When you’re training for a marathon, time is no longer time alone. Time is measured in miles. Days, weeks pass by in distance. Four-hundred-meter repeats. Eight-mile tempo run. Twenty-mile long run. Forty-mile week. Monday is no longer Monday. Monday is hill repeats incorporated into 4, 5, 7 miles. Two hundred more miles until November 1st. Time — the distance — passes quickly, until the moment you dread waking up the next morning. Until all you want is for it to be over, to cross that finish line in Central Park, and reclaim the ability to sleep in without your internal clock waking you up at 5 or 6 in the morning. Return to lazier weekends. Reclaim time as time alone.
And yet — marathon training is, essentially, a selfish thing. There are a lot of “sorry”s. “Sorry, I can’t make your birthday party. I have to get up at 4:30 the next morning for an 18-mile race.” “Sorry I can’t plan a visit that weekend — that’s the weekend of my 22-miler.” “Sorry, I can’t meet for happy hour. I have to get up for a track workout the next morning.” And even, “Sorry I’m falling asleep so early. Can you please do all the dishes, clean the litter box, and give the cat his medicine tonight? Again?”
It’s valiant to run a marathon a first time. Is it unfair to try it again? This is the question I’ve been asking myself often the last few weeks. But I try, whenever possible, to maintain some semblance of normalcy around here. I’m pretty proud of the fact that the weekend tradition of my childhood — bagels on Saturdays, pancakes on Sundays — is alive and well. And pancakes scream lazy; they scream a bit of breakfast indulgence.
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You. Hey you. I saw you out there, splashing in the waves. Bathing in sunlight. Grilling on your patio. Saying good-bye to summer. I saw you dreading the cold of winter, still three months away. But I have news for you: it’s not over yet. Labor Day may have come and gone late this year, but it’s still hot. It’s still summer. We’ve got another two weeks of it, so if you’re in mourning, perk yourself up a bit and get thee to the farmer’s market. It’s peach pie time. Continue reading →
Today, the ImaginariYUM turns one year old. It’s been a pretty amazing year. From my Dad’s Sunday Blueberry Pancakes to Pain au Chocolat to today, you’ve helped me grow bolder, grow easier, grow more comfortable with my abilities and constraints. I’ve made some pretty creative things, tested some things tried and true. Run a marathon, and begun training for another. Learned to enjoy every moment of every season — even the hot, miserable ones, because they all mean something, give something.
And this summer, especially, has been filled with love, and with joy. I was honored to be a bridesmaid and the “pastry chef” for my best friend Tracie’s wedding in July, and then, just last Friday — just a month after I caught the bouquet and he caught the garter, and five years to the day after our first date — my fella asked me to marry him. The love of my life. The guy. The one who says he never really thought the saying “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” was true until he met me. The one who taught me to love strange midwestern concoctions, and makes a perfect grilled cheese. The one who washes the dishes, is happy to be my guinea pig. The one who never, ever complains when things take way longer to cook or bake than I led on. The one who makes me laugh every day, throws a bag of ice in the tub when I’m exhausted, sore, and whimpering after a long run, reminds me that creativity is like a muscle that needs exercise. The one who sat with me and watched Bugs Bunny cartoons on my phone, in the back of a bar, on our first date, and who will still sit with me and watch Bugs, over, and over, and over again, any day that I ask. That guy.
So on this bloggiversary, I thought it was appropriate to celebrate just a little. With cupcakes. Chocolate cupcakes with salted caramel buttercream, to be exact.
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