comfort.

I took the tortillas out of my kitchen cabinets, pressed the plastic bag against my nose and took a deep breath.

I wasn’t attempting to suffocate myself in plastic and the smell of doughy goodness, instead, I was attempting to capture that memory of handmade tortillas with a Shirley Temple in front of me at our favorite restaurant in San Antonio. I was a little girl again, my feet kicking in the air as I ate my sopapillas, licking my honey-coated fingers, never dreaming that one day I’d live miles and miles away from home.

Someone should’ve told that girl: hold tight, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Yesterday was, well, how do I put this? Hard. It was a hard day. I’d go into the semantics but no one cares that much and it would require a confusing description of journalism grad school and all that entails. Let’s just say, I was kind of in charge and I had no idea what I was doing. My pride cannot handle that.

The beautiful thing about my graduate program is that we’ve all seen each other cry. If we haven’t, we’ve at least admitted that there have been private sobbing sessions in the bathroom stall before emerging with a forced look of confidence.

It wouldn’t be journalism if it wasn’t stressful.

Sobbing quietly behind my “Oxford American” magazine, I counted the subway stops until I was finally home. I didn’t want that home. I wanted my home. I wanted the south. I wanted a front porch, my parents, my sisters, comfort food and warm nights.

I had to settle for comfort food and new friends.

Two pots were removed from the cupboard and loaded down with chopped potatoes. I’ve become an expert at mashed potatoes. It’s a feeling, no recipe necessary. Add butter, milk, salt, pepper and garlic salt to taste. How long to boil the potatoes? You just know.

I’m a southern girl, through and through. Comfort food and sharing, that’s what we do.

I made a batch of mashed potatoes then shared with my two friends, Jordan and Alex. It’s rare to meet a friend you’re willing to show weakness in front of. My weakness is viewable to everyone. Luckily, I have friends to whom I can show this weakness without fear.

A viewing of “101 Dalmatians” and multiple servings of creamy, salty mashed potatoes later; I captured my second small piece of home with a phone call to my mom.

We all need our mommies sometime. But when mom isn’t available, a bag of brown potatoes can remind us of who we are.

The next stressful day will result in homemade fries. Then there will be okra, enchiladas, Cajun green beans, biscuits, breakfast tacos, steak…

paragraphs.

The snow is melted away and the sun blinds commuters as it bounces playfully off towers of glass and metal.

It’s spring.
The baseball field on my commuter route is a dark shade of green & uniformed individuals can be seen taking their position on the short, fresh carpet.

I don’t believe it for a second.
77 degrees means nothing to me but I keep a skeptical eye to the sky waiting for some unexpected snowfall or a sudden gust of chilly wind.

This is the windy city, they say.
They say beautiful weather isn’t supposed to come until May, even June.
So I don’t trust these bright blue days one bit.

My dreams of weather have taken a sabbatical, now I dream of the new quarter we began this week but these dreams are usually filled with fear rather than longing.
I’d like to go back to my dreams of rain, sunshine & heatwaves.

The self-doubt has already begun & it’s only Wednesday. How is this possible, you ask. Well, I think we all have a little bit of self-doubt now & then, I just give into mine & let it overtake me like a huge tsunami wave washing away my tiny occupied houses of joy.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I know I’m talking too much already. And no, I will not delete unnecessary words. Let’s keep the second-guessing of my writing skills restricted to the newsroom.

Here, in this tiny little blog world, I’ll sprinkle my commas around sporadically, use as many syllables as possible in one sentence & (if we’re lucky) I may even have my paragraphs as unorganized as the thoughts bumping up against one another in my head.

If I’m not careful, I’ll lose my voice.
And I’m quite positive that some great writer at some time or another said something very clever about how writers have to maintain their voice, their style. Unfortunately, this writer has a bad case of carpal tunnel thanks to her diligence to research and toning her upper arms so no additional research will occur today.

Instead, I’ll sit here on my Styrofoam-filled coach as my toes soak in the golden sun filtering through my living room window & I’ll just say this – sometimes, i get so wrapped up in pleasing others that i forget about my love of writing.

This quarter, I’ll be covering immigration issues in Chicago (we can get together later to squeal about how excited I am about this beat). I discovered as I sat in class this morning listening to my professor tell me what he does & doesn’t like in an article right after telling us to write as we want – that I’m not writing for him. Though he is a very nice man, at the end of the day, writing a story to please him wouldn’t make me happy.

And com’on now - my main goal in life is happiness.
What would make me happy? Writing an article for myself & for my readers. I write stories for the sources, the people who give me the time of day to talk. I write for myself, to produce a piece I’m proud to put my name on. And heck, I write for the readers, because we all need to learn a little something new, become a little inspired and maybe a smidge entertained.

I'm a better writer when I'm not worried so much about pleasing others.

This one’s for you guys.

(pssst...the photo's from squidoo.com)

beats.

I’ve fallen out of touch with friends back home. The phone doesn’t ring quite as much as it used to and e-mails have gotten shorter.

I’ve been swallowed whole by words, sentences and paragraphs. They grow larger and larger in my dreams and seem to encompass my thoughts and wishes.

I wish for tighter sentences, correct word usage and the perfect quotes.

I’ve been fully devoured.

Life consists of stories. Even when I have a day off (i.e. I force myself to take a day off) the stories still flutter around in the back of my subconscious. What’s the current unemployment rate? How are homeless shelters and their resources affected? Will that source ever call me back by Wednesday’s deadline?

Being a journalist is a full-time job.

Being a journalism graduate student is also a full-time job.

But as I sit here and ponder whether or not “full time” has a hyphen in it, my Lean Cuisine has finished cooking and the microwave beeps unceasingly, demanding that I recognize it’s hard work and eat the unfrozen meal it has prepared.

Even with all the work I have to do, I have to remember to take a break or I may just lose it. For this, I’ve picked up the guitar again, there’s a book by my bedside that I read for five minutes before I pass out and I haven’t missed an episode of “Lost.”

For those who are missing the sound of my voice, feel free to call.

I’m going to warn you though, my poor mother had to feign interest when I discussed Evanston’s budget deficit and the budget cuts of social services. Sure, she said it was interesting, but she’s my mom, she has to say that.

This weekend I’ll try to venture out into the cold to explore the Lincoln Park Zoo. Tonight, it’s a meeting for me and audio editing after that.