tuesday.

I’m supposed to be editing a video that I’m filing tomorrow.

Instead, I’m sitting here, the silence broken by an occasional car passing outside my open window and the sound of Ben Rector’s “When she comes around.”
Not a bad Tuesday night.

The apartment is clean, the carpet an empty canvas waiting for the shoes, papers and books that will slowly begin to accumulate on it’s surface through the week.
A flame bounces in the corner, passing the smell of vanilla.
It’s cold outside, but in my little apartment it’s the perfect temperature for a blanket to snuggle with.

Now that I’ve gone all Steinbeck on you and described in detail my location, I can tell you – I have no idea what to write.

All I know is, it’s Tuesday. There are certain songs I cannot stop playing, the current soundtrack to my life. The Metra train is like a relaxing Six Flags ride to downtown that makes me feel as if I’m Eva Marie Saint waiting for my Cary Grant. Chicago is my own personal Lego city in the spring, stacks and stacks of buildings.

Others are being adorned with a ring on a finger, beginning a new career, exploring a new home, making life decisions or even buying a puppy.

My life consists of immigration issues, what to make for dinner and the unsuccessful battle with the ever piling dishes in my kitchen sink.

I don’t have much to say tonight.
Except that for tonight, of all nights, it is beautiful.
Perhaps it’s just this song.
Maybe it’s the weather getting warmer.

Although my life may seem like an endless cycle of story after story after story, it’s also a time for learning. For learning about what’s actually important in life (it’s not getting good grades or work), that you can get along with anyone if you just try and that previous heartbreak shouldn’t hold you back from the present.

Medill attempts to teach me inside a newsroom how to be a better journalist. But the truth is that a good journalist needs an open mind, listening ear and a bit of empathy for the fellow man. And that’s about all you need to be a good human as well.

And when all else fails, listen to these songs: “When she comes around,” Ben Rector; “Tell her this,” Del Amitri; “Can’t take my eyes off of you,” Lauryn Hill; “Hank,” Ben Rector; “Voices,” Matt Wertz

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…