Monday, April 24, 2006
In the Pocket
Maybe it was the endorphins, or maybe the sunshine... As I ended my morning run, I dropped into Murky Coffee. Ever since my office moved on up from Capitol Hill to Downtown DC, something has been missing. I have Murky Coffee beans in my fridge, waiting to welcome me into the waking world as I grind them each day. So the beans aren’t what’s missing. What could it be?
I’d finished up a beautiful run in the morning sun. As I ran down North Carolina, past the soon to open, new “neighborhood coffee shop,” I could already hear the sound of the espresso maker pumping out some of the best espresso for some of the tastiest bean drinks this city has ever seen. The smooth flavor of a soy latte from Murky can’t be beat. Certainly not by a Starbuck’s. And of course, only at Murky do you find Carlos, the one-man, espresso-art-making machine. So maybe it's the talent.
At Murky, the music is always right. Whether it’s the ambiance of Nina Simone drifting by, calming my post-run heart rate like a smooth stretch or The Clash pumping me up for a sweaty dart home, I always feel at home with that crisp white Murky Coffee cup in my hand. So maybe it’s the music.
I keep trying to put my finger on exactly what it is that makes me breathe a sigh of relief when I walk in the door. It’s a sigh like no other. The breath is almost like true relaxation which, for a caffeine addict such as myself, just doesn’t occur. So maybe it’s the wind as I open Murky's door.
Soon, as my spring pattern transitions into my summer routine, I find myself at Murky more and more. You might find clacking away on my iBook outside or reading my Vogue curled up inside in the rain. You might even find me in the company of some unexpected acquaintance. Wherever I am, you’ll find me there. So maybe it’s the familiarity, the comfort.
Odds are it’s everything. When you step into Murky, you might be complex and order a latte with syrup, skim and an extra shot. You might be simple and order the yummy Kenyan roast. You might even be chill and order some tea and a scone. The music could be any variation, from Nina to Nelly. The air could be stale, sweet or shade-grown; it doesn’t matter. I could be rushing in on the way to work or people-watching from behind the rail.
When I’m there, I'm a loyal Murky customer and I’m in the zone. Murky sets the track and I bob my head to its beat like the funky jazz they played last week. I relax or amp up, but whatever I do, I’m in the pocket. I’m ready for whatever Murky throws my way. And I’m looking forward to it.
I’d finished up a beautiful run in the morning sun. As I ran down North Carolina, past the soon to open, new “neighborhood coffee shop,” I could already hear the sound of the espresso maker pumping out some of the best espresso for some of the tastiest bean drinks this city has ever seen. The smooth flavor of a soy latte from Murky can’t be beat. Certainly not by a Starbuck’s. And of course, only at Murky do you find Carlos, the one-man, espresso-art-making machine. So maybe it's the talent.
At Murky, the music is always right. Whether it’s the ambiance of Nina Simone drifting by, calming my post-run heart rate like a smooth stretch or The Clash pumping me up for a sweaty dart home, I always feel at home with that crisp white Murky Coffee cup in my hand. So maybe it’s the music.
I keep trying to put my finger on exactly what it is that makes me breathe a sigh of relief when I walk in the door. It’s a sigh like no other. The breath is almost like true relaxation which, for a caffeine addict such as myself, just doesn’t occur. So maybe it’s the wind as I open Murky's door.
Soon, as my spring pattern transitions into my summer routine, I find myself at Murky more and more. You might find clacking away on my iBook outside or reading my Vogue curled up inside in the rain. You might even find me in the company of some unexpected acquaintance. Wherever I am, you’ll find me there. So maybe it’s the familiarity, the comfort.
Odds are it’s everything. When you step into Murky, you might be complex and order a latte with syrup, skim and an extra shot. You might be simple and order the yummy Kenyan roast. You might even be chill and order some tea and a scone. The music could be any variation, from Nina to Nelly. The air could be stale, sweet or shade-grown; it doesn’t matter. I could be rushing in on the way to work or people-watching from behind the rail.
When I’m there, I'm a loyal Murky customer and I’m in the zone. Murky sets the track and I bob my head to its beat like the funky jazz they played last week. I relax or amp up, but whatever I do, I’m in the pocket. I’m ready for whatever Murky throws my way. And I’m looking forward to it.
Monday, April 17, 2006
If life is like a box of chocolates, then I'm ready for a Cadbury Crème Egg
I celebrate Easter like many eh-Catholics: I give up giving things up for Lent and think about the greatest Easter gift—the Cadbury Crème Egg.
