I had field studies today. I hadn’t been on one yet, so I thought I had eluded field studies, but I was wrong. Yesterday, I got an email telling me I had field studies today. I walked down the hill to the creek today, thinking about how silly it is that we replace real classes with field studies. However, we got there and I pulled weeds for the entire time, and I really appreciated it. It was mindless work, but I enjoyed it. I would have enjoyed it more if there were no ants and strange bugs, but I worked around them. I also saw a snail! It was green. So the “wildlife” canceled out I guess, because the ants and weird bugs made it worse, but the green snail and the worms made it better. I was happy to have weeded and gotten my hands dirty instead of having a long block of English, not that English is bad but weeding is better because I really like weeding.
I’m throwing a large bowl for my mom in the ceramics room. Rory tells me to look out the window, and it’s gorgeous. After focusing on the grey room in white light for so long, looking out the window feels unreal. The hills are awash in the golden light of a sunset. It has been raining, so everything outside is at the peak of vibrancy. The scene outside looks like a filtered photo, or a postcard. And then we see a rainbow. And then another. She goes out to take pictures, and I scrape a buildup of clay off my hands before following her, oohing and ahhing at the golden hills.
Back inside the ceramics room, I work on my bowl again. A few moments later, I look outside and the hills outside are suddenly black and blue with night. I hadn’t even noticed the change, because in the classroom the bright white lights shelter us from changes outside.
I had my first driving lesson and it was kind of discouraging. I feel like I just can’t drive. All I did was drive around a neighborhood for like an hour and a half and park a couple of times. I always feel like the car is in a different place than it actually is, which makes it hard to drive it where I want it because I never know where it really is. And I can’t remember anything about the road rules or anything from driver’s ed except not to park on a crosswalk and to stop at stop signs. I just kind of freeze up behind the wheel and can’t think straight. But actually when I drove on my own with my dad in a parking lot before the lesson I felt fine, so maybe it was just the instructor’s constant stream of passive-aggressive comments throughout the lesson that’s getting me all nervous.
Blogging is hard. I am now going to write about the rain because right in front of me is a large window with water droplets on it.
At one moment, I looked out the window and all I saw was white. A wooly white fog settled in the valley, blocking out the hills. It looks cold and damp, but sitting in the journalism room, typing this blog, I am neither.
Now, the fog has disappeared. I’m not sure of the science behind it. Perhaps it was tired of hanging in the air, and it fell deeper into the valley to sit on leaves and grass. Maybe the sun came, and the fog dispersed, thinning but leaving us in a perpetual but indetectable fog.
Nonetheless, the hills are a vibrant green in the absence of the fog. Whenever it rains here in the valley, the skies turn white, and the hills take up the role of vibrancy. The dusty chaparral becomes an unreal green garden, and the clay-like earth blooms into a bright brick red.
When you turn 18, 90-96 percent of the time you will ever spend with your parents is over.
When I read that, I was pretty shocked. Logically, it makes sense. Your parents care for you as a child, and then you leave home to lead your individual life. You make your own way and surround yourself with the people you choose. At times, visiting home seems to be an onerous chore.
However, I’ve gotten closer to my family in the past few years. As a little kid, your parents are the people who tell you what you have to do and what you can’t do. The other day, my mother, at the dining table, said she saw me as a friend.
What’s interesting is my sister looked at me, gloating. “A friend? Like, you’re not even a part of the family anymore!”
I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I think this meets the word count requirement and this blog is already late.
Once upon a time, there was a man named Bill. He sat at the bus stop, and it was raining. He held of bouquet. It was a bouquet of roses. They were very pretty at one point, but he had been sitting and waiting at the bus stop for a while, and they were wilting. It was wet and cold outside, but he knew that it would be better when he got on the bus. He wore a dress shirt and pants that were not warm enough to shield him from the cold, wet, weather. Bill shivered.
He stared out at the supermarket across the street. It would be dry and warm in the supermarket, but he was waiting for the bus.
Bill looked out at the damp scenery, doing and thinking nothing. He was simply waiting in a cold, trance-like stupor.
A woman walked along the sidewalk, holding an umbrella. She was walking her dog, and the dog was wearing a little raincoat. As she approached the bus stop, she could see a man sitting on the bench. She wondered if he was waiting for the bus, and she wondered if he knew that the bus had been decommissioned earlier that month. The woman hesitated. Should she tell him that the bus would not come? He looked quite still and content, waiting, and she did not want to intrude. And perhaps the bus was back in order. She was afraid to interrupt his day and afraid to be wrong, so she walked past the bus stop and said nothing.
Bill waited for the bus, but the bus never came. It continued to rain for years, and for years, the bus never came. Bill sat a the bus stop, waiting for the bus. Every year that passed watered the seedling of despair that Bill nurtured in him. His bouquet of roses died, and his clothes faded. With this despair, Bill clung to the hope that the bus was almost here and that when the bus came, it would restore the delicate life in his bouquet and the robust color of his clothes, and everything would be right again. Sometimes he thought he heard the hiss of an engine or the grumble of the wheels, but it was an illusion brought on by the rain.
