Staff Picks: 2012

Remember my Staff Picks entry from back in November? Well, lest you think I only occasionally fantasize about working at libraries and bookstores and all the exquisite privileges that come with such a dreamjob, let me set the record straight with another Staff Picks shelf, this time for my favorites of 2012. 

Music
I have looked at a few "Best of 2012" lists for the albums released this year and have been mostly disappointed. Does anyone actually listen to the Japandroids? And who is Miguel? Or Frank Ocean? It seems as though a lot of these lists have a vested interest in looking really eclectic and cultured (if sub-cultured), so they throw in garage bands and amateurish R&B to round things out. I was really surprised at the absence of certain really good releases I've heard this year. But this isn't a Best Of list, it's just my personal favorites from the year. So without further ado:

Adventures In Your Own Backyard by Patrick Watson


This is probably my favorite discovery of the year. Patrick Watson and his crew know how to deliver sweet little songs that are creative and layered. Favorite tracks: "Lighthouse," "Into Giants," "Quiet Crowd," and the title track, "Adventures In Your Own Backyard." I spent many hours grading this semester with this album as my soundtrack. I'm looking forward to listening to it under more pleasant conditions in 2013.


Loveblood by King Charles



King Charles may also weigh in as my biggest crush of the whole year. His persona is so bizarre (one critic referred to his look as a cross between a French duke and a root vegetable), yet it makes so much sense. He is like a crude Roi Soleil come to haunt us in the 21st century. The general reception of this album is mixed, so I'll just tell you what I think: it's a lot of fun. In fact, it's the album I wish Mika would have released this year. A lot of people want to pigeonhole King Charles into that painfully boring category of "indie pop," but I think the music is way too catchy for that. Favorite tracks: "Mississippi Isabel," "Ivory Road," "The Brightest Lights."


Break It Yourself by Andrew Bird



This is Andrew Bird we're talking about here. Trust me. Trust him. Favorites: "Danse Caribe," "Lazy Projector," "Near Death Experience Experience," "Lusitania" (love him most when he's whistling), "Belles."


Radio Music Society by Esperanza Spalding



I have yet to love any of her albums as much as I did her debut, Esperanza, but girl keeps making good music. Tracks like "Radio Song" and "Black Gold" set this album apart as being slightly more radio-friendly or generally palatable than previous releases. All the same, she hasn't lost my attention yet. Favorite tracks: "Crowned & Kissed," "I Can't Help It," and "City of Roses."


Love is a Four-Letter Word by Jason Mraz



It wouldn't even be fair to call Jason Mraz my guilty pleasure; I sincerely believe that he's talented and that, when he isn't trying too hard to impress the fan-base he created with the release of "I'm Yours" ca. 2008, he's a creative songwriter and an almost unmatched performer in terms of his energy and improvisational abilities. This album is not consistently brilliant, but it has so many moments that shine like little revelations. The whole tenor of the album has to do with the art of living abundantly, which we come to learn is almost indistinguishable from the gift of loving abundantly. Favorites: "93 Million Miles" (I seriously listened to that about a dozen times on the evening I purchased the album), "Be Honest," "The World As I See It," and "5/6." (Read my more extensive review of the album on Amazon.)


Born & Raised by John Mayer



To follow 2012's running theme of "Not my favorite by this artist," Born & Raised is far from John Mayer at his finest. But I'd be lying if I said anything other than that I fell in love with this album while driving by myself eastbound down I-80 through the fields of Iowa. John Mayer is one of those musicians I love all the more for his story. He was in a rocky place as he started working on this album, but you can tell that he sort of found his footing in the process of laying down these tracks. And somehow, as a result, I had an awakening of my own when I finally let this blasted little country album grow on me. Favorites: "Queen of California," "Something Like Olivia" (mmm, some blues), "Born and Raised," "If I Ever Get Around to Living" (this one reminds me of "83" from Room for Squares), "A Face to Call Home" (tears, okay?). 

