The Four Steps of Dreams
Double Chocolate Cranberry Cookies
mix
2 sticks unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
add
2 eggs
1 TBS vanilla
mix
2 cups flour
1/2 c cocoa powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
add to egg/butter and mix
add
1/2 bag semi-sweet chocolate chips
2-3 handfuls dried cranberries
scoop onto baking sheet in rounded spoonfuls
bake at 415° F 7-8 minutes
Best Cookies EVER
_______________________________________________
I love recipe blogs. I even tried, briefly, to write one, an ambition sprung from an attempt at a farmers' market last summer. But even while I wrote I bored myself to the point of embarrassment, such was the drivel oozing from my pen. And beyond that shortcoming, everytime I take a picture of food it looks like a plate of vomit. (Of course I am not alone in this affliction, a lot of people take appalling photos of food. Case in point- these 86 shared photos of creamed corn. No matter how tasty your creamed corn is (and it was pretty tasty, I made it), no amount of good lighting or garnish will make your amatuer photographs appear appetizing.) I couldn't bear to face my audience (my seven dear and wonderful readers) from such an uninspired place; I had to take a step away from writing to wander my own mind.
Obviously, food photography can be learned and even recipe blogs can be interesting, but sometimes it is easier to explain away your failures with a flippant dismissal than to take the steps to remedy shortcomings with hard work. At the core of the issue was, instead, the realization that I did not actually want to grow green beans or write about butter. Other people already do those things better.
We are not setting up at the market this summer in part because the Rockton River Market is not a farmers' market. It is an awesome street fair, with live music, food trucks, and open carry alcohol where a handful of people sell their barn board wall decor, beaded dog leashes, NFL insignia dew rags, and handmade, salvaged-wood, decorative infant coffins every Wednesday along the banks of the Rock River.
But beyond my misinterpretation of the appropriateness of the venue for our purposes (drunk people have little interest in produce or eggs, Wednesday evening lovebirds do not find whole frozen chickens romantic), the market was a weekly immersion in an overwhelming stew of fear, jealousy, and mean hearted anger.
Every Wednesday, all summer long, we set up our tent alongside Kimberly Vogel, an extremely eager, helpful, and infuriating vendor. After offering us advice and helping us assemble our tent, she would begin the obnoxious process of hawking wares:
"I wrote all these books!" she would call out, "And I drew all these pictures!"
"You drew all the pictures, Kimberly? I think it's called illustrating, Kimberly." I would snarl beneath my breath, "Huh," my eyes ached from all the rolling.
There Kimberly was, selling her books - her thoughts, her art, her time - and I couldn't even muster the courage to sell eggs. There Kimberly was, putting her heart and soul on display. There I was, devastated when people looked, and then looked past, hurrying on their way to the party to which I wasn't invited.
Why was I so personally wounded? I really had very little personal involvement in the production of the eggs. The chickens! They're the ones who should have been feeling dejected, and they didn't seem to care in the least.
Josh insists that our stand was not a failure, that breaking even is a totally acceptable outcome for a first year business, that my rainy day outlook was unfounded. But the truth was that the summer spent fuming at Kimberly forced me to consider more carefully the content of my dreams; though we had long imagined our farmers market stand, once realized, it wasn't a dream come true.
That's okay.
Dreams can change right?
The important thing about dreams is to have them--to have many, to attempt as many as possible, to identify those that incite the most passion, and to pursue that passion without stopping.
I'm honing in on my dreams now: to row, to have a nice porch, to write great books. I pursue them too, and that requires the courage for which I begrudged Kimberly. I fell out of an "untippable" boat last Friday, I have a Pinterest board devoted to porches, and, though I haven't yet anything to sell, I write this blog. The capsize was exhilarating and the pinning is easy, but articulating my dream of writing is terrifying; the risks of failure magnify when others know that you are trying.
The alternative, of course, is to live with the ambitions of a chicken and that will never do.
I ought to send a thank you to Kimberly, for helping me to refocus my energies, but likely I will not do that. A better thank you is to send you over her way. Writers like to be referenced.