Eventually, Bill grew old and died at the bus stop, waiting in the rain.
For the dough: 6 cups All-purpose flour, 1 tbsp Sugar, 2 cups Water, lukewarm, 2 tsp Yeast, ½ tsp oil
For stuffing: 2 lbs Ground pork- (1.5lbs lean), 1 clove garlic, finely chopped, 1 tsp fresh grated ginger, 2 small spring onions (whites), finely chopped, Water, Soy sauce, Sichuan pepper powder, White pepper powder, Salt
Making the dough
Measure out flour into a large bowl.
Mix 2 tsp yeast, 1 tbsp sugar, and 1 cup of lukewarm water into a measuring cup.
Pour the water into the flour and mix.
Add more lukewarm water gradually if necessary. Generally, the ratio of flour to water is 2:1, but it can vary.
Begin to knead the dough, incorporating the dry flour. If more water is needed to incorporate all the dry flour, add more, but do so sparingly because the dough should not be sticky. The sign of a good dough is a clean bowl and clean hands.
Coat the inside of the big bowl with a small amount of oil, to prevent sticking. Place the dough back in the bowl, cover with a wet towel to preserve moisture, and put the bowl on top of a bowl or pot of hot water. Allow the dough to rise. This may take a few hours, depending on the room’s temperature. (To check if the dough is ready, poke a hole in it with your finger. If the dough bounces back to fill in the hole, it needs to rise more. If the dough deflates, it has risen for too long. If the dough does not move, it is ready.)
Making the stuffing (While waiting for the dough to rise, begin making your stuffing)
Put the ground pork into a bowl.
Put the chopped garlic into 1 cup of warm water to make garlic water. This will distribute the garlic flavor better. Set aside so that the garlic can release more flavor.
Add the ginger, garlic water (with the garlic), the two pepper powders, salt, soy sauce, and green onion to the pork and stir in one direction.
Add water to the pork and stir.
Wrapping/steaming the baozi
Take the risen dough and knead the air out.
Separate the dough into 20 balls and flatten them slightly by rolling them out with a rolling pin.
Roll the edges thinner.
Wrap the meat into each one.
Let the baozi rest for around 1 hour, or your baozi will deflate.
Steam the baozi for 15 minutes after steam starts coming out of the steamer. Remove steamer from heat and leave baozi inside the steamer until the initial hot steam is gone. Otherwise, your baozi will also deflate.
If I leave home, these are a few things I will miss about it:
My sister. It is scary knowing that she will keep growing and changing as a person, and I won’t be able to see her everyday to see that happen.
The weather. 40s and 50s is cold enough for me. I can’t imagine going about your day when it’s any colder than that; the image of walking around outside, going places, while your face and hands hurt from the cold is kind of sad.
Friends. There are still so many things to do together, and it feels there will never be enough time.
The food.
The mountains. When I first came here, my parents oohed and ahhed at the scenery, but I never saw what the big deal was. Now, I feel there is something comforting and familiar to feel wrapped up in the hilly earth. The places where everything is flat feels so lonely; in even large cities built in flat middle-of-nowhere desserts, you can look out on the horizon and see nothing. It almost feels cut off from the world. However, I imagine those cities are more closely knit internally.
When I was fifteen, I kept telling myself that I would have my license as soon as I turned sixteen. However, I didn’t start driver’s ed until I turned sixteen. I took months to start it, forget about it, and then finish it. I took the permit test two weeks ago, which was four months after I finished driver’s ed. However, I finally got behind the wheel and drove around a parking lot for the first time! Thirty seconds in I told my dad there was no way I would ever drive on the street. I don’t think I drove faster than ten mph at any point; the fact that people drive at seven times that speed every day baffles me. Driving reminded me that cars are completely operated by people (most of the time). Sitting in a car or seeing cars moving everywhere every day seems so natural and instinctive that everything almost seems automatic; it feels as if the cars move on their own the way that clouds or birds do.
It’s not your fault, I know we are both very busy.
But are we really? If I have the time to lay on the floor and scroll on my phone for hours, if I have the time to sit and do nothing everywhere- in lunch lines, in cars, in classrooms, shouldn’t I have found a moment for you? I should have and I’m sorry.
It’s not all my fault though. You lay on the same floor, scroll the same phone, stand in the same lines, sit in the same car, wait out the same classes. You should have found time.
I think sometimes, I just don’t like you very much. I’d just rather scroll on my phone and think about nothing than work through anything with you. You’ve let me down a lot, and sometimes I don’t even know if I trust you. You forget things that you really should have remembered, and you say things when you really should have kept your mouth shut. When I am feeling down, I play those things over and over again in my head sometimes, until I feel worse. But I know I shouldn’t. It’s not your fault you can’t be perfect all the time, even though sometimes I wish you were.
You are a person that is allowed to make mistakes, and sometimes that comes in the form of a lapse in memory or a slip of the tongue. I know you try to do what you think is right, and you have grown as a person and will continue to do so. It’s not fair for me to judge you so harshly, because I don’t judge anyone I love so harshly, and I, of all people, should have some love for you.
OVS Journalism Blog 
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