Notable Mentions Because I Love These Guys and Want Their Music to Keep Being Wonderful:
The Absence by Melody Gardot 
The Origin of Love by Mika (c'mon dude, pull it together)


Movies
My favorite theatrical releases from the year.

Moonrise Kingdom
(Saw it with: darling Rebekah Allred)



Sweet little film from Wes Anderson. The children-and-birds-and-wilderness-and-Boy-Scouts-in-the-60s aesthetic really did it for me, and I loved Alexandre Desplat and Benjamin Britten on the soundtrack.


Beasts of the Southern Wild
(Saw it with: the venerable Patrick and Philip)



I wouldn't recommend it to just anyone. It had a sort of awful sorrow to it, but it was beautiful in its ugliness and I was moved.


The Perks of Being a Wallflower
(Saw it with: Emily, the perfect friend for the occasion)



This book was wonderful and haunting to me as a teenager. Who knows what I'd think of it now, but I was a sucker for this movie all the same.



Wreck-It Ralph
(Saw it with: my amazing siblings Bradford, Sarah, and Dan)



So cute. I just loved this one because it was lovable. Also, it might be worth it to go see it just for the incredible Disney short that premieres before the film.


The Words
(Saw it: on its DVD release day with my family)



I'm a sucker for plagiarism as a metaphor. This is a smart film, and literary.


Les Misérables
(Saw it: on Christmas day with my family)



I love this story. What more can I say?

Notable Mention Because I Saw Only Half of this Film But Really Enjoyed it:
Salmon Fishing in the Yemen


Books
Who are we kidding? I don't read. 

But actually, it's true that I probably didn't read anything published in 2012. So instead, I will leave you with my favorite book (which is also my favorite favorite) of the year in the hopes that you'll read it and be changed as I was:

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson



I'll undoubtedly write about this time and time again on the blog, so suffice it to say for now that my year wouldn't have been the same without it.


Let me know if you heard, saw, or read anything this year that I should know about. May you all have the most wonderful ringing-in of the New Year with the loveliest people you know this evening. That's what I'll be doing.

O Magnum Mysterium

Having been raised in a Church that largely favors conceptualizing a loving and even familiar God and a Savior who is truly our friend, I have always been able to find personal peace and comfort even in times of the deepest and bitterest heartache. Sometimes it feels as though the holidays are when I most need to plead for that reassurance from on high that broken things will be mended, that all which is lost will be restored, that I was created to praise and to have joy (which might end up being more or less the same thing, when I think about it). 

But one thing that I perhaps haven't spent enough time doing is showing my reverence for something like the birth of Christ simply by acknowledging its incomprehensibility—its mystery. There are moments when I truly do awe at the miracle that is a falling snowflake, a warm embrace, a word tenderly spoken, or the irresistible magic of the lit-up Christmas tree in my childhood living room. My sense of wonder should be a hundredfold and eternity for the gift, genuine and sweet and everlasting, of a Savior who came to this earth to love and heal in ways that transcend my understanding.

This setting of "O Magnum Mysterium" has a way of, well, making me cry. And also reminding me that it really is a great mystery, this thing we call Christmas.

May you all enjoy as many beautiful things possible on this Christmas Eve.

Every once in a while, an amazing person decides to be my friend & stuff

Meet Philip. Actually, you already have if you read my last blog post. He makes delicious bread and figgy pudding and he writes poetry and plays bells of all kinds and actually has a favorite font and looks like this more often than should be allowed:

That hair. Right? 

If you can believe it, he also writes music. You should probably spend the rest of your day reveling in something (or seven things) he's created at his gloriously designed personal website.

In addition to the supernal privilege of knowing someone so full and genuine and lovely, I have the added bonus of taking meager part in awesome artistic collaborations with him.

