Me To the Core
I know we are five days beyond Reverb10, but I am still catching up...
Core story. What central story is at the core of you, and how do you share it with the world? (Bonus: Consider your reflections from this month. Look through them to discover a thread you may not have noticed until today.)Author: Molly O'Neill, Harper Collins Children's
A few years ago I got an email from the editor of a regional magazine I had been writing for, asking for writers willing to undergo a personal makeover for the sake of the story. I was 49 years old and in that space of life when, as I say in the story, we want Oprah’s people to call and offer to transform us into someone more beautiful than we feel.
So, I jumped. A freelancer at the time, I was not about to turn down good money, even if it meant being subjected to bleaches and pincers and people poking at my particulars. I imagined myself under the influence of Stacy London and Clinton Kelly of What Not To Wear, finally throwing out that aqua pique pantsuit I wore for my book tour 10 years ago, because you know, I might just fit into it one day again soon. Stylist Nick Arrojo with his sexy Manchester accent giving me just the right cut, and makeup artist Carmindy (what kind of name is that, Carmindy? Could I combine my names somehow, Sustella? Stellusan?)... Carmindy telling me what I really need is a smokey eye. Oh, how I wanted a smokey eye.
What I didn't know was that the story required not only a hair/makeup/clothing makeover — which was hard enough — but that I work with a life coach. A LIFE coach! I didn't agree to anything about changing my life. But I had signed on, so I was in. For five weeks (FIVE WEEKS!) I spent time on the phone with my life coach, with my space organizer, with my clothes makeover maven. The organizer came to my house and transformed my office. (And because of her I now have wonderful built-in book shelves.) The clothes maven came to my closet, and I was embarrassed that I don't have a light close enough by to see what I am trying to find. Even now.
The final day would be with the hairstylist, then shopping for a new chic image. (Thank goodness the photos are lost to the magazine archive.) I approached each with trepidation. What did those women really feel when found on a NYC street by Meredith and Matt and Ann and Al and taken off for a day of transformation?
I would soon find out.
On the final day, before I was to have my physical transformation, I met with my life coach at a coffee shop. And OMG (though that expression didn't exist in the vernacular at the time) I was thrilled at the outcome of my little treasure map project. But she was not.
"All you have here are words," she said. "Where are the pictures?" Pictures? Well, I had a few. (ok, four.) But I guess the assignment was NO words.
Imagine.
When I thought about it, the magazine pictures of women smiling whom I had never met, objects I would never own.. they didn't draw my eye. What I saw before she pointed to the lack of pictures, was art— something I had created that reflected quite by accident the me at that moment, and probably the me of every moment since I could spell out words at all, on the chalkboard lines my teacher drew in front of me in first grade.
I remember that, how my teacher, Mrs. Pippen, used to write the letters out in yellow chalk, spelling plain old words across the chalkboard in fine block letters that looked like art to me. And she could take that old eraser, wipe it all away, and make a whole new sentence, all over again. What magic, that was. (Yes, I do realize how weird that is.)
How wonderful, to be able to put one letter in front of the other to make a word. And then a sentence. A paragraph. A page. A story.
But according to my life coach, I had not followed the directions. I had made a C. Well, there you also have me. C. To the Core.
And so, in the beginning of my "finding" (my word for 2011,) today I revisited that treasure map, the one that didn't have (enough) pictures. Looking at it now I am embarrassed at how much I haven't done, but heartened that it still holds the secrets to what I wish for myself, at my core.
My purple room friend today took a look at the map and suggested I pick pieces of it to write about during this year. What a wonderful idea. My own little Reverb, she said. A goal I will set for myself. When I am stuck, and maybe when I am not.
What my 49-year-old self meant by the words "Sane, polished, and ready for anything," I have no idea. But I am just curious enough about her to dig out the old chalk board and eraser, to wiggle with the words enough, to find out.
sbr
Core story. What central story is at the core of you, and how do you share it with the world? (Bonus: Consider your reflections from this month. Look through them to discover a thread you may not have noticed until today.)Author: Molly O'Neill, Harper Collins Children's
A few years ago I got an email from the editor of a regional magazine I had been writing for, asking for writers willing to undergo a personal makeover for the sake of the story. I was 49 years old and in that space of life when, as I say in the story, we want Oprah’s people to call and offer to transform us into someone more beautiful than we feel.
