Speaking from a history of impatience, I can tell you it helps, at least a little, if you can mentally psych yourself up for the things you have to wait for. Like, it takes time to learn things, have you noticed that? It doesn’t matter if you’re picking up a new instrument, taking driver’s ed, meeting a stranger or experimenting in the kitchen: nine times out of ten, you’re not going to get it the first time—ten times out of ten, if you’re me.
Then there’s the post office. It will be crowded, trust me, no matter when you go, so bring your iPhone and catch up on Words with Friends games while you listen for your number to be called. Rush-hour traffic? We all know what that’s like. Expect delays or, you know, quit your office job to avoid traffic altogether.
Just knowing these things, simply anticipating the waits, makes it easier to push through them, easier to handle. At least for me. That’s why I wish I could always know time frames beforehand, I really do.
It’s kind of like this carrot cake.
Oh, summer. You are an expert wooer. Just the minute I want to hate you, while I’m pushing up another hill on my bicycle, sweat dripping down my neck while I slap a bug off my face, you hit me with a gorgeous sunset over wildflowers, the kind that makes me pull my massive camera out of my backpack, right there on the trail, while I literally gasp out loud.
You know just how to do it. Alongside a sticky night, in sidles a conversation about scraping snow off your cars. Just after a crazy rainstorm, there’s a farmers market packed with produce. On a lazy Saturday afternoon at home, you have me roasting grape tomatoes from a local farm.
There are those who hate you, Summer, those who are immune to all your charms, who—very fairly—cite heat and humidity and insects and all that comes with those things, from big hair to body odor to incessant scratching of ankles, and I listen to them, I do, but look, between you and me: it doesn’t matter.
You know, I was thinking, when my diet changed earlier this year, so did this place. And along the whole journey, from the early stages of removing refined flours and sugars, to the next steps of incorporating new ingredients (from whole wheat pastry to spelt to buckwheat flours), and even recently as I’ve started soaking flours overnight, you’ve stuck with me. You may have been shaking your head or laughing out loud, but at least a few of you have jumped right in, and those of you that haven’t: you’re still here.
I was telling my brother yesterday that I really value people who will stay, who will stick by you and not run when things get uncomfortable or hard to understand, who are willing to put a little effort into relationship. And while of course every relationship is valuable because every person is, I have to say: those people who will fight through the rough stuff? They’re few and far between. They’re the best ones. They’re you guys.
So that said, I’ve got a real treat for you today, one that friends on Twitter or Flickr will probably have already seen coming, and one that friends in real life have already heard about. Buckle up: it’s time to talk about kombucha.
It’s pretty easy to see things I’ve inherited. I have my dad’s olive skin, my mom’s round face, the bump on my nose found in both sides of my gene pool. I like good conversation, working in the garden, making a big meal to eat with people I love. And, sometimes, when I laugh very hard or hear myself telling a story like it’s a routine, I think how my grandma used to do those things.