Author: graceovs

Toast Appreciation

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I’ve decided to write an entire blog post about toast. Because toast is incredibly underrated. It is simple, versatile, and delicious. See for yourself.

Avo toast: It’s a classic. Buttery avocado, plenty of salt and pepper, lemon juice, olive oil, paprika, everything bagel seasoning, basil, plus maybe some arugula – chef’s kiss.

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Eggs, etc: Scrambled, poached, or fried; salted and peppered; paired with some smoked salmon and spinach; on a piece of buttered toast; and you’ve got yourself a finger-licking slice.

PB toast – Peanut butter or Nutella with fruits galore is just so yummy.

Greek yogurt toast: Don’t hate on it until you’ve tried it. I dollop on a generous scoop of yogurt and top it off with honey, fruits, and a sprinkle of cacao nibs/granola for a crunch.

Goats cheese and roasted grapes toast: I’m not sure how my mom seasons the grapes – I do know she uses balsamic – but they come out of the oven SO delicious. Together with sourdough and goat’s cheese, the combination is to die for.

The World’s Best Mystery Author

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What a lot of people don’t know about me is that I am a nerd for murder mysteries. I love Agatha Christie. I love her mustache-twisting, balding, OCD detective, Hecule Poirot and his “little grey cells”. I must have read close to 30 of Christie’s books by now; starting from the age of 10, up until today, at age 16. And yet, I still can’t see the plot twist coming, or guess the motive, or identify the murderer. I’m impressed by anyone who can.

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Coming from an Agatha Christie connoisseur, here are my recommendations:

Christie writes about a few different detectives. There’s Miss Marple, Tommy and Tuppence, and my personal favorite, Poirot. If you’re new to Agatha Christie or detective stories in general, you should start one of her most famous, either The Orient Express or Death on the Nile. From there, I would strongly recommend The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Crooked House, or And Then There Were None.

There is supposed to be a chronological order to the stories, but you really don’t need to follow it. Every once in a while, a Christie references another case from another book, but it is of no real importance. My only guidance would be to read Curtain, Poirot’s final case, last.

<< Childhood

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I miss being little. Everything was so much easier then. I had no significant responsibilities, no pressure, and no school stress. 

My days consisted of barefoot cartwheels in the grass, sweet mango lassies, and swimming lessons in the fading afternoon light.

I fell asleep cuddling my mom under mosquito net canopies, or listening to “Quelqu’un m’a dit’ if my parents were out for date night. I took baths in a red bucket just big enough for a petite 6-year-old with her knees folded to her chest (the shower was too scary). I collected shards of shattered glass behind the school gymnasium, which my friend and I called our secret treasures. I read stories on our yellow balcony overlooking a sea of rice paddies. I accompanied my dad to the grocery store just to get a Chupa-Chups lollipop at the register.

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These were the simplest of times. Back then, my greatest challenge was pulling a comb through my tangled hair or remembering my times tables. How quickly things changed.

Some of my Favorite Things Recently Pt. 2

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1. People watching. I love to go to the coffee roasters downtown on a Sunday afternoon, order a hot drink, and pick out a seat at the bar facing the window. It’s the perfect view from which to watch scenes of life play out before me. Old people, young people, tourists, locals, skateboarders, shoppers, artists, and school children, are all going about their day; oblivious to my pair of eyes through the glass.

2. The song “Find My Way” by Frances & Simone. I saw them play live last weekend and have been streaming their one song released on Spotify nonstop. The harmonies are so beautiful.

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3. This chai peanut/almond butter my mom discovered. SO SO GOOD. The other day I made a slice of toast, slathered it on, and topped it off with granny smith slices, cinnamon, and a drizzle of caramel – Michelin Star worthy.

4. Writing poetry in the shower. I trace stanzas in the fogged-up glass of the shower door, watching my words melt away, and it feels incredibly therapeutic. Take my word for it, this is the best use of the time you have spare while waiting to rinse the conditioner out of your hair.

5. Lists! This is no new development. I’ve always loved them, especially to-do lists. They provide organization, create a routine, let me plan out my day, help me manage my time, and hold me accountable for what I said I’d do. What’s more, checking off a task makes me feel so productive. Even if a task is a small feat, my to-do lists incentivize and reward.

