How to Sweeten Sour Strawberries

and other reasons to add sugar.

It doesn’t get as cold in Valencia as it does in New York. In fact, it makes me chuckle to see people as bundled up as they are when you could argue it’s even balmy outside. While it’s true most apartments are not insulated and you need to wear your warmer house clothes— one who has spent many winters in the Northeast finds no reason to complain. To boot, I found a handsome shearling-lined pilot jacket in Rome last week that I can’t seem to take off. It was only 60 euro, or as my friend James would say, it was free.

While the shorter days remind me it isn’t the right time of year for the culinary comforts of summer, when I went grocery shopping on Monday, I left Lidl with a container of large, plump, ruby-red strawberries. Despite their impressive size and color, when I tasted them they were slightly under ripe— a huge bummer. So I cleaned them, chopped them up, and sprinkled brown sugar on top to let them macerate in the fridge. Kitchen hacks instantly connect me with my inner trad-wife and give me the confidence (audacity) to believe I’d make a great parent. But who really knows, maybe I wouldn’t want to share my strawberries with some grabby kids anyway. Maybe I would be the kind of parent to covet the strawberries for myself, to give the children other fruits as a kind of protest: the sliced honey dew and mealy pineapple. What have these rotten kids ever done for me, anyway? I used to live for myself. Those were the days… Or maybe I won’t have children at all, and I bake the macerated berries into a tart that my distracted husband will eat only one slice of, to be polite, before confessing to me he doesn’t really ‘love dessert.’ Sixteen years of marriage and you’re telling me now? I’d say. You’re telling me this now? And then we’d laugh a little, but it would turn into a genuine fight, it’s too many calories before Ibiza. Ibiza? I’d scream back, lisping the z, who are you trying to fuck in Ibitha? and then I’d think about ending it all, what’s one slice of goddamn pie, I’d take the dog, drive to my sister’s place in the G-wagon to crash for the night, weeping the evening away, I’d turn to her, He’s a selfish man, I’d say after finally getting a hold of myself, wiping my nose with a crumpled tissue, I should’ve known better. I’d flutter my lips in exasperation. Soleil would roll her eyes, turn off the lights and remind me to make my bed in the morning.

I tried to work Mel Robbins’ essential first steps of a morning routine this week and I’m here to tell you: eh. There’s definitely something to committing yourself to a life without the snooze button, that part feels profound, counting down from five to get up—helpful. The glass of water, the high five, the daylight exposure. But the hour to ninety minutes without coffee is depraved. It borders on Italophobic. This morning, as a rebellion, I hit snooze once, it’s Friday after all, had my coffee when I got up (after a full cup of water), and I was in a far better mood than I had been the last three mornings. What’s that about, Mel?

I haven’t given up on the steps, I’ll see how long I can stick with them, but sometimes that level of optimization makes life a little joyless for me. I want to say I’m all in on ergonomics but does the design have to be so hideous? There must be some room for flexibility within the discipline. Where’s the space for intuition? Where’s the caveat for style? Could I count down from say, seven? Or twelve? Can something be truly utilitarian and still beautiful? I’ve never seen an attractive standing desk, for instance. Does Tilda Swinton ever hit snooze? Do we think Cy Twombly high-fived himself in the mirror every morning? Does Karl Ove Knausgaard delay his coffee to synchronize with his circadian rhythm? Every single person I’ve mentioned the coffee delay to immediately writes the entire Robbins philosophy off. I find that tendency fascinating, how one unappealing aspect of a proposal can turn you off to its entirety. The ick. Omg, it’s the ick! Can we get some more science behind the proverbial ick?

I’ve been discouraged from writing recently because I feel so conclusion averse. Perhaps it’s from feeling lost—or confused. Jim would say I should use the word confused. I don’t feel I have any wisdom to share, not that anyone’s asked for it— I’m committed to accepting that my writing has no obligation to be wise. If anything, I should allow it to be very, very stupid, if it means I will be more prolific. I hadn’t set out to write a rumination on waiting, but I can see that’s what this has become. Waiting for sweeter summer strawberries, for kids, a partner, that first sip of coffee. Obviously not all unripened, unrealized, still burgeoning moments can be simply sweetened and advanced with sugar, though I wish they could be. Perhaps I’ll carry sugar in my pockets to get through boring dinners or difficult conversations. Patience is a virtue I struggle to keep. I think I might be a late bloomer. I’ve come to acknowledge I have a sense of urgency that stifles my ability to enjoy being in process, surely a fault of evolution, gather oats and berries now or perish! Whether this urgency manifests in the process of creating a piece of work, in building a relationship or even in becoming— the urgency does not always serve the interests of development although the appetite to develop and build, itself, is a healthy one. Isn’t it? I won’t bore you all with the psychoanalysis behind my heightened sense of urgency but perhaps in copping to it I can get myself to slow down a little.

You’ll find no conclusions here, though, remember? Only meanderings and dispatches from my sunny flat in Spain.