July Lunch Date

Sometimes I feel more connected to the blog, and sometimes less connected, and this week is one of those times where I feel less connected just because of the rhythms – ahem, summer pace – of life. House projects, workshops, fake-out Sage emergencies, summer living, prioritizing ice cream runs and sunset walks over long work days… I know, right? You’ve got it going on, too.

It’s that mellow summer beat that is both slow and crazy, and it’s great.

All of this is exactly why I thought a little lunch date might do us nicely. A touch point. A summer catch-up. A slower pace of things in all of our lives. Also, I never turn down the opportunity to (virtually) talk and (real life) eat and (definitely real life) sip a little summer rosé all at the same time.

Speaking of rosé…. Frosé? are you guys all over that or is that old news by now? Um, hello. This is exactly why we need to check in.

Workshops

I’m fully committed to the blog, as you know, but the other love in my life during these last few weeks in July has been workshops. She’s been competing for my time and energy, and I have absolutely given in. How could I not? I love workshops, and I love love LOVE all the wonderful people who come to them from all over the United States. Even Canada sometimes. I honestly believe that the people who come to Pinch of Yum workshops are some of the nicest human beings on planet earth. The amount of positivity we get to see during workshops is overwhelming in the best possible way.

That’s not to say that workshops don’t have their moments – namely, when wifi goes down 30 minutes before the workshop and I call Bjork in a panic (code for GROUCH MODE), or when we make the muffin batter in advance only to find that in fact THEY TASTE LIKE MUSH when the batter rests overnight and so we must borrow eggs from a neighbor in order to remake them in a frenzy, or when I realize I’ve been teaching for 45 minutes with my “cool new choker” turned completely backwards and the tail hanging down in front – but that is small potatoes. Normalcy in my life. Psh. No big deal. Look at me, cool as a cucumber.

(Fact: I have never in my life been described as “cool as a cucumber.” What does it feel like to have that much chill? I will never know.)

So all that to say – workshops have been bomb.com. I am so grateful that this is a part of my job.

We will be launching fall workshops soon, so if you have a blog / want to have a blog / want to hang out and eat good food and take fun pictures, you should sign up to get notified when those open up.

House Projects

Okay! Our house is still a disaster. I would say it’s turned into more of a moderately cute disaster, but still.

We’re past the phase of plastic hanging up all over the place and dust in every crevice that you never even knew existed, but we’re now onto the phase that I call GLAMPING INDOORS.

Because we’re still waiting on a back-ordered bed frame, we have been sleeping on a mattress on the floor for the last few months, and we have various odds and ends of furniture laying around in every single room of the house. Somehow what should have been contained to the upstairs has exploded into the rest of our home and now every time I look around I see a minimum of five boxes and 500 hours of work. Because that’s how long it takes me to make decisions about where things should go and how to put a room together: 500 Literal Hours.

Thankfully we have friends like Bruno and Alicia (Curbly) and they are helping us put together a space that feels cohesive and cute and clean and not completely overwhelming from a decision-making perspective. We’re going shopping tomorrow together – all of us – four adults in the middle of the day on a Tuesday (WHY NOT) – because art is tiny bit scary for me. Hold my hand, please.

Health

Two things that are noteworthy on the health front.

1. At a recent eye doctor appointment – just a regularly scheduled checkup – it was determined that I have some severe damage to some oil glands in my eyes. Um, sorry, WHAT? I’m 31, as in still basically a teenager. I guess essentially my eyes struggling, but in an invisible, unbeknowst-to-me kinda way. So that has been a thing. Lots of appointments, lots of pamphlets, lots of googling. Not awesome, other than the warm eye mask I get to wear at night, doctor’s orders. And yes, this is becoming one of those letters you get from your grandma with a list of every health ailment suffered over the last two years and all the accompanying details such as wearing warm eye masks at night. Goodbye.
2. In the better, anti-aging department, I AM RUNNING A 10 MILE RACE! In October! There was a decent stretch of time after Afton died that I thought I might never run again because the sadness and exhaustion was buried so deep in my bones. I mean that quite literally. I physically ached all over. But my friend and I have decided to do this 10-mile race together and I’m feeling excited and proud that my I have enough fight left in me to make it happen. I might have elderly eyes, but I’m still kicking, guys. Still kicking.

Summer Living

Bjork and I decided to put together a summer bucket list, and we have checked off exactly one of eight items on the list so far: outdoor concert. Amos Lee. At the ZOO, at night, with tigers behind us. It was awesome.