I know, because I'm a writer too.
mix
2 sticks unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
add
2 eggs
1 TBS vanilla
mix
2 cups flour
1/2 c cocoa powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
add to egg/butter and mix
add
1/2 bag semi-sweet chocolate chips
2-3 handfuls dried cranberries
scoop onto baking sheet in rounded spoonfuls
bake at 415° F 7-8 minutes
Best Cookies EVER
_______________________________________________
I love recipe blogs. I even tried, briefly, to write one, an ambition sprung from an attempt at a farmers' market last summer. But even while I wrote I bored myself to the point of embarrassment, such was the drivel oozing from my pen. And beyond that shortcoming, everytime I take a picture of food it looks like a plate of vomit. (Of course I am not alone in this affliction, a lot of people take appalling photos of food. Case in point- these 86 shared photos of creamed corn. No matter how tasty your creamed corn is (and it was pretty tasty, I made it), no amount of good lighting or garnish will make your amatuer photographs appear appetizing.) I couldn't bear to face my audience (my seven dear and wonderful readers) from such an uninspired place; I had to take a step away from writing to wander my own mind.
Obviously, food photography can be learned and even recipe blogs can be interesting, but sometimes it is easier to explain away your failures with a flippant dismissal than to take the steps to remedy shortcomings with hard work. At the core of the issue was, instead, the realization that I did not actually want to grow green beans or write about butter. Other people already do those things better.
We are not setting up at the market this summer in part because the Rockton River Market is not a farmers' market. It is an awesome street fair, with live music, food trucks, and open carry alcohol where a handful of people sell their barn board wall decor, beaded dog leashes, NFL insignia dew rags, and handmade, salvaged-wood, decorative infant coffins every Wednesday along the banks of the Rock River.
But beyond my misinterpretation of the appropriateness of the venue for our purposes (drunk people have little interest in produce or eggs, Wednesday evening lovebirds do not find whole frozen chickens romantic), the market was a weekly immersion in an overwhelming stew of fear, jealousy, and mean hearted anger.
Every Wednesday, all summer long, we set up our tent alongside Kimberly Vogel, an extremely eager, helpful, and infuriating vendor. After offering us advice and helping us assemble our tent, she would begin the obnoxious process of hawking wares:
"I wrote all these books!" she would call out, "And I drew all these pictures!"
"You drew all the pictures, Kimberly? I think it's called illustrating, Kimberly." I would snarl beneath my breath, "Huh," my eyes ached from all the rolling.
There Kimberly was, selling her books - her thoughts, her art, her time - and I couldn't even muster the courage to sell eggs. There Kimberly was, putting her heart and soul on display. There I was, devastated when people looked, and then looked past, hurrying on their way to the party to which I wasn't invited.
Why was I so personally wounded? I really had very little personal involvement in the production of the eggs. The chickens! They're the ones who should have been feeling dejected, and they didn't seem to care in the least.
Josh insists that our stand was not a failure, that breaking even is a totally acceptable outcome for a first year business, that my rainy day outlook was unfounded. But the truth was that the summer spent fuming at Kimberly forced me to consider more carefully the content of my dreams; though we had long imagined our farmers market stand, once realized, it wasn't a dream come true.
That's okay.
Dreams can change right?
The important thing about dreams is to have them--to have many, to attempt as many as possible, to identify those that incite the most passion, and to pursue that passion without stopping.
I'm honing in on my dreams now: to row, to have a nice porch, to write great books. I pursue them too, and that requires the courage for which I begrudged Kimberly. I fell out of an "untippable" boat last Friday, I have a Pinterest board devoted to porches, and, though I haven't yet anything to sell, I write this blog. The capsize was exhilarating and the pinning is easy, but articulating my dream of writing is terrifying; the risks of failure magnify when others know that you are trying.
The alternative, of course, is to live with the ambitions of a chicken and that will never do.
I ought to send a thank you to Kimberly, for helping me to refocus my energies, but likely I will not do that. A better thank you is to send you over her way. Writers like to be referenced.
I know, because I'm a writer too.
I love this post and realization of a dream :) I listened to Ann Patchett's book, "This is the Story of a Happy Marriage" and I highly recommend it! It's all about her journey as a writer. Happy writing!
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