I’ve taken a lot of Buzz Feed quizzes lately. Which Rory Gilmore are you? (Need to Eat at Luke’s Rory.) What kind of cookie are you? (Chocolate chip.) Which celebrity couple are you and your significant other? (Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka.) Which ”Golden Girl” are you? (Dorothy / oh my God kill me, why can’t I be Blanche?) It’s not my fault. The quizzes show up everywhere. In my Facebook feed and my Twitter feed and the iMessage thread between me and my three best friends at school. So it’s also not my fault, then, that as I was editing the photos for this post, I couldn’t help but think: If I were a French fry… would I be a baked, mildly spiced, crispy sweet potato fry? Or something else? I don’t have to tell you what happened next, but, it turns out, “What kind of French fry are you?” is the one quiz Buzz Feed hasn’t created yet. So I attempted my own little version. Because, seriously, this is the kind of thing we really should know about who we are.
1. What’s your go-to breakfast?
a) Steel-cut oatmeal with a sprinkling of flax seeds.
b) Eggs Benedict.
c) Breakfast burrito. Pass the hot sauce.
d) Egg and cheese on a bagel.
I like to think of my suite here at school as a poorly stocked, very dirty version of Williams-Sonoma. I have pots and pans, but none of them are made of copper and, unfailingly, one is always a bit oily from a spontaneous batch of popcorn. I have mixing bowls, but none of them match. I have dish towels, but all of them are dirty (sorry, Mom). I have a blender and a juicer, rubber spatulas and knives, cookbooks and spices. By my fourth year here, this is well known. Milbank 38: the on-campus (wannabe) Williams-Sonoma! Dourmet: she (probably) has whatever you need! Electric mixers and casserole dishes and dried chile flakes (oh my!). If you’re thinking that I sound like I love this—you’re right. I totally love it. I love having cooking supplies as much as I love giving them away. Or at least, I did. Then the infamous olive oil incident occurred.
Did I tell you guys I’m a barista now? I guess you haven’t checked my LinkedIn profile lately, huh? Or, erm, I haven’t updated my LinkedIn profile in two-plus years. LOL! Oops? Don’t look it up. Don’t. Stop. Seriously, stop. Come back—let’s talk about scones! Scones. My newfound barista-ing has nothing to do with scones. I make smiley faces out of foam in lieu of real latte art and sometimes burn myself with the steamer and make gluten-free cookies on the weekends and, well, we don’t even sell scones at our beloved little campus café. Yup. You heard that right. Somewhere in Scotland, my ex-flatmate is crying out in dismay: “What do you mean no scones?!”
I started running—like, really running—in June. A month later, my injury-prone shins, which made me a complete and toootal dud on the track team in high school, were, somehow, still pain-free. Huzzah! Naturally, I took this as a sign from The Universe to embark upon a new, blister-ridden journey: I’m going to become a runner. Much like that moment when I thought, I’m going to become a blogger, two and a half years ago, a little seed quickly blossomed into a tree in my, ahem, slightly obsessive mind. Within a month and a half, I’d logged 129 miles, bought two books on running, two new pairs of sneakers, and registered for the Boston Half-Marathon with my been-a-runner-for-twenty-plus-years mom. A little much? Maybe. But it gets worse. Fast-forward two months later, my shins are still okay, and I take this as another sign from The Universe: I’m going to become a marathoner.
Oh—and three days after my mom and brother’s birthday? That was my best friend’s birthday. Of course, I only fully processed this as soon as the 20th of December hit. (Hey, Christmas music goes off the radio in five days! Woah, and Jake and Mom’s birthday is the next day. …And B’s birthday is right after that. Oh God.) Seriously, Dourmet: for shame. This isn’t my first year doing this. I have no excuses. B and I have been together almost as long as my mom and my brother and I have been. I mean, not really. But almost! We’ve known each other since middle school, and she’s one of my favorite things in the world.
Unlike my mom and my brother, B likes cake. (See what I mean? She’s the best.) Every year her parents get her a birthday cake—often with whipped cream frosting, which is one of the reasons why I love B’s parents. Why aren’t all cakes covered in whipped cream? you wonder. I totally wonder the same thing. Often, actually. On a run. In the shower. Snuggling in bed. And the answer I’ve come up with, after a lot of serious, careful contemplation, is… they should be. Have you ever tried non-canned, freshly-beat, only-cream whipped cream before? If not—you must! You have no more holiday shopping to worry about, so don’t bother blabbering about how you have other, more important things to do. This is important.