What is an eh-Catholic, you might ask? Someone who knows what they’re supposed to do, think about, say at mass, do to go to heaven; and says “eh.” Sure, I live a good life, but my life only intersects with St. Martin’s Catholic Church to appease my Grandma.
So, for the girl who loves celebration and holiday cheer, what joy can possibly come from the holiday of death and rising? A rooftop celebration, complete with Easter egg races and naptime. But what do I do about the candy? How do I make sure to have all the Peeps and Robin’s Eggs and Jelly Bellys when all I really want is a Cadbury Egg?
Searching high and low, from CVS to Safeway, for a Cadbury Egg was the greatest letdown of all. Like searching for that special someone, that person who sweetens your day, brightens your smile and completes your holiday festivities, and only finding syrupy chickens and weak little beans may be why I’ve stopped looking for the perfect man. Aren’t I entitled to the perfect Easter treat, though?
Cadbury makes a prime example of perfection in their sweet little egg: just the perfect amount of chocolate—a strong exterior that inspires confidence and trust. Then, once you delve just below the surface (perhaps a few dates in) you find a sweet, sensitive interior. Like a sweet boy actually calling when he says he will, the Cadbury Egg’s interior is the pleasant surprise we know we deserve.
This Easter, however, just like there seems to be a shortage of sweet men, there’s a deficit of Cadbury Eggs. I went on what seemed like hundreds of first dates between all of those corner CVSs (probably across the street from another CVS and around the corner from a Cosi). Everywhere I turned, however, I seemed to find another Peep or hollow chocolate bunny. This Easter, in the face of empty-calorie candy and men, I’m tempted to ask myself why. Why keep searching for the illusive Cadbury Egg in DC. And of course, in the city that forgot the date, why keep looking for a nice boy?
Just as my confidence in the illusive man begins to wane, there it was, passed over the proverbial cubical wall: a Cadbury Crème Egg. It tasted as sweet as I remembered. The sugar rush to my brain was like the joy of new love. So amazing I didn’t mind when my blood sugar sunk back down, the egg was everything I had hoped for. I may not be compelled to church or sunrise, but I am compelled to indulge in the sweet taste of the season. Does this mean that true love will soon follow? Probably not, but at least I found one good egg. A Cadbury Egg.
What is an eh-Catholic, you might ask? Someone who knows what they’re supposed to do, think about, say at mass, do to go to heaven; and says “eh.” Sure, I live a good life, but my life only intersects with St. Martin’s Catholic Church to appease my Grandma.
So, for the girl who loves celebration and holiday cheer, what joy can possibly come from the holiday of death and rising? A rooftop celebration, complete with Easter egg races and naptime. But what do I do about the candy? How do I make sure to have all the Peeps and Robin’s Eggs and Jelly Bellys when all I really want is a Cadbury Egg?
Searching high and low, from CVS to Safeway, for a Cadbury Egg was the greatest letdown of all. Like searching for that special someone, that person who sweetens your day, brightens your smile and completes your holiday festivities, and only finding syrupy chickens and weak little beans may be why I’ve stopped looking for the perfect man. Aren’t I entitled to the perfect Easter treat, though?
Cadbury makes a prime example of perfection in their sweet little egg: just the perfect amount of chocolate—a strong exterior that inspires confidence and trust. Then, once you delve just below the surface (perhaps a few dates in) you find a sweet, sensitive interior. Like a sweet boy actually calling when he says he will, the Cadbury Egg’s interior is the pleasant surprise we know we deserve.
This Easter, however, just like there seems to be a shortage of sweet men, there’s a deficit of Cadbury Eggs. I went on what seemed like hundreds of first dates between all of those corner CVSs (probably across the street from another CVS and around the corner from a Cosi). Everywhere I turned, however, I seemed to find another Peep or hollow chocolate bunny. This Easter, in the face of empty-calorie candy and men, I’m tempted to ask myself why. Why keep searching for the illusive Cadbury Egg in DC. And of course, in the city that forgot the date, why keep looking for a nice boy?
