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Limeade: Or How I've Lost All Observation Skills

There are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves.
-Will Rogers

I used to be able to observe.

In fact, I was rather proud of myself for my powers of observation. As an artist, noticing and critically examining the world around oneself is a vital component of creating beauty. I used to always think that I did it fairly well - details had a hard time escaping me. I wasn't a Shawn Spencer from Psych, but I did feel confident in my abilities to observe and notice things differently from the people around me.

At least until this summer.

Two weeks ago I found myself housesitting for the couple with whom I am interning. They were off galavanting on the beach and I reaped the benefits of having an entire house to myself (with their two dogs, who are way too much fun).  The week before I had stocked up on some limes that were on sale and I was excited about finding a use for them. On Monday I didn't have much to do, so I decided to make something out of the limes, go outside, sit under a tree, and read my book (Satan and the Problem of Evil: Constructing a Trinitarian Warfare Theodicy by Gregory A. Boyd. I would highly recommend it if you're looking for a long, deep, academic work that will keep you thinking late into the night). I pulled the limes out of the fridge, got out my trusty laptop that often doubles as a cookbook, and asked Google what I should make with my limes.

Limeade.

The moment I read the word I could taste the tangy sweet nectar on my tongue. What a perfect idea for a warm Arkansas day! I got to work finding the ingredients and cooking supplies in a strange house. Sugar? Check. Water? Easy. Limes? In my hand. This was going to be a quick task, who knew making limeade from scratch was almost easier than making it from a mix? I squeezed the limes, all the while wishing I had the foresight to bring along my juicer on my housesitting adventure (because one always should bring a juicer housesitting, right? What was I thinking?). Then I was ready to combine and cook. I needed a saucepan to make the lime syrup. It was time for a great search of the kitchen! I looked all over the place, on top of the refrigerator, in the spice cabinet, in the oven, in the dishwasher, everywhere I could think. No pans, whatsoever. Strange, what kind of people cook without pans? No matter, I am a resourceful person and remembered seeing a stainless steel bowl on my quest. I quickly relocated it, did a quick Google to make sure that it wouldn't explode when coming into contact with the stove (I had visions of turning around to zest a lime and suddenly dying as an exploding shard of stainless steel lodged itself in my brain. I would just lie there on the floor dead for a week, never getting to enjoy the limeade for which I sacrificed my entire being). Reassured that I wouldn't die, I moved on. Next, I needed measuring cups. If I were the people who lived in this house, where would I put the measuring cups? I looked there first. Random cooking utensils, an apple cutter, but no measuring cups. After about five minutes of looking, I gave up. Strange, but maybe they're really good cooks and just don't need to measure things. Well, I can be a good cook too! So I estimated the sugar content. Then I estimated the water content. Then I estimated the amount of lime zest to add. Quite proud of my measuring abilities, I cooked the syrup, strained it, added ice and water, and went outside to enjoy.

It was delicious. So delicious that I drank the entire batch that day. On Wednesday, I decided I wanted more. I repeated the above process, looking for the pans again and the measuring cups, still unsuccessful. (I had the sneaky suspicion that the people who lived in the house weren't the type of cooks that could manage without measuring cups and pans...they seem pretty vital in my mind. On one level I could understand not having measuring cups, but pans? No.) The limeade turned out almost as good, but not quite since I added too much zest this time and overcooked the syrup a bit, but at least I was managing in the panless house.

On Thursday, I decided I wanted to make breakfast. Pancakes sounded delicious. I located the ingredients and then realized that I had nothing to cook them in. The multi-purpose stainless steel bowl wouldn't help (unless I wanted itsy bitsy pancakes...but I was hungry and not in a delicate itsy bitsy cute mood). After turning over the kitchen yet again, looking positively everywhere (I even looked in the bedroom just in case they kept them in their closet or something...one never knows what other people do for organization in their houses. I did find pan lids on this search, which was even more infuriating as they just acted as a taunting reminder that there were pans hiding somewhere deep within the house, probably laughing at me that very moment), I exclaimed rather loudly, "Screw this! I'm going back to my house to cook!"

And that is what I did.

I made tacos.

Thursday night I was hungry. Once again I completed the all too familiar search for pans (this time I even looked for hidden compartments). The pans were just not there. I was living in a pan-free house where pan lids were kept simply as a reminder of what could be. How novel. As a last resort I decided to text the owners and see if they could shed some light on the situation that had been keeping me occupied for the past four days. Here is the exact transcript of the text message conversation that followed (notice how short it is):

Me: Where could I find saucepans/a skillet. I found lids but no pans!
Meghan: They are on the pot rack. Look up!

Oh.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you experienced such strong feelings of embarrassment, shame, stunned amazement, and pure stupidity that you couldn't move for a long period of time? If not, just stop and think about it for a little while.




...





After I recovered from the initial shock, I walked into the kitchen and raised my eyes upwards. Not towards the top of the refrigerator or the top of the cabinets, but just towards the middle of the room. This is what I saw:

I started giggling. And I didn't stop for a long time. Not refined manly chuckles, but real life giggles. I danced with the line that divides sanity and insanity. 

Eventually I composed myself, decided I was too tired to cook and settled for a frozen pizza. 

It took me another day to find the measuring cups.

-Matthias

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The Day My Shirts Smelled Like Dogs

I believe you should live each day as if it is your last, which is why I don't have any clean laundry because, come on, who wants to wash clothes on the last day of their life?
-Unknown

I feel like many of my posts on this blog are about laundry (such as this one, or this one). Maybe because since doing laundry is such a momentous occasion in my life that I feel the innate urge to document it for the whole world - as if to say "See, I actually DO take care of myself!" Regardless, this summer I've been doing laundry a lot. I have a house with a washing machine and dryer and it doesn't cost $10 to wash all my clothes. Therefore, I don't have to wear my jeans for months in order to justify a washing and my permanent dirty-clothes pile is slowly becoming nonexistent.