Still on the list:

• Grilling out with friends
• 1-day staycation
• Brewery tour
• St. Paul Saints game
• Cheesecake soft serve from the ice cream place by our house (REPEAT: CHEESECAKE SOFT SERVE)
• Weekend road trip
• Minnesota State Fair

Also on the list, honorary mention, is going to the cabin with my family. It’s something we do every summer (see here, and here, and way way way back here) and it’s the one time during the summer where I feel fully immersed in all the good Midwestern summer vibes: lakes, boating, sunscreen, fresh basil and tomatoes, homemade granola and coffee on the dock, mosquitos, binge-style book reading, campfires, games, and every possible variation of a s’more that you could ever imagine.

If I could transfer my entire personhood into a season of the year, it would be summer in the Midwest. The cabin is my zone.

And we are headed to the cabin soon!

Like, the blog will be quiet for a while. I’ve realized that it’s not really a true vacation for me if I just have to work 10x harder to get everything scheduled in advance while we’re gone, so… can we just do the real-time type blogging? It makes me all the more excited to get back to recipes and blog comments and posting after I spend a week off the grid.

But how are you really doing?

That’s what a lot of people ask me. And they mean because of Afton. Because he died, and because I am still living, and because that combo is the ultimate worst.

I’m doing okay – I think that’s the most honest answer. Not really good, not really bad, just okay.

Some days I’m really sad. We went to a concert last night, and I spent a decent amount of time in the car on the way there just fighting back tears. For no reason. Well, other than THE ONE REALLY BIG REASON. But there was no sentimental, emotional connection or a clear reason why that particular night and that particular drive would have been sad. I mean, maybe because we drove by the hospital? Maybe because the music was feeling extra soulful? And maybe because grief has no rules. It just finds you wherever and whenever and takes over for a minute, or a day, or a week.

If I average out all the days, all the good and bad and up and down and all that other stuff, I would say I’m doing okay, and I’d define “okay” as surviving. Living. Finding good things in my life and loving those things, but never being “okay” with what happened. I know acceptance is supposed to be the final stage of grief processing, and I can acknowledge the reality that it happened. My son died. I acknowledge that.

But acceptance? I don’t know. I really don’t think I’ll ever accept that I held my baby as he died in my arms. How can you?

When you see Bjork and I on the internet, doing our things, looking and sounding happy, it’s because we are happy. We really are. But we’re also deeply sad. We will never not be sad about this. We’re always going to be two things, forever.

So I guess as far as acceptance goes, that’s what I’m coming to accept – the duality of life moving forward.

I have found that doing things to honor Afton – and honor myself – have been really powerful in this season of my life. Examples: taking an actual vacation when we go to the cabin with my family. going to grief group and counseling. writing about Afton. walking or running or swimming or yoga every day (except I’ve only done yoga once – can that still count?). treating myself to ice cream cones.

And…

This is a totally anti-climactic way to announce this, but it’s late and my overshare filters are gone so here’s your reward for reading this far: I’m also going to start a podcast. Or, I’d like to. I’m working on it. It’s in process. It’s my new side project.

WHAT! What is going on. I don’t know, it’s not like it’s a big announcement or anything – this is just me casually dropping it on our lunch date, like I would if you were sitting across from me with that glass of rosé.

TBD on all the details of the podcast – I mean, I have them, but they’re pretty messy in my head and I’m still getting sorted. So for now I’m just mentioning it, lunch-date style, in telling you that yes, I’m doing okay, and in my grief, I’m slowing down on some normal things and picking up other new things that are more and more meaningful to me.  More to come on that.

So… what are you guys up to this summer? Anyone vacationing? Anyone reading anything binge-worthy? Anyone making awesome recipes that they want to tell me about so I can copy you when I cook for my family at the cabin?

Thanks for checking in. I love lunch dates and I love having the actual nicest blog readers in the world.

XO

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Loaded Caprese Grilled Cheese

Mind-Blowing Vegan Chocolate Pie

Sunshine Lentil Bowls with Garlic Olive Oil Dressing

A Tattoo Story

This is the story of how I got a tattoo.

(!!!! I GOT A TATTOO !!!! I’m very chill about it.)

There’s nothing really extraordinary about my particular story: I experienced a tragedy, it changed me forever, and I wanted to physically mark my body to reflect my newness. I wanted to carry my story and my sweet baby boy in a way that was visible to myself and others. It’s meaningful, and empowering, and also, it’s a pretty basic tattoo story.