You'll probably hear more about our post-classical minimalist indie-folk Americana world music duo in future posts, but know for now that we may or may not have come up with the concept for our band (Ampers&) and its first three album releases (to say nothing of our EP, of course) in the dead of night when I should have been writing a Swedish paper. Don't worry, this photo of me and Philip from ca. 2000 will definitely be included in the liner notes or as the cover of our collector's edition vinyl.

All of this is to say that you should probably listen to this song, Ampers&'s first demo, and think about what you're resolving to do in 2013 now that we know the world is most certainly not finished not even close because not every person has a home yet and not every star a song.

The Most Glorious

The Most Glorious Merry Wonderful Charming Perfect Heartwarming Christmas Party Ever is an event that took place on Saturday the fifteenth December in the year of our Lord 2012 in East Lansing, Michigan and/or our every-yearning, ever-brimming hearts.

First of all, a little fun holiday fact: if you ever want to, say, roast a goose for a glorious Christmas gathering of your own, be prepared to shell out $60-$100. (A message board poster sums it up nicely in her thread title: "Price of Goose - What Happened???" Each of those three question marks is necessary.) Also, if you must purchase said goose frozen because even the most specialized poultry shops don't sell fresh goose until the week before Christmas, prepare to wait three days for your goose to thaw.

Given that no butcher in East Lansing sees the value of carrying fresh duck or boar's head (I know, right?), Philip and I settled on chicken and hoped that we wouldn't lose any holiday brownie points for doing away with the traditional English main courses that would surely make our Old World-themed party a success.

Groceries purchased and Costas (sous-chef extraordinaire, come to find) in tow, we rolled up our sleeves and set to work. The cooks all enjoyed Angie's dark chocolate and sea salt kettle corn with no regard for our waistlines or the fact that a sumptuous repast was immediately forthcoming. Really, there was no proper response but to finish off the whole bag in ca. thirty minutes when its ingredients were (and I quote): Joy. Love. Exaltation.

Our night was off to a good start.

The menu for the evening ultimately included the following:

+ two roasted chickens, one dressed à la Barefoot Contessa with lemons, garlic, and thyme and the other stuffed with apples and currants and basted with a butter and apple cider glaze
+ roasted carrots and fennel
+ mashed sweet potatoes with a hint of honey and cinnamon
+ apple and currant stuffing (and who knew this would become the most indispensable dish of the night?)
+ green beans sauteed with bacon, onions, and red pepper flakes
+ figgy pudding (no, really)

This is to say nothing of our appetizers: the brie and baguettes, the vegetables, rolls, and dips brought by other partygoers, and the gougères prepared by none other than Allison (from whom we've come to expect nothing less than food that requires the rest of us to do some Wikipedia research beforehand). Also, Christmas isn't Christmas without sugar: chocolate cupcakes and apple and cranberry pie baked by dear, sweet Philip (the latter of which was sadly neglected all evening because the figgy pudding was just that good).

After dinner, we caroled at the spinet. Few things in life are sweeter to me than singing with these voices I know and love so well: Sarah, Dan, Philip, Costas, Allison, Victoria. We laughed. We cried. (No, really.) I read poetry aloud from the beautiful book Philip gave me: Christmas in Art & Song from 1879. He and I both did our best Linus van Pelt imitations in reciting the Christmas story from Luke, wrapped in a bright blue Snuggie so as to look like shepherds mild.

  

The Most Glorious Merry Wonderful Charming Perfect Heartwarming Christmas Party Ever somehow lived up to its name, and it reminded me that this season really is meant to be magical.

That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

Little ones

In T-minus twenty-four hours, I am leaving for Michigan to spend three and a half blissful weeks with nothing but Yuletide cheer in my heart and loved ones gathered 'round. My little brother is going home, too, only he'll be staying there next semester and leaving me all by my lonesome here in Utah. So, in honor of his departure and Christmas and all things that are wonderful and ridiculous about being siblings, here is an old photo I dug up over Thanksgiving weekend.