Just as my confidence in the illusive man begins to wane, there it was, passed over the proverbial cubical wall: a Cadbury Crème Egg. It tasted as sweet as I remembered. The sugar rush to my brain was like the joy of new love. So amazing I didn’t mind when my blood sugar sunk back down, the egg was everything I had hoped for. I may not be compelled to church or sunrise, but I am compelled to indulge in the sweet taste of the season. Does this mean that true love will soon follow? Probably not, but at least I found one good egg. A Cadbury Egg.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Unexpected: the lock-out becomes a lucky day
I hope I never lose the absurdity of today. A day that was as typical as it was outlandish. It began just another Sunday. Morning set in and I couldn’t sleep—not after a long night working at the bar. Between insomnia and sunshine, I made my way to Eastern Market, thinking about food and guests for dinner along the way. My menu was nonsense. A crazy menu of assorted empanadas, pesto lasagna and salad was in the works. And then, who could have imagined my guests would bring enough wine? The mind races.
At dinner, the food was amazing. The company was a mélange of laughter, smiles and wine. Vegetables were passed around of all flavors, styles and the herbs rang true—accentuating our celebratory mood. How could you possibly end the perfect night? With a lock-out. I was a homeless girl, my lock broken and my friends’ bags inside, behind a locked door; we had to celebrate from without. As we enjoyed our time in my hallway and kept my sanity in the present, I began to think a little about clarity. How do you turn a typically insane day into a lesson?
How do you know whether you’re headed in the right direction? How do you know if you’re living a good life? What do you say when people ask you, “How can you possibly be this happy?” When you’re left raw and open, whether by breakup or broken lock, what do you do?
You live. You feel the flavors; the Italian parsley or Cremini picked yesterday. You taste. When the tasting is an experience of atmosphere, flavor, texture and time, it can be enough. Whether you’re inhaling the last remaining empanada while watching friends dance and waiting for the illusive locksmith or breathing in the calmly energizing dining room of Coppi’s Organic Restaurant, you take in everything and just live. That immediate experiencing of mood and meal brought me face-to-face with the clarity I sought to find.
Taking the clear taste of a pizza made from fresh eggplant, portabella and red pepper, scouted out by the chef at Coppi’s, ensured that I tasted every flavor. I ate tomato so full of flavor that all you needed to do was place it in the blender for a few minutes to have amazing sauce, for me, is like being perched on a DC rowhouse, overlooking your life and knowing, without a doubt and inexplicably, that everything will work out. In a world without rhyme or reason, but with sweetness and a little soul, everything will be alright.
The locksmith got my door open, we found more liquor to pass the time and I will get it figured out (eventually). The bottom line is that, whatever it is doesn’t matter. The moral of the story is that the true "it" lies in figuring out, and not necessarily knowing, the answer. Sometimes, the best we can hope for is just the first spring hug of wind on our arms or the way kale tasted when it's cooked just right.
At dinner, the food was amazing. The company was a mélange of laughter, smiles and wine. Vegetables were passed around of all flavors, styles and the herbs rang true—accentuating our celebratory mood. How could you possibly end the perfect night? With a lock-out. I was a homeless girl, my lock broken and my friends’ bags inside, behind a locked door; we had to celebrate from without. As we enjoyed our time in my hallway and kept my sanity in the present, I began to think a little about clarity. How do you turn a typically insane day into a lesson?
How do you know whether you’re headed in the right direction? How do you know if you’re living a good life? What do you say when people ask you, “How can you possibly be this happy?” When you’re left raw and open, whether by breakup or broken lock, what do you do?
You live. You feel the flavors; the Italian parsley or Cremini picked yesterday. You taste. When the tasting is an experience of atmosphere, flavor, texture and time, it can be enough. Whether you’re inhaling the last remaining empanada while watching friends dance and waiting for the illusive locksmith or breathing in the calmly energizing dining room of Coppi’s Organic Restaurant, you take in everything and just live. That immediate experiencing of mood and meal brought me face-to-face with the clarity I sought to find.
Taking the clear taste of a pizza made from fresh eggplant, portabella and red pepper, scouted out by the chef at Coppi’s, ensured that I tasted every flavor. I ate tomato so full of flavor that all you needed to do was place it in the blender for a few minutes to have amazing sauce, for me, is like being perched on a DC rowhouse, overlooking your life and knowing, without a doubt and inexplicably, that everything will work out. In a world without rhyme or reason, but with sweetness and a little soul, everything will be alright.
The locksmith got my door open, we found more liquor to pass the time and I will get it figured out (eventually). The bottom line is that, whatever it is doesn’t matter. The moral of the story is that the true "it" lies in figuring out, and not necessarily knowing, the answer. Sometimes, the best we can hope for is just the first spring hug of wind on our arms or the way kale tasted when it's cooked just right.
