Happy Holidays!

I've doing a lot of bread baking lately. A lot. I got this book from the library, The Bread Bible. My breads are a bit hit and miss. Mostly I blame our house. The dough has a hard time rising because it has yet to reach room temperature here this 'summer.' Undeterred by the vehement kiwi opposition to insulation, I've even cultivated my own sourdough starter. Its quite entertaining. Every couple of days it bubbles up and has that deliciously repugnant smell that is slightly unpleasant and addictively sniffable. Mmmm.

When you think about it, yeast is very relevant this time of year. What else is all around us, turns water into wine, and reproduces asexually in virgins' wombs?

Happy Holidays!

Crazy Girl

There was this girl in the first yoga class I ever took. Jen and I admiringly called her 'Crazy Girl.' She wore sparkly jeans to class, had wild hair that she never pulled back and was bubbly in a way that made her perfect for a job in retail. That spring at a yoga retreat we were silently walking around the Ottawa valley enjoying the calming bliss of too much yoga when we were interrupted by Crazy Girl running down the hill screaming "I'm Alive! I'm Alive!

The thing is, once you hit puberty there are only select activities where individual joyous yelling is generally appropriate. Roller coasters, sporting events and protests come to mind. But these are noisy places anyway. It takes a little stepping outside yourself to break through the normal everyday noise level with a little whoohoo.

As you may have already heard, I am living in hilly windy Wellington and have rejoined the ranks as a cyclecommuter. (wow- that word was acceptable to spellcheck) Anyway, there are couple of thrilling descents on my commute into town. They often remind me of Crazy Girl, because I'm sure as I 'Whee' and 'Whoohoo' my way downtown, I'm earning a similar nickname.

Something in the Air

The weather is very changeable in the mountains around Rabinal, Guatemala. Sunny afternoons could hide thunderstorms like a magician hides rabbits. Then pull them out of unusual places to surprise and stun the unsuspecting public. I spent four months in Rabinal and inevitably, from time to time, my gringo body protested against the foreign conditions. Whenever this happened, the locals had an explanation. I had caught too much air. Too much air could produce any mulititude of symptoms. Too tired? Too much air. Can't sleep? Too much air. Sick to your stomach? Too much air. Not hungry? Too much air. We used to roll our eyes and joke that hangovers were also the result of too much 'air.'

But they knew something I didn't, something I wouldn't understand until I started golfing in Wellington. Too much air can make you sick. Today I came in from the 18th hole feeling awful. My ears felt like they had been boxed by a monkey on crack, waves of pain were crashing against the left side of my skull and I was queasy. I had caught too much air.

But after a nap, a hot shower and a burger all I remember is my hat poetically blowing off, that satisfying drive off the 14th tee and those lucky putts.

(The picture is a dust storm in Mongolia. It was pretty windy there too!)