Me and Bradford, ca. 1997

Only in the carefree bliss that is childhood can white copy paper transform into a beard, and I guess it's okay to waltz around in your underwear no matter what the occasion. More and more, I'm coming to believe that Christmas has everything to do with children, even the silly ones and the trouble-makers and those who wonder if there is still a place for them in this world. A child was born in a stable in Bethlehem long ago to show us that miracles can be found in the tiniest, most fragile of bodies and in the humblest places. For that I am grateful.

I'm also feeling extremely blessed to know that I will reunite with my siblings (those dear partners-in-crime, those sharers in all tomfoolery) this holiday season. One of my brothers, Josh, is soon to be a dad for the first time. What better way to celebrate the joys of Christmas than to welcome another little child into this big, humble, messy thing we call our family? And hopefully someday he'll have brothers and sisters willing to sit in his lap and fully believe (maybe for just a moment) that he's Santa.

Yeah, that's what it's all about.

Instructions for living a life

"Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it."
―Mary Oliver


Said like a true poet.

To be honest, that's why I decided to start updating this blog again. There is so much beauty in the world. I imagine I see only a fraction of it, yet it's more than enough to amaze me. Sometimes to the point of tears or prayers or poems or whatever praise I can muster. What I write here is just my way of sharing, of expressing my gratitude, of saying "Look, here, the world has a sweetness and a loveliness; partake with me."

Yesterday I paid attention.

It was the last day of classes. Our little band of humanities students were charged with doing their end-of-semester creative presentations. One by one (or sometimes in smiling little groups) they would make their way to the front and, without any pomp and circumstance, share with us.

And I was astonished.

One girl read aloud an original beat poem and owned it. Another showed a gorgeous video of a dance she'd choreographed. Three of the students decided to make Jackson Pollock-inspired baked goods. (Who knew abstract expressionism could be so tasty?) Many others, humbled by the experience, sheepishly showed their paint-splattered efforts to imitate Pollock on a canvas. A peppy little quartet in ties sang us to Coney Island. One boy, normally so quiet and unassuming, played a really stunning rendition of "Norwegian Wood." His best friend in the class sang the Beatles, too, in a gorgeous and assured baritone that I think surprised everyone. A sweet girl who normally sits in the back came forward to play a song on the banjo―an instrument she just started learning over Thanksgiving break.

The sense of camaraderie in the room was palpable, at least to me. I felt a love and a warmth that I wouldn't have expected to feel for this motley little crew with their cramped penmanship and their endless barrage of questions about points and grades and all like that. When we got the numbers out of the way, though, and we just started sharing and singing and clapping and being, we could see the beauty in each other. And what a glorious thing to behold. 

So here I am, telling about that irresistible salt shaker beat and those prickly banjo fingers and all the globs upon globs of paint and wondering if it's even possible for the universe to run out of poems.

Finding Eden

Whenever I have had a long day on campus, I find myself amazed time and time again at the renewing effect of simply stepping outside to walk back home. If I'm lucky, the darkness won't have totally settled in just yet. The peaks of the mountains have a bolder outline as the sun first sets, but little by little they become more blue and mysterious and even mythical. Squaw Peak juts out jagged (and almost arrogant, really); the mountain ranges to the south and west are straight out of an Impressionist painting with their creamy pastels, soft around the edges; and of course, Timpanogos to the north: strong, sculpted, assured, snow-capped more often than not. It's easy to forget that campus is a little mountain of its own; it isn't until I start the steep descent back down into the city that I remember we're that much closer to the sky than the rest of Provo. The sidewalk just across the street from my office offers a breathtaking view of the city lights, the dimensions of the neighborhoods below, Utah Lake, and the faraway peaks to the west. Like a well-worn melody, it never gets old. I am always in awe when I take the time to look. There is a certain comforting familiarity to be found in these mountains, so constant in their presence and so dear to me for everything they've come to mean.