Head in the Clouds

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When I was little, my best friend would carpool to school together every day. Only we spent the greater portion of the car ride arguing over what we’d be doing in the car rather than actually doing anything. She wanted to listen to music, likely Katy Perry, or whatever else was playing on the radio. I, meanwhile, stubbornly insisted that I required complete silence in order to pursue my favorite activity – daydreaming.

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To this day, I might still consider zoning out as one of the best pastimes. Only I don’t need dead silence anymore. I can daydream just about anytime, anywhere, in anyone’s company, and amidst any sort of noise. It’s an extraordinary talent really. At least I think so. My vision blurs out of focus, the thoughts pooled inside my head begin to unravel, and I’ve never felt more at peace.

The older I get, the less time I have to indulge in this luxury. As a junior in high school, it’s not something I can usually afford to do anymore. If I start to space out in class, I remind myself that I’ll miss the lecture; if I start to space out outside of class, I remind myself I could be studying, catching up on social media or current events, or doing something “productive.”

PC: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c2/b7/6a/c2b76a63f65d57ea1436d09b0fe89bd3.jpg

I wish daydreaming was considered productive because I feel like it is a form of self-care. One of the few times that I actually feel good about zoning out, is at the end of my physical therapy sessions when I do electric stimulation and am given an ice pack. It’s almost the opposite of meditation. In meditation, you try to block all internal dialogue and focus on your outside senses, and daydreaming is the vice-versa. I lay there, my back pain fading away, and my thoughts racing in.

A Theory on Eating Disorders

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My fascination with eating disorders was sparked when one of my closest friends developed severe anorexia several years ago. She almost died before getting the right treatment. Thankfully, she has recovered now, but her illness really got me thinking. I’ve come up with this theory, and someone is yet to prove me wrong. It’s this – everyone is a victim to disordered eating.

I know what you’re probably thinking: “No, not me, I don’t starve myself.” But it’s not just anorexia I’m talking about. I don’t just mean any eating disorder that you’ve heard of or that has a label for. In fact, maybe it’s not a full-blown eating disorder at all, but some level of disordered eating. There are these little quirks people have with their diets, which may not reach the extent of malnutrition, but nonetheless prevent an entirely healthy relationship with food.

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I’ll give you some examples because you can’t have a theory without evidence. My grandmother weighs out her muesli each morning to the recommended serving, a friend of mine feels guilty to be eating if she hasn’t exercised that day, and my dad forces himself to polish off every morsel left on his plate. I’ve noticed parents who never stray from their healthy foods, a boy at my school who loads his plate with hamburger patties in order to “bulk up”, and a long list of girls my age who skip breakfast because they apparently don’t feel hungry in the mornings. The list goes on and on.

Thankful (Even Though Thanksgiving’s Over)

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Every once in a while I experience these jolting moments. They go something along the lines of this: I’m living my day-to-day, sitting in a classroom, eating a meal, hugging a loved one, scrolling through my phone – and suddenly it hits me: this is my day-to-day life. Like how crazy is it that here I am living this beautiful, fulfilling existence on a floating rock in the universe? How crazy is it that this has become so normal to me that I don’t even stop to look around and simply appreciate the sheer brilliance of it all?

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Aside from the fact that life and humans exist (which is mind-boggling in and of itself), it strikes me that amidst it all, here I am. And I really am so lucky. I’m privileged enough to go to an incredible private school and receive a top-tier education when so many girls my age never even have the opportunity. I can afford to have enough to eat, and more so, nourishing and healthy food, where others don’t. I am fortunate enough to have people in my life who hug, love, and support me (and vice-versa) when many are alone in the world. I’m able to own a phone and access a wide range of technology when this is a luxury for millions.

I take all this for granted. But then, there are these shocks to my system. It’s the same feeling as vertigo at the top of a mountain or a skyscraper: everything zooms out, the fresh perspective leaving me elated and dizzy.

I’m sorry if this sounds like hippy bullshit but it is all sincere. I’m truly so grateful.

