I feel like myself. More and more, the balloon of me expands—and I hope it continues to like the everness of the universe.
Dave just offered me cold boiled peanuts. As a joke. Our friends bought the extra-large Styrofoam cup of them today at Dickey Farms—the same place we picked through the “rejected” peaches and got a boxful for $12. I don’t want the peanuts. Maybe tomorrow.
I did take a video of the peaches being processed for you. It’s quite the operation, here, check it out.
Words aren’t coming easily tonight. There’s a kind of arm’s-length distance between me and my language, and I don’t know why—except maybe because of the hollandaise.
It failed. And I don’t mean it turned out a little off. I mean, I failed epically at making it, and I’m embarrassed at how intensely frustrated I became. It was like I was a cat with its tail caught in a trap—the more I struggled, the more it hurt. It brought something up in me I didn’t expect: perfectionism, shame, that irrational feeling of being trapped and not enough, even when I’m doing my best.
I almost feel like crying just thinking about it. The word insurmountable comes to mind. Have I felt this way before? Probably. But I can’t place when. Still, something inside me urges: try again. Keep trying until I master it. Just like I did with sourdough sandwich bread. With the salsa recipe. With fettuccine Alfredo.
I think part of what scares me is the idea that I’ll give up. And if I give up, what does that mean about me? That I’m hopeless? That no one could love me? That I am too much? The ache in my chest says those things might be true, but I know they’re not. They’re just loud.
And yet both parts—the ache and the growth—are equally real.
So. I’m going to read everything I can find about hollandaise sauce. I want to understand the chemistry—the emulsification, the way butter acts as a thickener, the balance of temperature and whisking. I want to know it in a way that creates calm as I do it. I want knowledge to be my support, not a crutch. Just like it was when I prepared for birth.
Funny enough, a few weeks before I got pregnant, I dove into books on what actually happens in the body during labor: the muscles, the timing, the contractions, the breaks. Before learning, I feared I’d be spinning out of control, lost in pain. But I wasn’t. I was present and capable. And even though what I went through was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, knowing what was happening gave me footing. I could do it. And I did.
On the TV docket tonight is MurderBot on Apple TV. Dave’s been wanting to watch it since he’s read three of the books, and until today, I wasn’t that into it. But when my friend Deedre’s husband Rob, explained how the robot views human behavior—calling out our absurd little idiosyncrasies—I was sold. Sounds like my kind of existential sarcasm.
With that, I’ll bow out and see you here tomorrow.
All the best,
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 