A pulsing realization has come to me in layers over the past six years. I will never forget the first time I traveled back home to Michigan. I had only been in Provo for about two months, but it was a long two months without my family or any of the comforts and familiarity of home. The occasion was a production of Children of Eden at my old high school—it was my sister's senior year, and thus her last year performing in a musical at the beloved Tibbit's Opera House. Dad picked me up from the Detroit airport that Thursday evening and we raced straight to the theatre to catch the beginning of the show. As if the situation weren't inherently fraught with enough emotion, the play itself followed the heartbreaking narrative of the human race, starting with God, His relationship to Adam and Eve, their relationship to Cain and Abel, and so forth. The whole show was a cycling of generations, of patterns of curiosity and rebellion that finally give way to sacrifice and love—the painful kind of love that only a parent can know. The kind of love that asks you to let go. All the while, the children of every generation continue the search for Eden, which is ultimately a search for home. When you think of the Creation and the Fall in those terms, it seems like we're almost programmed for nostalgia: that primeval longing for a sweet Edenic homecoming. Needless to say, I was already reduced to a puddle of tears by the time I was able to hug my sister for the first time in months at the show's end. I went to all three nights of performances. I knew I needed to be instructed in how to cope with homesickness, which is perhaps one of the central struggles of the human condition and definitely the biggest thing I was facing at the time.

My sister Sarah and me on opening night of Children of Eden

It's really no surprise that I had such a tender and powerful experience in returning home that first time. What I wasn't expecting was a Provo homecoming almost just as sweet: the minute I returned to my cramped dorm room, I received a call on my desk phone. My newly acquired group of friends and my sweet-natured boyfriend were all but screaming on the other end of the line, asking me to join them in the cafeteria for Sunday dinner. The love was palpable as I stepped into the Morris Center. I was greeted warmly with hugs and kisses and proclamations that even my paltry three days' absence had left little holes in their weekends. I was missed. I was loved. And somehow, Provo had already become another home.

Imagine what six more years of making this place home might do to my heart. The friendly mountains. The familiar contours of the oft-walked streets. The tunnels that still ring with Sunday carols sung with friends. That kiss atop the bell tower. The temple, shining like a beacon in the night, on whose grounds I've so often sought solace and cried freely. The classrooms I've been instructed in. The ones I've taught in. The whiteboards that might still bear a smudge of mine, maybe a fingerprint. That hill at the park by the Riverwoods where I have stargazed with the dearest of souls. The concert halls where I was lucky enough to perform. That parking lot where I used to practice the foxtrot with a special boy. The inconspicuous little look-out point on Y Mountain where I have gone to cry, to advise, to let off sky-lanterns, to celebrate. The Marriott Center, where my heart caught on fire more than once at devotionals, basketball games, music and dance performances. The drives down to Springville with nothing but Eric Whitacre between me and the smeary sunset. The quaint glow of Center Street on a summer evening. The big hearts and warm hands I've come to love.

I could go on. Chances are, I will do just that in the coming months of saying my goodbyes to this place. But this is less an elegy for my Provo days and more a celebration of that lesson I started learning as an eighteen-year-old Eve torn from everything I'd known: that I needn't wait for Eden. There are bits and pieces of home glowing all about me in the pattern of the stars or the constellation of freckles on a face I love. Home is a kind of warmth. And it just might be a mountain reaching up into the darkness in search of its own heaven.

Of Mothers and Motorcycles

My guess is that there are few reading this who aren't also my friends on Facebook. Yet I can't think of a single reason in this whole wide whimsical world why not to re-post this insanely awesome vintage photo of my mother being "mad, bad, and dangerous to know" (a phrase once used to describe his majesty Lord Byron and, thus of course, the highest of compliments). 

Yes, folks, I am her daughter. And so happy about that.

Things I may never understand about the culture I live in

*Nota bene: I don't necessarily hate these things. I especially don't hate you if you happen to like any of them. I just don't understand them.

