burnt salmon and grown-up adventures

Do you all ever experience something that makes you feel like a two year old? Where you go "God! I could have handled that better!" And then you kind of wallow in your perpetual fifteen-ness for the rest of the night and drink half a bottle of wine and eat grilled cheese and fries?

Last night after work (my day job) I went to Whole Foods and spent a large sum of money on a salmon fillet, and a variety of fancy veggies to make myself dinner. I was feeling super chuffed and grown up (I am 29, when will that feeling stick around?), and even though Raven usually does the cooking, I was determined to have my creation waiting for him when he finished work. So I called my mom to ask her how I should cook the salmon - see, super grown up. She wasn't home, but I got my dad, and said something along the lines of, "I'm almost 30, Dad, I can't believe I'm calling Mom for cooking help." His response was, "You're a kid! Oh, to be 30 again. (Pause) Oh, to be 65 again! (hearty chuckle)" We ended up having one of those lovely spontaneous conversations about how lucky we are to be healthy, and that it's a nice reminder to appreciate how good we've got it.

Cut to 20 minutes later, I peek in on the salmon to find that it is engulfed in flames, and look to my right to see my dog - who's greatest fear is fire and smoke - cowering and crying by the door. Long story short, one of my neighbors and I found the fire extinguisher in the hall and he helped me put it out, while my other lovely neighbors comforted Charlie in their apartment. Ten minutes later, the fire department was in my apartment checking everything out, in full gear. I swear, one guy even had some kind of lance / spear that was rendered extremely unnecessary.

Expensive dinner ruined, dog traumatized for life, I sat on the couch and just felt so silly. Why can't I successfully cook dinner for myself? Why don't I know how to use a fire extinguisher? Why can't I be more adult? The truth is, I lean on the support of friends and family so deeply. I make my business their business, I ask questions, I soak up their answers. I rely on them, and sometimes it comes back to bite me in the face.

What a (literally and figuratively) small problem that fire was. It could have been so much worse, and I really have nothing to complain about. But I can't help feeling bad about myself. They say experience is the best teacher, and I feel as though I should have grown up 10 years ago, by experiencing things like I did last night. On the other hand, maybe I wouldn't have this perspective at 20, and therein lies the grown-up-ness.

Back to fashion, tomorrow, folks. I've got a dusty kitchen ego to clean.

xoxo

image by Victoria Gloria Photography.

growing up

Today is my 29th birthday. I can't really say I'm "in my 20s" anymore, and thank god I have another year to get used to saying I'm in my 30s. So where do I belong? I'm not a girl, not yet a woman. I pay my own bills, but my dad still palms me a $50 every time I go home. I feel like I'm stuck in a transition and it has me wanting to get in where I fit in.

I've wanted to go to Ireland ever since I was a little girl. I've always felt so proud of being Irish; even if I knew next to nothing about where I came from, it made me feel secure to be able to identify and place myself.

This trip for me, on the eve of my birthday, has been almost overwhelming. On the flight over when the plane broke through the clouds, my eyes filled with tears. I imagined the people who came before me, people who are my family, living here. Falling in love here. Having babies who had babies who had babies who had me and my brother and my sister. It's the sweetest, deepest connection, so beautiful to me that I almost don't want to think about it.

Being here is like having a word on the tip of my tongue. It's a haunting, near-knowing that I feel in my bones. I feel settled here, sunken and cozy and correct.

The other evening, my mom and I went to the pub to get a pint. There was a man playing Irish music, and we laughed at his jokes, sang along when we could and when he played Danny Boy, I bit my cheek and thought how much shit my friends would give me if they saw me crying.

It's just that, you never think about where you come from until you decide to. And when you do, it's like opening the floodgates on your little heart. You think about the man and woman who chose a different life for themselves and said goodbye to their families knowing full well they would never see them again. Sure, I don't know the details of their journey, but I know their names were Patrick and Mary and that's enough.

Enough to imagine that I might have her nose. His legs. Her laugh or his stubbornness. Or none of that. And still I feel stronger just being able to imagine it.

Back at the pub, I settled up with the bartender, and when I gave him his tip, he looked me straight in the eyes (as all Irish people do - it's really lovely) and smiled.

"Cheers love," he said. "See you again ."

all photos by allie for LRW