Tea and citrus got me through my week with influenza. When I got sick, I immediately cut myself off from the world and settled in for a week of quiet recuperation. I didn’t have much of an appetite during my bout with the flu, but fluids perked me up. Warm lemon water with honey soothed my throat, sparkling water quenched my thirst, and hot tea gave me warmth and comfort.
Being sick and alone is boring. I hadn’t experienced boredom in years, and so it was odd to get reacquainted with this sensation that I knew so well as a child. I binge-watched The Crown—a welcome distraction. But my mind was too cloudy to read, my voice too shaky to call friends. I spent most of the week wrapped in blankets and scarves, sipping tea.
I’ve long understood that silence is productive, and I now see that boredom is too. Expansive, quiet minutes slid into hours and days. I stumbled upon empty corners of my mind that didn’t house thought. My internal chatter slowed, my anxious mind relaxed, and for a time, I stopped thinking. Spacious boredom replaced my drive to achieve.
The flu drained me, yet my week of isolation revived me. Tea and water were life-giving and clearing, and so too was boredom’s hollow loneliness.
Here at the hermitage, in deep snow, everything is ordinary and silent.
Although there is much to be done in the coming days, I am taking a hygge day—choral Christmas music, ginger spice candle, fuzzy clothes, baking,and tea…
In 2010, while living in France, I hosted Thanksgiving for 24 American college students. Our “Franksgiving” celebration was boisterous and joyful. My students decorated my apartment with handmade construction paper leaves and turkeys. I cooked for days in the rickety Strasbourg kitchen—green beans, apple and cabbage slaw, winter squash. Students contributed favorite family casseroles, approximated with French market ingredients. I had rotisserie chickens delivered to the apartment on Garlic Street. It required a lot of planning, coordination, and energy to pull off “Franksgiving.” That fall, I gained a deep appreciation for the beautiful and large family meals my grandmothers, mother, and aunts have hosted over the years.
I am more productive and less grumpy when I take the time to orchestrate not sad desk lunches. Last week I slipped and found myself scrambling in the early afternoons. I ended up eating unmemorable and somewhat unhealthy food.
When I entertain, I almost always favor savory over sweet. I’d rather linger over a few small bites before dinner than serve a rich dessert after dinner.
Flea markets are therapeutic. My eyes do the initial sifting as I make my way down the aisles and through the booths. When I am drawn to an object—a hand-painted tray, a copper planter, a Limoges teacup—I approach for a closer look. Where was it made? What is its story? Can I make space for this object in my little house?
The beginning of August was gloriously cool and breezy—not Iowa State Fair weather by any stretch of the imagination. Mom’s cozy front porch is underused, so one day I welcomed her home from work with a mini porch party. It was a snap to organize this tiny gathering:
My friend Sahar is a cardamom tea connoisseur. Milky and minty with a bold cardamom profile, her morning sips are robust and comforting.
Life is lush in this Mediterranean village. Located in the south of France mere miles from Spain, Catalan culture pervades Collioure. Tapas, espadrilles, sunshiny wine… People glide between French, Spanish, and Catalan. Vivacious and expressive, they draw me in.