Including but not limited to:

1. Pinterest
For those of you who have already heard me rant about this, my apologies. But can we all come to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as a "Pinterest craft" or a "Pinterest recipe"? It's just a craft! It's just a recipe! From what I understand, the website doesn't generate any unique content; it only helps you find and organize existing information on this here world wide web. When I search for a recipe online using Google, I don't make the resulting recipe from FoodNetwork.com and then tell everyone, "Yeah. It's a Google recipe. I found it on Google." Why should it be any different for Pinterest?

2. Twitter
It's like Facebook statuses. Without the rest of Facebook to go with it.

3. Late-night talk shows
Too many men who think they are too funny for their own good. I just don't get it.

4. For that matter, most comedy TV
I've tried watching The Office. Not that funny. Also, Arrested Development; it just makes me uncomfortable. I don't watch Modern Family or Community or Parks and Rec or 30 Rock... can't do it. Nope. (I admit, though, my own taste in TV is not necessarily aesthetically or morally superior: I love Law & Order, Criminal Minds, I Almost Got Away With It, Storage Wars, and virtually anything on Food Network. So it's okay if you don't understand me, either.)

5. Twilight
And/or the recent preoccupation with vampires in general. (Why is everyone watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer again? Wasn't that show cancelled almost a decade ago?) But people who make a point of hating Twilight are almost as annoying as those who unabashedly love it, so I won't say anything more on the subject.

6. Keira Knightley and everything she represents
Remind me: Why do we want to be transported back to the Victorian Era? And why must Keira Knightley be the one to take us there? (And ugh, why was she cast as Anna Karenina? There are other actresses for period films, y'know.)

7. Memes
Don't get me started.

8. Ranch dressing
Okay, to be fair, that's a mystery of the ages. Moving on.

9. Calling everything "epic"
I'm pretty vocal in picking a bone about this. Things that are epic: Gilgamesh, The Odyssey, the Earth's creation, etc. Things that are not epic: the bowl of ice cream you ate for breakfast (even if you put Nutella and peanut butter on it), the trick you did on your skateboard, the Ultimate Frisbee game that went down last night, the "fail" you supposedly had by slipping and falling on the ice on your way to class, or anything else that isn't "heroic, majestic, or impressively great."

10. "Fail"
I already alluded to it in #9. This one just gets on my nerves.

11. "Legit"
This one isn't nearly as offensive as the previous two. Still, I dare you to say "legitimate" any time you are tempted to say "legit" and see what happens.

12. "I'm not gonna lie..."
Good. Shouldn't it be the default not to lie?

13. Mumford & Sons
Actually, I can level with this one a little. I'm known to love me some indie/folk from time to time. I just don't think Mumford & Sons are doing the best out of all the folkers out there. The lead singer's voice is kind of weird. And all of their songs sound the same. (Funny thing: I listened to a track called "The Boxer" from their most recent album to make sure I was willing to include them on the list. Just as I began thinking, "Wow. I actually really like this song," I realized that it's a Simon & Garfunkel cover. Case in point.)

*Nota bene: There is a lot of contemporary music that I can't stand. Mumford & Sons doesn't even begin to top the list. They at least have some talent and some soul. I mostly included them because everyone is all, "OMG THIS CHANGED MY LIFE" and, as the title of this list suggests, I just don't get it.

14. Crocs
A mystery to everyone. And yet, they continue to plague our society.

15. People who "love to read,"
but really they just read Twilight and fan fic. Or worse yet, Twilight fan fic.

16. "That awkward moment"...
when there wasn't an awkward moment and you didn't write a complete sentence to describe it.

17. "Stalkers"
Because, apparently, anyone who says hi to you or is your friend or looks at a picture that you posted on Facebook (presumably for the purpose of being looked at by others) is a stalker and is creepin' on you.

