Stir.
Add half a container of mint that’s languishing in your fridge; stir.
Quarter cup of olive oil; stir.
Peel the jammy eggs and chop them into pieces; stir.
Enjoy the absolutely excellent salad more than you expected for the rest of the week.
(Adapted from Smitten Kitchen’s asparagus and egg salad with walnuts and mint, which is tremendous.)
Shit to watch
This entire, very soothing playlist called Recipes You’ll Actually Make that’s all about food that’s Pretty Good.
Shit to buy