So, I jumped. A freelancer at the time, I was not about to turn down good money, even if it meant being subjected to bleaches and pincers and people poking at my particulars. I imagined myself under the influence of Stacy London and Clinton Kelly of What Not To Wear, finally throwing out that aqua pique pantsuit I wore for my book tour 10 years ago, because you know, I might just fit into it one day again soon. Stylist Nick Arrojo with his sexy Manchester accent giving me just the right cut, and makeup artist Carmindy (what kind of name is that, Carmindy? Could I combine my names somehow, Sustella? Stellusan?)... Carmindy telling me what I really need is a smokey eye. Oh, how I wanted a smokey eye.
What I didn't know was that the story required not only a hair/makeup/clothing makeover — which was hard enough — but that I work with a life coach. A LIFE coach! I didn't agree to anything about changing my life. But I had signed on, so I was in. For five weeks (FIVE WEEKS!) I spent time on the phone with my life coach, with my space organizer, with my clothes makeover maven. The organizer came to my house and transformed my office. (And because of her I now have wonderful built-in book shelves.) The clothes maven came to my closet, and I was embarrassed that I don't have a light close enough by to see what I am trying to find. Even now.
The final day would be with the hairstylist, then shopping for a new chic image. (Thank goodness the photos are lost to the magazine archive.) I approached each with trepidation. What did those women really feel when found on a NYC street by Meredith and Matt and Ann and Al and taken off for a day of transformation?
I would soon find out.
On the final day, before I was to have my physical transformation, I met with my life coach at a coffee shop. And OMG (though that expression didn't exist in the vernacular at the time) I was thrilled at the outcome of my little treasure map project. But she was not.
"All you have here are words," she said. "Where are the pictures?" Pictures? Well, I had a few. (ok, four.) But I guess the assignment was NO words.
Imagine.
When I thought about it, the magazine pictures of women smiling whom I had never met, objects I would never own.. they didn't draw my eye. What I saw before she pointed to the lack of pictures, was art— something I had created that reflected quite by accident the me at that moment, and probably the me of every moment since I could spell out words at all, on the chalkboard lines my teacher drew in front of me in first grade.
I remember that, how my teacher, Mrs. Pippen, used to write the letters out in yellow chalk, spelling plain old words across the chalkboard in fine block letters that looked like art to me. And she could take that old eraser, wipe it all away, and make a whole new sentence, all over again. What magic, that was. (Yes, I do realize how weird that is.)
How wonderful, to be able to put one letter in front of the other to make a word. And then a sentence. A paragraph. A page. A story.
But according to my life coach, I had not followed the directions. I had made a C. Well, there you also have me. C. To the Core.
And so, in the beginning of my "finding" (my word for 2011,) today I revisited that treasure map, the one that didn't have (enough) pictures. Looking at it now I am embarrassed at how much I haven't done, but heartened that it still holds the secrets to what I wish for myself, at my core.
My purple room friend today took a look at the map and suggested I pick pieces of it to write about during this year. What a wonderful idea. My own little Reverb, she said. A goal I will set for myself. When I am stuck, and maybe when I am not.
What my 49-year-old self meant by the words "Sane, polished, and ready for anything," I have no idea. But I am just curious enough about her to dig out the old chalk board and eraser, to wiggle with the words enough, to find out.
sbr
The Rolls Have It
Reverb10
What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
The last thing I made from scratch was Thanksgiving Dinner, the centerpiece of which are always my yeast rolls.
Flour, yeast, salt, sugar, butter, eggs & milk.
I have been fiddling with yeast for the life of my marriage. The first time I ever worked with it I could have used the loaves I made as doorstops. To impatient to read the directions, I forgot the let them rise.
Now, almost 30 years later, this is one thing I can say for certain that I know how to do.
It is rote now, how I (sort of) measure the sugar, combining it with a teaspoon of salt measured in the palm of my hand. Add the butter, get the yeast going, watching as it bubbles and forms a sponge on top. I use the same measuring cups, the sifter I have used for years, and the first batch always, always, rises in an Italian pottery bowl with a donkey painted in the center that was a wedding gift to my parents.
Ina Garten would not like watching me as I pour the loose dough onto my Silpat, sifting bread flour over it as it oozes, just a little. Surely, she would say, don't you need a little more flour, so the dough forms a soft ball? Trust me, Ina, this I know.
I can still hear the directions for that first failed batch out of Redbook all those years ago whispering in my head: Add just enough flour to keep the dough from sticking. That's the secret, I think, what makes my rolls lighter than most I've tasted, less dense. I move my palms over the warm mass, losing myself for just a few minutes out of my busy holiday day, and though I can not describe exactly when I know to stop (don't knead for too long), by feel I can tell the rolls will be perfect.
The recipe came from my mother, who got it from her mother. I can barely read the recipe my mother wrote down, the card long-smudged by scaulded milk, bits of yeast, butter stains. It is a treasure.