18. Why it's perfectly socially acceptable to incessantly text while you're at lunch/dinner/a party/living real life
Umm, rude.

19. Diet soda
Umm, gross. Aspartame is bad for you! And it leaves a nasty aftertaste. (YES, YOU CAN TELL)

20. "Poor college students" with Macbooks
If you're eating Ramen for dinner every night, chances are, you can't afford that Macbook. Get a normal computer and splurge on a PB&J for dinner.

21. Cats
I love 'em too. But I feel like everyone else loves them in a different way. All of a sudden. Why so many cats? Seriously. Why is that a thing?


Wow. That was therapeutic. Did I leave anything crucial out?

Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow

After my perfect autumn Thursday (and aren't Thursdays already kind of autumnal in their own right?) came a Friday that brought winter with it in full force. What started as a sweet, drizzly rain in the morning quickly escalated to winter wonderland-status faster than Burl Ives could have narrated it in song. I was expecting to feel rather annoyed with this drastic change in weather, as fall is my favorite season after all, and why should I have to scrape ice off my windshield in the morning nearly two full weeks before Thanksgiving? Also, I'm known to have some pretty embarrassing pratfalls when campus gets icy. Also, turns out my black suede boots aren't waterproof (I know, I know, I'm not sure this should have come as a surprise to me). 

But, y'know... I have an awful lot of cute scarves that beckon me from their little bin in the corner of my closet. To say nothing of the knitted berets. And my sweaters, they are so inviting. Putting on my black wool coat that afternoon was like greeting an old friend. There was something incredibly peaceful about sitting in the office watching the cold flurry happening outside my window. Before long, I was downright enthusiastic about the wintry day, and even more so about the wintry night ahead. I left campus long after sunset, but the darkness hadn't fully settled in. The combination of clouds and fallen snow and streetlamps and reflected light made the sky an exquisite shade of mauve. It was a little eerie, admittedly. Mostly magical, though.

I came home to a cozy apartment: my blanket, my legwarmers, Seinfeld reruns on TBS. Some friends ended up joining me for my snowed-in evening. We played chess, listened to bossa nova, and ultimately wished our power would go out like the apartment complex next door so that we'd have an excuse to light all the candles and snuggle up against the elements.  (Okay, that might have just been me. I had similar fantasies just before y2k.) We turned out all the lights and used a flashlight while playing parlour games. (No, seriously. We took our cues from this hilarious Wikipedia list.) Sometimes my life really is that good. 

Once everyone had ambled back to their own dwellings around 2 a.m., my roommates and I stepped out onto the cold stone balcony in awe of the fact that it still wasn't dark. The sky was still dimly lit up in a tawny pinkish purplish hue. The frosty matte finish of the sky made the sparkle of the glistening snow crystals all the more stunning. We opened our blinds to let in that cotton candy light glowing ambient and quiet. I fell asleep on the couch in total peace.

I woke up to this picturesque little scene outside my living room window on Saturday morning. I felt like I was in a snowglobe, surrounded by a certain fragile beauty. I was filled with gratitude. Everything I had to do that day seemed at least a thousand times more enchanting with this as my backdrop. I could read a novel! (I could write a novel!) I could write a letter! I could write five letters! I could tidy my room! I could take a nap in the company of sugarplum fairies! I could grade papers, and even that would be magical because that tree outside looks like a giant snowflake and isn't the world just wonderful?!?!

What I did instead was probably the best thing of all. I made a hearty beef stew. While I was chopping vegetables and waiting for the meat pan to deglaze, I danced around to Ella and Louis in my leg warmers and a pirate hat leftover from my Halloween costume (Captain Hook, for the record). I twirled and I sang and I marveled in this life that is mine. 

The snow really is magic.*

Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong,
"I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm"
(aka my Saturday kitchen soundtrack)

*I added a handful of that magic snow to my stew and, needless to say, it's the most delicious batch I have made to date.