Objects Are Like a Mirror Held Up + Shepherd's Pie with Sweet Potatoes

I've had the same keychain for the past 12 years. I received it a few months after turning 18, when I accepted a job to be a lifeguard at my local pool the summer before I left for college. A lifeguard has a few things to carry around at all times, and the red rubber keychain fit around my wrist, keeping my hands free but the pool keys close by. After the summer ended, I put the rest of my keys on it. The key to my dorm room, the car (a white Datsun 280ZX) that I left at home, and the key to my parents house. Then just last week I really looked at it and realized how much time had gone by.

Objects do that. They just live with us, day in and day out, and never change. You might not give the ceramic bowl or shell on the shelf any thought, but then one afternoon you walk, tilt your head, and all the history hits you. How long has that dusty frame been there? What did your my look like when I picked up the shell from Moonstone Beach and tucked it into my purse. Why do I still have high school t-shirts wrinkled in the bottom of my dresser drawer? Suddenly, objects are like a mirror held up, reflecting a version of our former selves.

"Coconut" by Paul Hostovsky + Coconut-Lime Scones

One of the benefits of coming home with a box of coconut flakes is the inevitable quest to find new ways to use it. Coconut hasn't always been in my repertoire. In fact, it's quite a new addition. I suppose blame can be placed on the beautiful island of Maui, where I had enough coconut to realize that my childhood aversion no longer ruled my taste buds. Since then, I've made Luisa's coconut banana bread more times than I can count, added coconut to tropical smoothies, and now, I've made scones.

I make no secret of my love of scones. One of my favorite ways to indulge is with a proper scone, Devonshire cream, and jam, but it's also the ritual of tea that I adore so much. Wherever you are, tea forces you to slow down. It resets your mind. I drink it all morning at work (only made possible by the mug warmer I can't live without), and in the afternoon when I'm working from home. If I'm not in the mood for coffee on the weekends, I'll brew tea while my husband grinds coffee beans. When I need to write, I make tea. 

Tea is a trigger. It tells my mind that it's time to work, to be creative, and to accomplish something. Poetry is a trigger, too. You can't read poetry without really reading it. You can't scan poetry like a magazine article or an online newspaper. Do that, and you're bound to miss something incredibly important.

How making dal is like writing poetry

Reading a great poem feels effortless.

No trace of the toil and struggle the writer endured bringing the piece

into the light.

So with food, a great meal lingers. A great dish

fills you with satisfaction, eclipsing the effort put in. No trace of the chopping, stirring, seasoning, just the finished feast.

When I made this dal (my first venture into Indian cooking), I thought of poetry.

I thought of the process. Of stitching together a poem the way I stirred the lentils.