The desk

I have a thing about where I write. I'm always seeking the perfect table, the one with just the right surface and height, lighting, view, and surroundings to draw out the muse and inspire her to play. I'm the same way about pens and paper - I like laying out first drafts by hand - and make a ritual of buying a new pen every time I begin a new book.

I realize it's silly, and experience has taught me that I can write in pretty much any conditions. Once you do it for a living, you don't have the luxury of choosing when and where to have your pretty little word tea party.

But I have a particular thing for hotel room desks. They're usually so dreary, so poorly conceived and pathetically placed, that when I find one with the right window and the right surface and a chair that doesn't require at least two pillows to bring me to the proper height, I could stay there all day. It's a blank slate, totally devoid of distraction, and it makes me feel like anything is possible.

Which is why I shall remain happily perched here, 33 floors above the honking bustle of midtown Manhattan, for just a little while longer.

On January 1st

On New Year's day I was walking in the East Village, just me and the dog walkers, when these trays of still-warm croissants beckoned me from the window of the Mille Feuille bakery. Naturally I went in.

"Good morning!" We exchanged greetings and well wishes for the new year, I paid and took my little white bag (its buttery contents already making dots in the paper). Then the man helping me paused.

"You're our first customer of the new year. Would you like a macaron?" He pointed to an impeccably shiny, tidy case filled with colorful little cookies.

"That is so nice of you," said I. "What's your favorite flavor?"

"Um..." he surveyed the case, "burnt caramel, pass.."

Before the words "passion fruit" left his mouth I nodded, "Burnt caramel! Ooo please!"

He took it out and handed it to me, and his co-worker jabbed his arm, "She needs a passion fruit too. Give her a passion fruit." Which he did.

"Here's to a really good new year for all of us, eh?" I said, raising my macaron in a toast. Smiles and nods, thanks and well-wishes abounded, and out I went into the day and into the new year.

Those guys probably have no idea just how much that simple gesture meant to me, but it did. I'd like to carry that same gentle kindness and civility with me into the new year.

And for the record? The burnt caramel was a really, really good choice.

Something to chew on

As December draws to a close I still find myself a little low on words. It's been a beautiful month of resting and re-grounding. 

It began with the ceremonial stowing of the suitcases after being on the road far too long. Laundry after laundry. Filing, sorting, tidying up my home and making my life mine again.

And then, somewhere mid-sip, I suddenly realized that Christmas was coming. Whoops. No time for nesting or relaxing after all.

Naturally, there had to be Claramels. You may recall I went a little overboard on these last year. But dozens of batches later, I still get just as much pleasure, if not more so, from making these things. There is something deeply satisfying in watching all the raw ingredients amalgamate into something so deep and murky and magical. 

Dark-chocolate espresso, with optional tart Montmorency cherries on right.

To me, Claramels are like edible knitting. They give a similar kind of tactile satisfaction - that of taking simple materials and slowly, patiently transforming them into something else. You have to stay quite aware of your surroundings, since you're dealing with 250-degree sugar lava that will, given the opportunity, burn the hell out of your hand. 

Your mind can still wander and dream, while the physicality of the work keeps pulling you back into the present. Exactly like knitting, right? 

And when it's time to hand-cut that sheet of hardened goo and transform it into hundreds of even little nuggets (each of which gets wrapped in a little square of hand-cut parchment paper), my hidden obsessive-compulsive tendencies joyously spring into action. I may not be able to create order out of the world at large, but I can sure force a tray of candy into submission. 

Right about now is when some people smile and gently ask, "You do know that you can buy those at a store? Already made?" 

Any knitter will recognize that question. I give the same answer. It's all about self-expression. It's about taking slow, patient, meditative steps that produce even and deeply satisfying results. And at gift-giving season, it's about making something with your own hands that serves as a genuine expression of your love, care, or even simple fondness for someone else. 

Only instead of wearing the results of this particular form of self-expression, you get to eat them. How great is that?

Faster and faster

Ever feel like a passenger in a speeding car? Never stopping, always just passing through - eye darting between map and speedometer, mind already preoccupied with the next town?

I knew life would speed up after the book came out, but I forgot by just how much. There was a trip to New York, then Philadelphia, then San Francisco - fabulous journeys all. In between there have been conversations with bloggers and podcasters and radio personalities where I've tried my best to speak in complete sentences. And along the way I have met so many people - genuinely lovely souls - whose smiles and stories still echo in my mind.

I'm home for just long enough to do laundry, repack, turn another page in my calendar and pet the cat, toss more apples on the compost pile (sigh) and make a quick pit-stop at the dentist and optometrist. Then, vroom vroom, back on the road again. This time to the Finger Lakes region of New York for the 10th annual Knitter's Review Retreat. This marks the icing on an extremely large and beloved cake, and I've been so looking forward to it.

All this travel has given me a lot of time to think. To gaze out of windows and briefly pass through other people's worlds without ever settling in. It can be lonely, but also quite freeing. In her blog Orangette, Molly Wizenberg recently described this sensation as Bonus Time:

"You’re in the plane or the train, and you can see the world outside the window, and you’re hurtling through it, but it’s very far away, impossible to reach. Inside, your movements are limited, but time feels oddly expansive, as though you’re getting an extra minute for every three. You’ve escaped from normal time, and your reward is a chance to just sit and relax, or read, or listen to music, or sleep. Or maybe you’ll have to do some work, but it moves along with less friction than usual, because you’re in Bonus Time, and it’s roomy in there." 


I really like that description. Once you've untied the ropes and pushed your little ship away from the dock, there is a peculiar sense of roominess that takes hold. I'll be enjoying more than 22 hours of Bonus Time in the coming week as I travel to and from the KR Retreat. I welcome the travel time to think and dream, process and scheme.

And then? Possibly the prettiest four-letter word ever spoken in the English language: home.