There was a time, post-loss, post-trauma, sometime between the blur of January and February and March, when all I could really do with myself was think about ways to memorialize Afton. And somehow, in that loop of ideas (planting trees, joining a grief group, making a memory book) I got stuck on this idea of a tattoo. I can’t remember if someone recommended it to me? or if it came out of the abyss of my own brain? It almost seems like it would have had to have been suggested to me – I don’t think I had the mental capacity to come up with any ideas on my own during what now feels like a complete wash of two, three, four months. But as soon as the idea was presented, it stuck.

It wasn’t totally new – over the last few years I had considered getting a tattoo, but you don’t want to get just ANY old tattoo, right? I mean, I’m risk-averse enough that if I was going to do something so permanent, it couldn’t just be a random little pineapple on my shoulder or something. (Note to self: pineapple would actually be kind of cute.) I was open to the idea – I was just waiting for the right one to present itself.

And then it presented itself – not how I thought it would look, but in the form of loss, and love, and a tiny expression of rebellion against the status quo.

This was my right one.

I did what all good people of 2017 would have done – I went on a major googling run:

“best tattoo shop twin cities”

“where to get a tattoo on your body”

“tattoo memorial”

“tattoo women small”

“tattoo inspiration”

“tattoo fails”

“what to know before getting a tattoo”

I called and scheduled it. It wasn’t for several months thanks to the popularity of my preferred location (as Bjork reminded me every day: the fact that they are busy is a good sign, Linds). Every day I wished it was happening sooner. My body felt lost without it. I needed to be marked, to have some outward symbol of a new and mostly invisible reality. Sometimes I’d look down and my arm and touch it and just wish that I had that ink embedded deep in my skin.

I had been working with an extremely generous friend to help design a hand-lettered version of his name – Afton – and went back and forth on the styles with everyone who would look at them with me. Is this one too girly? Too loopy? Too boring? Which one looks the most Afton-y? One day I came across a lettering account on Instagram. I wasn’t even looking – it was just by chance, it was maybe even on my Discover page somewhere. I took one look at her lettering and I just knew this was the exact style I was looking for. I sent her an email asking for help nailing down the lettering for this tattoo, and she said yes.

And suddenly, like time does, it snuck up. The tattoo was happening in three days.

Wait a minute, uhhh, what’s happening? Where did we get this idea again? Who is supervising my decision-making right now?

I started my second, more frantic googling run:

“what do tattoos look like when you’re old”

“pictures old people tattoos”

“women tattoo regret”

“will I regret getting a tattoo”

“how bad does a tattoo hurt”

Even as we drove to the tattoo shop, I was debating between wrist and forearm. I was worried about weird things like veins on my wrist, and I was motivated by the idea that something on my forearm would be the most visible to the most people the most frequently. During a deep dive in Pinterest’s tattoo archives, I found a picture of a small tattoo on a woman’s forearm in a scripty font and I was sold. I printed out the picture and brought it to the tattoo shop with me.

We played around with size and location at the tattoo shop (thanks, Allie!) and eventually got it just right.

“Okay, are you ready?” she smiled.

It kind of hurt, but also kind of not. Maybe I was expecting it to be worse? Or maybe the pain of the needles and the ink felt appropriate given the pain of the situation that was bringing me to get a tattoo in the first place. Either way, I didn’t flinch too many times and I didn’t cry. Well, I did feel my eyes filling with tears at one point, but that was more of a heart thing.

She finished in about ten minutes, and I looked at it, and I loved it.

From the very first moment, I loved it.

In the week leading up to this day, I started getting cold feet. I was googling pictures of old people with tattoos and trying to decide if I would ever wish I hadn’t gotten it. And there was a moment where I just made a firm decision.

I made the decision to never regret this tattoo.

That’s something that can be decided, right? I promised myself in that moment I would never look at this tattoo for any reason and say, “I wish I wouldn’t have gotten this tattoo,” even for something as shallow as how it looked with a watch or the way my shirt sleeves laid over it or how it would look with my future wrinkly skin. It’s a done deal.

So that’s that. That’s the end of my basic tattoo story.

This little piece of scripty font across my forearm is beautiful and sacred and a little bit badass and I will never regret it. I will never regret writing my baby’s name on my arm and carrying it around with me everywhere I go.

It’s a physical representation of an invisible truth: that I have a son, that he made me a mom, and that our spirits cannot be separated by death.

I got my tattoo at Tailorbird Tattoo in Minneapolis. Many thanks to Allie and team for such a wonderful, non-scary first-time experience!

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Goddess Curry Chicken Salad