I passed the recipe onto my daughter, and her own first attempts last year didn't work, this year the aroma of yeast, flour and butter filled her little NYC kitchen, the rolls rose, baking a golden brown just like mine (almost). I am so proud of passing this tradition on, though I am not ready to give up making them just yet.
Though making the rolls each year for my family and friends is calming, there have been times when I spat at my children for trying to sneak the last piece of dough from the counter — (I had too many to make and no time to do it and so much more to do that I was about to go CRAZY for saying I would make rolls for every teacher and assistant and neighbor and party and friend.) I remember their eyes wide as they peered over the counter... just a little bite, please? No! There was NOT enough to share. They would have to wait until Christmas Day to get a bite of their own.
We used to leave Santa rolls instead of cookies, and each Christmas morning, only crumbs remained, and I felt finally satisfied, knowing I was able to give something so special back to Santa, who had always given so much to me.
Several years ago I stopped making so many, selfishly reining in my roll frenzy, trying to return it to a sacred ritual, unwilling anymore to lose the magic of roll-making, in the middle of the muddle of making too many.
Now I make them, freeing my mind to think about other things as I bake. The calm of the morning, the hum of Christmas music, my grown children, finally home, sleeping just above me.
On Thanksgiving, my mother rolled and cut the dough into the foldover kind my father likes. Just as she pinched the last roll tight, I took the small sliver of leftover dough from her and handed it to my son, who popped it right into his mouth. Finally, he didn't have to share with anyone.
What do I wish I could make but there is no time for it? I wouldn't make more rolls, but I wish I could make time, just for the sake of having a little more quiet.
sbr
What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
Flour, yeast, salt, sugar, butter, eggs & milk.
I have been fiddling with yeast for the life of my marriage. The first time I ever worked with it I could have used the loaves I made as doorstops. To impatient to read the directions, I forgot the let them rise.
Now, almost 30 years later, this is one thing I can say for certain that I know how to do.
It is rote now, how I (sort of) measure the sugar, combining it with a teaspoon of salt measured in the palm of my hand. Add the butter, get the yeast going, watching as it bubbles and forms a sponge on top. I use the same measuring cups, the sifter I have used for years, and the first batch always, always, rises in an Italian pottery bowl with a donkey painted in the center that was a wedding gift to my parents.
Ina Garten would not like watching me as I pour the loose dough onto my Silpat, sifting bread flour over it as it oozes, just a little. Surely, she would say, don't you need a little more flour, so the dough forms a soft ball? Trust me, Ina, this I know.
I can still hear the directions for that first failed batch out of Redbook all those years ago whispering in my head: Add just enough flour to keep the dough from sticking. That's the secret, I think, what makes my rolls lighter than most I've tasted, less dense. I move my palms over the warm mass, losing myself for just a few minutes out of my busy holiday day, and though I can not describe exactly when I know to stop (don't knead for too long), by feel I can tell the rolls will be perfect.
The recipe came from my mother, who got it from her mother. I can barely read the recipe my mother wrote down, the card long-smudged by scaulded milk, bits of yeast, butter stains. It is a treasure.
I passed the recipe onto my daughter, and her own first attempts last year didn't work, this year the aroma of yeast, flour and butter filled her little NYC kitchen, the rolls rose, baking a golden brown just like mine (almost). I am so proud of passing this tradition on, though I am not ready to give up making them just yet.
Though making the rolls each year for my family and friends is calming, there have been times when I spat at my children for trying to sneak the last piece of dough from the counter — (I had too many to make and no time to do it and so much more to do that I was about to go CRAZY for saying I would make rolls for every teacher and assistant and neighbor and party and friend.) I remember their eyes wide as they peered over the counter... just a little bite, please? No! There was NOT enough to share. They would have to wait until Christmas Day to get a bite of their own.
We used to leave Santa rolls instead of cookies, and each Christmas morning, only crumbs remained, and I felt finally satisfied, knowing I was able to give something so special back to Santa, who had always given so much to me.
Several years ago I stopped making so many, selfishly reining in my roll frenzy, trying to return it to a sacred ritual, unwilling anymore to lose the magic of roll-making, in the middle of the muddle of making too many.
Now I make them, freeing my mind to think about other things as I bake. The calm of the morning, the hum of Christmas music, my grown children, finally home, sleeping just above me.
On Thanksgiving, my mother rolled and cut the dough into the foldover kind my father likes. Just as she pinched the last roll tight, I took the small sliver of leftover dough from her and handed it to my son, who popped it right into his mouth. Finally, he didn't have to share with anyone.
What do I wish I could make but there is no time for it? I wouldn't make more rolls, but I wish I could make time, just for the sake of having a little more quiet.
sbr