Poetry Pt. 4

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dear [me],

i love the freckles that dapple your collarbone,

your double-jointed bent-backward elbows

i love the scar under your chin

and your dark unruly eyebrows

i love the blister you wear on your ring finger from holding a pencil wrong

i love your frizzy hair on rainy days

your voice cracks in the chorus of our song

i love how you speak to yourself when no one’s around

how you stumble over words when people are

i love how you sit slouched over at the table

and only ever play taylor swift in the car

i love the way your nose wrinkles when you laugh at your own jokes

but you loving yourself

is the thing i love most.

yours truly,

mine forever,

lulabean.

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i put salt on watermelon

to make it taste sweeter.

i wonder if all these tears

will one day make my happiness taste sweeter too.

starlight

the brightest stars are the closest to burning out.

maybe they already are

but you’re too far from them to know it.

PC: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/54/50/5d/54505ddc465e76fb4dd4797bf971faff.jpg

a curious sensation

they shouldn’t call it falling in love. 

i feel like i’m floating.

the falling part comes later

and some might call it heartbreak.

i hold my poems like a mirror

i read my handwritten stanzas back to myself

and i’ve never felt both so expressive and so understood.

i hear you,

you see me.

i’m staring through my soul with this magic we call poetry.

The Woman in the Window

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When I was the age of 9, or maybe 10, I lived in a little bungalow on Montgomery St. It had wooden floors, no AC, and a backyard littered with spiky oak leaves. I would sweep these leaves off my trampoline before jumping to the sky. Bounce, squeak, bounce, squeak. Flinging my limbs into various shapes, I would flip and glide through the air.

One day, one bounce, I spotted a face. Over the fence, in the window of the old people’s home next door, a woman sat watching. She was old with a face creased like tissue paper and a fierce black mane of hair. We held eye contact for the second I hung suspended in the air. Bounce, I smiled. Squeak. Bounce, I waved. Squeak. Bounce, she smiled back. Squeak.

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Her eyes remained sad though, and even as I lay in my bed that night with trampoline-skinned knees, I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman in the window.

The following morning, I got out a thick black sharpie and several sheets of blank paper. I headed outside and, with resolve, started tracing out big letters. “Hello,” I wrote. “My name is…” I climbed up the ledge of the fence, and sure enough, the woman in the window spotted my paper messages.

I felt as if I had made a friend.

I don’t remember when it was that I first noticed the blind in the next-door window had been drawn. I was used to regular ambulance sirens outside the old people’s homes, but when my friend’s room was left empty, it affected me personally. Wherever she was now, I hoped her sad eyes had regained a spark of joy.

Stories

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I love stories. I always have. I love people, movies, TV shows, songs, artworks, and especially works of literature that tell good stories.

In my early years, my favorite stories were The Hungry Caterpillar and The 12 Dancing Princesses (the book, not the movie). As a child, my favorite stories were Scooby-Doo and the bridge in “Shake It Off”. In middle school, I fell in love with the stories my English teacher told about his students in the Oakland ghetto and New York Times articles. Now, I find solace in the poetry of Rupi Kaur and the film, When Harry Met Sally (which is, in my opinion, one of the best rom-coms ever made). These are just a few of hundreds, maybe thousands, of stories I have encountered and retained over my 16 years.

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What makes a story good, I wonder. I would like to say it’s all about how it is told – the language, imagery, etc – but I actually think that is not always the case. Sometimes, poor acting, an unimpressive screenplay, or a bad melody are of no importance if the storyline itself strongly resonates with me. I don’t mean to say that a mediocre story can’t be told in a way that turns it into something incredible. What I mean is that an incredible story cannot (easily) be turned into something mediocre.

I’ll give you an example. The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemmingway, has an incredibly simple premise: a Cuban fisherman in his attempt to catch a giant marlin. And yet, it is so effectively written and constructed that we remember this book as one of the great pieces of literature. On the other side of the spectrum, the Harry Potter movies, in which (let’s be honest) the children actors hardly live up to their roles, have still seen unprecedented success. Why? Because J.K. Rowling’s phenomenal story trumps any criticism.