A goal for my summer is to be as human and environmentally friendly as possible. From my food choices to the way I dispose of my waste to how I shop, I've been attempting to be intentional about the way I live my life in order to increase my well being and decrease any negative impact I may cause. I believe that this is what we all should be doing as divinely appointed caretakers of the creation we have been blessed to inhabit. Therefore, one of the first things that I did was remove any traces of harsh chemicals from my house and start using purely environmentally friendly, non-toxic, and biodegradable cleaning supplies. This, of course, also translates to my laundry. Gone are the conventional detergents and softeners - they have been replaced with healthy alternatives.

I was so extremely excited about my new products that I just had to do a load of laundry to celebrate, so I rounded up a bunch of dirty things, popped them in the machine, and put three squirts of fun new detergent into the machine. I closed it, placed the large car tire on top of the lid (otherwise the machine will escape while vigorously spinning), and walked away.

45 minutes later the wash was done and I was running slightly late for a wine tasting that I was attending. I ran to check on the laundry and transfer it over to the dryer when I realized that the dryer was already full of clean, dry, fluffy clothes that had been forgotten. There was no time to take them out, walk all the way to my room, put them down, walk all the way back (my room is right across the hall from the laundry room), and transfer over the wet clothes, so I just opted to leave them - "I'll change it when I get home."

I forgot.

In fact, I forgot about them for three full days. I only found the clothes when I decided to to laundry again ("I get to use my new fun detergent!!"). I opened the machine...something smelled slightly funny, but no matter, surely the heat in the dryer would sanitize (or at least, psudo-sanitize, obviously the dyer doesn't get that hot) whatever was on the clothes after being left wet for three days. I put the now almost dry clothes into the dryer, added a new biodegradable healthy dryer sheet, and started the cycle.

Two days later, I decided that I needed more clothes and discovered the dry ones in the dryer. Thankful that I didn't have to resort to washing more of the permanent dirty pile, I pulled the clothes out and took a whiff (I love the smell of clean laundry, so I always breathe deeply as I remove things from the dryer). I started coughing.

The laundry smelled horrible.

Stupid new healthy biodegradable dryer sheets, I thought, I'm never using those again, what a waste of money. Who would make a dryer sheet that smells like wet dog. Gross. In true college student style, I decided that I would just grin and bear the smell until I could get around to doing laundry again.

The next day I put on my dog-smelling clothes, used an extra amount of my new healthy deodorant, and went to face the day. Occasionally, when the breeze was just right, I would smell wet-dog trailing me, but for the most part my mountain breeze scented armpits kept my nose out of misery. That night some friends came over and in the course of conversation, I told them about my new dryer sheets and how awful they made the clothes smell. We all shook our heads in pity as I ran to my room to grab a shirt to prove my point.

"See, SEE, it smells like wet dog!" My friend took a tentative whiff and looked at me. "Matthias," she said "that doesn't smell like wet dog, that smells like mildew." I froze. Mildew. I glanced at my friend, "well, now, come to think of it, these are the clothes that I left in the washing machine for three days before I dried them." My friend gave me a look of horror and quickly handed my shirt back to me.

The next day, I took the pile of mildewed clothes (they still smelled like dog to me), popped them in the machine, used four squirts of my fancy new detergent, and immediately transferred them to the dryer when they were finished. They came out smelling nice and fresh, just like they should.

I feel like I'm going to learn so many lessons this summer.
-Matthias

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On Insecurity: 21 Years

“We're going to have to let truth scream louder to our souls than the lies that have infected us.”
 ― Beth Moore

I am an insecure person.

Probably more insecure that I would like to admit. I always attempt to put on a face of being that strong, confident, self-aware, laughing person that everyone wants to be friends with. But, underneath that facade is a little boy who is terrified of life.

It's spring break. I'm in Ft. Smith, Arkansas. A town that is a strange combination of two worlds. It tries to be a city, but the down-home redneck charm that characterizes rural Arkansas has found a way to sneak into the hustle and bustle of the modern town. Late model Corvettes are parked directly next to pickup trucks so large that one can't help but wonder about compensation. I'm in Starbucks right now. I watch farmers swagger in and order with a drawl as thick as the coffee they're drinking. I see high-school girls in expensive designer clothes giggle and flirt with the barista. Ft. Smith is a place that reminds me of my heart. Underneath the somewhat unsuccessful attempt at portraying an trendy town, small country Arkansas still exists.

I turn 21 tomorrow. It's strange to think that I've been alive that long. I love my life. Yet, over the past couple days of break, my insecure heart has poked its way to the front of my mind. I fight with feelings of inadequacy.  I wonder if the people that I'm spending break with actually enjoy my company. I lay in bed at night and wrestle through questions and desires that surprise and frustrate me - almost to the point of tears. Even though I'm laying right next to another person, loneliness clutches and squeezes my soul. Twenty-one isn't very old. I have life to look forward to, but will these emotions ever go away?

I catch myself as I start talking to Jesus. I begin to be reminded of truth. I am loved. I am invited by friends. I am safe. And Jesus whispers to me "rest." I exhale and the anxiety I carry in my shoulders melts into my pillow. The loneliness that characterizes my fears fades and my spirit begins to be filled. Insecurity may be part of my 21 year old self, but I am learning that true rest - rest with Jesus - takes that insecurity and replaces it with joy.

Regardless of the pain and hurt. Regardless of what dreams I have to let go. Regardless of the people and circumstances around me. My goal for my 21st year is to continue the process of letting my life be characterized by joy.

Happy Birthday to my 21 year old self. Let's grow this year.
-Matthias

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