The worst part of going home to is having to leave again. No matter how settled I feel in Philadelphia, I’ll always have a California-shaped hole in my heart. For as long as I live, I will miss fresh guacamole, my best friend’s backyard, In-N-Out cheeseburgers, dry air and sunshine, the acrid smell of pot on a wet Berkeley morning, and the best khao pad goong and sushi this country has to offer. (Apparently most of what I miss about California is the food…?)
Print: Annie Galvin.
It was so wonderful to be home on my birthday, though. Celebrating 22 in the company of my oldest and closest friends was the best gift. They came north from San Luis, south from Davis, and places in between just to see me.
I broke tons of my own rules, including:
drinking getting drunk before breakfast,
sunbathing without sunscreen,
letting Scooter tell the story of the night we met,
letting B. show the video of me drunkenly imitating Sarah Palin,
wearing dark red lipstick,
and eating my weight in ounces of cake.
Sunbathing without sunscreen is the only thing I actually regret.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And speaking of things I just can’t help but loving: B. asked me to marry him! On my 21st birthday he gave me an “I love you” ring and on the last day of my 21st year, he asked me to be his wife. I said yes, of course. Who wouldn’t?
There is only one reason I eat bagels: cream cheese. If you leave me alone with cream cheese, there’s a high probability that you’ll come back to find me eating it like it’s a cup of Yoplait freaking Light. For instance, tonight the cream cheese in our fridge became mine and only mine because B. caught me sticking my finger in it. Little does he know, I’ve been eating it straight out of the tub for the last three days. I would probably dispense with the bagel altogether and just eat the cream cheese if I thought I wouldn’t mind being 300 pounds. Eating the bagel, ironically, is my version of self-control.
Actual question from my lips: “Do you think this would go with tortilla chips?”
Why am I telling you this? I have a story.
Not too long ago, I did something so disgraceful that I swore I wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. I would take my secret, and my shame, to my grave, and no one would ever have to know. Naturally, I lasted about 8 hours before I shamefacedly told B. my secret, and now I’m telling you. One wintry morning, I was craving an old favorite: cinnamon toast. I did my standard cinnamon toast routine of mixing cinnamon and sugar into (unmelted!) butter and spreading it on my toast. Pretty normal, I think. But, there was left over cinnamon-y, sugary, buttery goodness. You know where this is going. I ate it. I ate a spoonful of butter, cinnamon, and sugar.
And it was so good.