Burnt

The strangest thing has been happening since I’ve been back in my house in San Francisco. A couple of times a week, the smell of burnt toast wafts through the open window and into the room where I am working. This has never happened before, in all the years I’ve been living here.

The smell is so strong that it makes me look out the window, worried that I might see smoke escaping from nearby house. But the smell isn’t of burning wood or paper, it’s clearly the smell of charred and blackened toast. I know the flat below me has a kitchen located on the other side of the house, so I can’t believe it’s from there. Perhaps a next door neighbor, or a house on the other side of our back yard? I'm not sure where it comes from but one thing is certain—that toast I am smelling is very, very burnt.

I know just how it feels. I’m pretty burnt these days too.

In Seattle, earlier this year, I attended a book signing by Cecile Andrews for her new book, Slow Is Beautiful: New Visions of Community, Leisure And Joie De Vivre. She talked about how, in our increasingly stressed-out culture, the words we use to describe our lives have become violent—"I’m slammed this week…fried…burnt."

Well I really am burnt, to a crisp. As burnt as the mysterious toast I smell each week through my open window.



I never fully explained why I was leaving Seattle, what was calling me back to San Francisco, but it was the literary festival I help produce each year. Last year I wrote about how much it means to me, how hard I’ve worked to help grow the festival, and I also said I was stepping back and would not be involved any longer.

Famous last words.

I did try to step back. I said I’d take an advisory position, overseeing three volunteers doing the job I had done last year. It was a good idea, but volunteers often prove irresponsible (this is something I do not understand, I am a volunteer myself and would never sign up for something I could not see through). Sometimes volunteers disappear completely, leaving you in the lurch. Mid-July I found myself in just such a postion—with an event that was in danger of not happening at all. When you’ve spent three years of your own blood, sweat, and tears (perhaps not blood, but definitely sweat and tears) building something you care about, you’re not okay with standing by and watching it fall apart. I cancelled a vacation (I miss you, Cortes), cleared the decks, and jumped into the fray.

It’s been a long three months.

I don’t even want to tell you about the number of emails sent, the fires put out, the many nights of little sleep. I’ve begun to love being in the car— at least for those few minutes I don't have to look at email (this week I am changing the email program I use so that I never have to look at my current inbox ever again). But then, as I drove, I'd begin to think about the bigger picture and want to keel over in panic and fear. If you happened to be driving down Guerreo Street in San Francisco last Tuesday, you might have seen me pulled over on the side of the road, hunched over the steering wheel, sobbing. In times of crisis, shame doesn't even come into the picture.

You know it’s bad when you’re waiting in line at the grocery store and you begin to look longingly at the hard liquor section. What if I took up drinking—maybe I could make this all go away? But I know myself well enough to know that drinking mostly just makes me feel ill.

As for food during this time—not much to speak of. I’ve rediscovered the joy of cereal, a big box of Cinnamon Puffins that I often pour into a ziplock bag to take with me when it somehow becomes afternoon without me managing to eat anything. There have been bags of walnuts and almonds, eaten in the car as I dash from this place to that. The slower, smaller, more deliberate life I’ve been building in Seattle got shot to pieces this past month. Time for adequate amounts of sleep, time for exercise, quality time with my friends around a large and generous table—ha! I was lucky if I got six hours of sleep a night and managed a shower.

In times like this it’s easy to turn to the freezer—to tamales and veggie burgers and other things I can stick in a microwave and have done quickly. But I don’t have those things in my freezer these days, I’ve stopped buying them. What does a mostly from scratch cook do when she doesn’t have time to cook from scratch?

Well, she eats some takeout, it is true. There are a few restaurant meals with friends, when they can be squeezed in. She eats a lot of sandwiches (the great joy of being back in San Francisco is access to Della Fattoria bread again), and stir-fried bok choy or roasted sweet potatoes when she needs something that feels healthy. There’s been more pasta than normal—with pesto I made last September and left behind in the freezer here in San Francisco. There's been bowls of plain grains—spelt, buckwheat, brown rice—and a few surprisingly good recipes made up on the fly that I’ll share over the next few weeks. But it’s been mostly preparing food, not truly cooking. I can't remember the last time I chopped an onion and I miss it.

And my poor little blog. Last year I abandoned my blog entirely when the festival picked up speed. I wrote one post the entire month of September, and I promised this year that wouldn't happen. But it's been slim pickins around here—what posts I have put up have been written somewhere between midnight and two in the morning. The next day my dear mother sends me an email with a list of typos I have been too tired to catch (thanks, mom). It's taken me more than a month to get up those posts about Oregon, a three-day trip that took place in early September.

Now is recovery. The festival is over, my event was a big success. We broke my own attendance goal of 5,000 people and even got a press mention in GalleyCat. It was, as always, a magical night where the streets of San Francisco’s Mission District were flooded with people out to see authors and celebrate literature in action. More than once, as I rushed from one venue to another, I heard people saying that it felt like Halloween trick-or-treating for grownups. I’m proud of what I have built—an event that is loved by my literary community and my city—but I am also exhausted.

Yesterday I drove to Marin County, to return some of the rental equipment we had used for the event. Afterwards I wandered around a grocery store, hungry but too tired to make any decision about what I wanted to eat. I left with an odd assortment of items, things I never buy but that sounded good in the moment: dried white peaches, vanilla yogurt, fresh ravioli filled with artichokes, seeded crackers. It’s the sort of food you might eat after a long illness, things that feel easy on the system.

I also found myself in a housewares store, again wandering aimlessly. I fell in love with a red cup decorated with fruit—oranges, pears, cherries. When I found the lemon version I knew I had to buy one for myself. It’s huge and will hold far more tea than most people want to consume in a single sitting, but I love the way it feels in my hand. I had a big teacup when I lived in Japan, but it was packed in the one box I shipped home that arrived on my doorstep plundered, half of its contents missing; my cozy teacup had disappeared.



I bought some tea at the store as well—white tea, which I normally do not drink. Again it seemed basic, restorative. I’ve decided that the antidote to feeling burnt is tea...and sleep...and probably soup too, but only when I get the energy to be able to make some. I’ve been frustrated that my life got overwhelmingly busy right around harvest time, I’ve been regretting all the jam and chutney and pickles I didn’t have time to make this year. Hopefully I can do a little bit of late season preserving—and plan better for next year.



That’s what is on the docket for the next few weeks—lots of rest, tea in my new happy red tea cup, and gradually catching up on writing and email (I am so sorry if you’ve sent me anything recently—I promise I’ll get back to you soon). I’m slowly putting my life back together again. The ringer on the phone is turned off, I am refusing to leave the house before noon. I have work to do, unfortunately; clients want my time and attention after being neglected for three months (I received an email from a client the morning after the event with the subject line: "My turn?"). But it’s nothing I can’t do from a laptop, curled up under a blanket, still in slippers and house-clothes at 2pm. At least that's my plan.

It’s raining in San Francisco today and finally feels like fall. Time to slow down and go inward. I like the fall, and I love the rain; it makes me feel like I’m in Seattle. It's a good time to settle down with a cup of tea and a box full of the jigsaw pieces of life wanting to be sorted out and put into their rightful place, wherever that may be.

I hope that wherever this fall finds you, you're cozy and comfortable.