I love crazy people. Love love love them. Across all areas of my life-- be it romantic, interpersonal, professional, you name it-- there are at least one or two crazy people in each part that inspire me daily. Please understand that I mean crazy in the best possible way, that I say the word with great reverence, because lemmings like me can only exist because they have pied piper counterparts that lead them to the edges of cliffs.

There. I've said it. I'm a lemming.

I live to be lead. To be inspired. I need my muses because I find it hard to feel things deep within myself without some sort of outside stimuli. That's not to say that I'm not crazy, too, oh no. But I'm situationally crazy, not endemically crazy, and there's a huge, gaping hole of a difference.

Just in case you're wondering where I've been, which of course I know you breathlessly have been, I've been pinned under a pile of Get Your Shit Together, Girl. Reentry is such a tremendously whiny little bitch.

My little August adventure proved to be a fantastic distraction from my real life here in LA, but as I learned when I was taking Physics in college, if you ignore a problem (or 10 problems) long enough, they most certainly do not go away by themselves unless you bribe the TA. I was so hopeful then, as I am now, that the opposite is true because I never learn. Also because I seem to love the sound of my head hitting the wall or the palm of my hand, depending on the severity of my denial.

It's still hotter than hell here in LA. Not a turning leaf or a cashmere sweater in sight, in fact. But technically it is fall in this fair land of ours, and it is a very fair land, indeed, as I discovered on a little road trip this last week, a journey that I accepted in an effort to delay the getting out from under the Get Your Shit Together, Girl pile even further.

I was invited to tag along with a friend who was driving a car and her dog, a black lab appropriately named Demon, from Chicago to Los Angeles along with another mutual friend (we will heretofore be known as Thelma, Thelma and Louise)...

I have to remind myself that when I start to feel tinges of sadness it's most likely because I'm in the process of letting something go, and, almost always, there is greater happiness on the other side. I have to say this to myself over and over. This standing on the precipice part is a real bitch. Every cell in my body is at attention, ready to respond to some kind of directive and yet I have a hard time pin-pointing exactly what it is that's bothering me because, quite frankly, I don't really want to identify it. Because then I have to address it, jump off the cliff and then realize it's over. And yes, there is relief after the dive, but holding onto crap is what I know; it's my human condition. My name is Melissa and I'm an emotional hoarder. I need a producer from A&E to hire a junk crew to remove all the shit from my brain and haul it away while I try and hold on to the useless bits like bottle caps and love letters in a shoebox.

Since I arrived in New York I've worked most days. Because obviously I'm here to work and to learn. And I'm having a great time doing it, as I've made mention a few times in these recent posts. In fact, I feel the same sense of hope that I did when I lived here when I was studying at FIT almost 10 years ago. I'm trying to figure out if that's because I have a pathological need to jump from one creative discipline to another (costume design to goldsmithing to recreational cooking) and it's some kind of well-established pattern of folly, or if it's just a little internal compass reminder that I'm on the right path for right now. It scares me to think that I'm constantly reinventing myself, my life and my surroundings, but I just deeply hope that I don't have ADD or that I am a dilettante of the highest order (though I don't think I'm wealthy enough to be considered a dilettante, anyway).

Even though I've worked most days I've managed to visit with old friends, one of which drove down several hours from another city. It was an uncharacteristically spontaneous thing for him to do, which is a weird thing for me to even know about him, because I don't actually really know him at all...

It was a lost weekend...but there is photographic evidence.

I'm just going to throw it out there that there are many good reasons why you don't see a whole lot of 40 year old line cooks in restaurants, the main one being that many of them keel over and die from standing all day. I am exhausted. And I'm not even working crazy hours like everyone else.

Of course I have showed up to work with some pretty good hangovers, too, and that's probably not helping. But anyway, in my old person exhaustion, I haven't written a proper post in a few days, so I'll get right on that (there is much to say, even if you're totally and completely not interested). Here are some more photos to tide you over in the meantime, as if you asked to see my vacation pictures. You didn't. But I'm still offering this mess up.

Enjoy and...

Soup on!

I feel alive in New York. More alive than when I'm anywhere else, actually, even though statistically speaking I'm much less significant. There are 12 million people hanging around these here parts, and I am a cog in a big machine, not anything large in and of myself. There's some kind of harmony in the dirtiness, in the smells and in the little inconveniences of being surrounded by so many people and so many agendas and a rhythm in being in it. And as I was walking to dinner last night I was struck by exactly how much I felt like an ant. Like one of those "scout" ants that releases a smell trail so that other ants know where to follow to find food (I was somewhat smelly from a very hot day in the prep kitchen). And yes, that could seem dehumanizing and sad to think that people are like ants, but it somehow made me feel comforted, like it's amazing to think that being so infinitesimally small is actually powerful. That yes, we may have the illusion of freewill (or maybe it's not an illusion, I don't know) and we also have consciousness, but there's gotta be something bigger, too. And I'm really happy to give the idea of my big ego and my big life a much needed vacation; they've worked some long, miserable overtime hours and I'm hopping they'll be more fun when they return with some good drinking stories and a tan.

Making jewelry and cooking both put me in the same headspace that New York does. It's my meditation. It's having a plan, and in putting that plan into motion, making hundreds, if not thousands, of tiny little movements to complete the plan. It's more rote than conscious and it's incredibly mentally quiet, though it's certainly not physically quiet-- the prep kitchen was insane with playlists of both Tool and Tejana music last week. I had to completely block that shiz out the same way I did when we had the same 45 minute music loop (including Coldplay tracks, oh joy) for six months when I was folding t-shirts at Banana Republic.

arugula, roasted portabella and aged gouda salad with port vinaigrette: you can lead a lemming to the cliff but you can't make her jump

Sunday Bloody Mary Sunday: road trips and alcohol are awesome diversionary tactics

quick and delicious gazpacho: stop thinking and start jumping

quick pics!: more doorways, plates of food and assorted meshugas

Hugh Acheson's spinach salad with spiced pecans, sliced pear and blue cheese with a shallot-thyme vinaigrette: zen and the art of herb chopping

Why? Because soup is cheap, delicious and easy. Kind of like me.

a weekly attempt to eat well and to savor life. or to see how much food I can get on my clothes.