Good Things, December Edition
Whoever invented the patio heater is a freaking GENIUS, and I’m sorry it took me until 2020 to realize this!
Is it just me, or has December gone in a blur? I guess it’s cliche, at this point, to say that 2020 has been The Year That Never Ends, but now that the end is in sight, I find myself thinking: where did it all go? Time hasn’t been strung, in her usual fashion, between the clear seasonal markers. Obviously the world has kept turning, and the seasons have kept changing, but this year I’ve realized that my awareness of the changing seasons isn’t just induced by shifts in temperature and foliage; it also comes from observing other people, out in the wild. When I think of fall, I think of walking down Second Avenue on Sunday afternoons, when everyone is wearing a football jersey, when every bar is packed with people shouting at the TV. When I think of Christmas, I think of the chaotic hordes of tourists in Midtown, of the crowds that cause me to huff and roll my eyes and walk in the bus lane instead. Not that I’m particularly upset about the relative tranquility of Midtown—but on some level, it does make December feel less December-y.
So now I rely on other markers to chart the passage of time; strange, idiosyncratic markers. This morning I did a Peloton workout, and the screen congratulated me for my 40-week streak—a streak kept alive because of Covid, because exercise has been one of the most reliable ways to maintain my sanity—and I realized that only 12 weeks remain until that streak reaches a solid year. On Sunday we stopped to visit our friends in their snow-covered backyard in Connecticut, where they turned on the patio heaters to keep us warm. During an earlier visit with these friends, back in the summer, they told us they’d ordered the heaters in anticipation of the winter, and I remember thinking, but winter is so far away! Experiencing those heaters in action reminded me of how long this thing has been going on.
I find that life during Covid has been both deeply boring and deeply absorbing. Sometimes both, simultaneously. A lot of days I think to myself, This is so lame, you could literally set your watch by my routines, by what time I wake up and what time I go for a run and what time I sit down at my desk to work. But other days I lose myself in those routines, and I’m grateful to have these things to rely upon, especially in a world that makes it difficult to plan for next week, let alone next year. Covid has forced me to pay attention to, and derive pleasure from, whatever happens to be right in front of me. I think this is why, lately, I’ve found such enjoyment in the tactile things: baking cookies, taking a scalding hot shower, burning a candle, lying in child’s pose with my forehead pressed against the floor. Someday I’ll be able to give my friend a real hug when I go to her house. But for now, drinking a hot cup of coffee in a snow-covered backyard is also pretty wonderful.
And on that note, of learning to love what is in front of us: here are some of the things that have been absorbing me through these December days!
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Reading. I always strive to be an original, so like literal millions of other Americans, I’ve been reading Barack Obama’s memoir. The voice on the page is deeply thoughtful, carefully crafted, fundamentally optimistic, occasionally long-winded—in other words, just like the man himself. What I find most striking about the book is the streak of sadness that runs through so much of it, Obama’s constant awareness of how imperfect, and imperfect-able, human beings are. And yet he is an optimist! He regards the people around him, even his most vociferous opponents, with a steadiness that, yes, can occasionally come across as a bit aloof or professorial, but that also seems rooted in a truly open-minded curiosity. It’s been such a lovely book to spend time with.
Listening. You know what else makes me highly original? How much I love Samin Nosrat. I know I’m many months late to this party, but I’ve recently gotten into her podcast Home Cooking, which she co-hosts with Hrishikesh Hirway. It’s delightful! They talk about what they’ve been cooking, they take questions from listeners, they interview occasional guests, and in every segment, they’re just so funny and warm-hearted and kind. It’s been the perfect light-hearted distraction. (I like to listen to these podcasts while I run, which is how I tend to bribe myself to get outside on those colder, grayer days.) The only downside is that listening to this show will make you incredibly hungry.
Cooking. Speaking of hunger, I’ve been on a cookie baking tear recently. I ordered these cheesy-but-awesome Christmas boxes from Amazon, and filling these silly boxes with cookies and sharing them with friends has brought me disproportionate joy. Last week I made two recipes from Smitten Kitchen that yielded particularly excellent pay-offs for a tiny amount of work. From two different ends of the flavor spectrum: these twice-baked shortbread cookies (very elegant and restrained), and these brownie-esque cookies (an absolute chocolate bomb). Like all SK recipes, they just work. I love you Deb!
Watching. After hearing the buzz about it, last week Andrew suggested we watch the documentary Time. I’m so glad he did, because it wasn’t even on my radar (I’ve been way less plugged into the news this year, and mostly this is a good thing, but I do miss out on a lot of cultural awareness). It was stunning. Absolutely stunning. My description won’t suffice, so I’ll just say: please go watch it. The beginning has a certain slow-boil quality, the narrative elisions asking you to trust that the necessary information will be provided in due course, but as the movie continues, it just builds and builds, and the ultimate crescendo is one of the most powerful things I have ever watched. After we finished it, I had to lay on the ground in tears for a while, not because I was sad—although there was some sadness in there, too—but because I was just astonished by the people in this story, by their endurance and strength and love, and sometimes the only thing you can do, when you witness such grace, is let yourself cry and cry.