My book is due in less than two weeks and the impending deadline is making me a little crazy. Truly, I’d forgotten about this part of book writing, in which the approaching due date makes me compelled to do projects that have been sitting around for months (or even years). I’ll do anything not to be writing.

Over the weekend, I rearranged shelves. I cleared and wiped surfaces. I dusted spots that have not been dusted in many moons. My frenzy to clean and get rid of inspired Scott and he started pulling things out that could be given away. Between us, we filled eight bags with books and a very large box with other sundry items.

I also managed to finish the winter section of my book. Fall has been done for more than a week. I’m working on spring now. It’s getting closer.

I had a dream last night in which I was told that we had to move from our apartment and that we had to be out in just two days. I was panicked, particularly because I only had a few boxes and had to pack the rest of our stuff into the reusable grocery bags I had in my possession. Everything else had to be left behind. Just before I woke up, I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by books, weeping.

I know that most likely, this dream had nothing to do with my physical home and much more to do with the changes in the world and my continuing efforts to embrace my life and let go of those ways of being that don’t serve me. But still, it shook me and when I cleared the cobwebs from my brain, I walked around these rooms, feeling grateful that they are mine (and Scott’s!).

Back in 2008 when my cousins were moving Aunt Anne out of her house, Scott and I drove out there one rainy evening to pick up my great-grandfather’s desk and a few other odds and ends. After we got the furniture loaded into our rented pick-up, Lisa handed me a grocery bag and pointed to a large box sitting where the coffee table once had been positioned. It was filled with old photos, letters, and other family ephemera. She told me to fill my bag.

At first, I didn’t really get it. I started glancing at things one at a time. She shook her head and said, “Oh no. Fill that bag on up!” And so, handful by gentle handful, we stuffed that brown paper bag with several generations of family paper. This is how I ended up with the receipt for my grandfather’s birth at Pennsylvania Hospital and a tight little roll of Thanksgiving photos from 1942, among many, many other things.

I rediscovered those photos again over this last weekend. I had tucked them into my copy of the Gourmet Cookbook several years ago, in the hopes that they’d flatten out a little, and promptly forgot about them. I pulled that book off the shelf on Sunday afternoon and the snapshots came tumbling out.

Flipping through them, I wished like crazy for the power to time travel, or at the very least, to be able to slip back in time and observe the past for just a few minutes. I thought of my family’s most recent Christmas dinner, in which we gathered around that very same table (my parents inherited it when my grandma Bunny died in 1994) and the many hours I’ve sat on the hard chairs that go with it (my great-grandfather had the whole dining set made. We all wish he’d gone for a little more padding).

Most of all, I wish I could whisper in Bunny’s ear that the cigarette she’s holding will eventually kill her and that she should really consider giving them up. I often think that she’d still be alive if she hadn’t been a smoker. I so wish could see the wacky career I’ve carved out for myself. I know she’d be tickled by it.

Oh friends. I’ve gotten so very far away from this blog. I still love it and have no intention of shutting it down, but I’ve just not yet figured out how to make daily space for it while also writing books, maintaining that other blog, and meeting all my freelance obligations.

Still, I felt a little tickle today and wanted to stop by and say that I’ve not forgotten about the spot where I started and that I feel grateful that it’s still here.

Earlier today, we celebrated the last night of Hanukkah with my family. There were two kinds of latkes, brisket, salad, and guacamole (it’s the only green vegetable my cousin’s two young kids will eat). We brought doughnuts for dessert (that’s what was requested).

I brought jams and pickles for the adults and Scott picked out LEGOs for the little kids (they were a hit).

Derek asked how matches worked and got explanation that included phrases like “it’s seems like magic, but it’s actually science” and “they’re not for kids to play with.”

It was a lovely night.

The first time I determined that I needed a pair of knee-high boots, I was 12 years old (around the same time, I was also convinced that Birkenstocks and clogs were also required for my total footwear happiness).

I asked my parents to get them for me for Christmas that year (were boots even stylish in 1991? I’m not certain that they were). They relented and bought me a pair made from black suede and lined with fake fur. I loved those boots and wore them to school over black leggings.

I loved those boots. I felt hip and powerful when I wore them, a potent a combination for a mostly geeky, chubby, theater-obsessed kid. I had them through several re-soling procedures, until our new puppy determined that they were to be her new chew toy. It took me a while to forgive her for that infraction.

Ever since, I’ve been searching for the perfect boot. It has been a long slog, full of almosts and many disappointments. The footwear industry doesn’t account for much variation in calf girth when the build their boots, so the most beautiful ones have always been unavailable for my short legs and round calves. There are a couple companies out there that do make extended calf sizes, but the workmanship of those boots are always unfortunate and the leathers they use are often crappy.

I’ve spent many hundreds of dollars on boots, thinking that just maybe I’ll be able to comfortably cram my legs into them, only to have them bunch unattractively just under my calf muscles. However, thanks to my sister, I’ve finally discovered the boot. It’s made by Frye (which is my most coveted bootmaker) and is called the Carmen Harness boot. In the short length, it is most flattering and comfortable. It hits just before my calf muscle flairs, making it possible for me to even tuck my jeans into it (we chunky calved girls have  had to let this particular trend pass us by).

I’ve ordered my pair and am anxiously awaiting their arrival. However, in the meantime, I’m letting go of the two pairs of Frye’s I’ve had kicking around for years. I wear them once in a great while, remember just how uncomfortable and unflattering they are and then tuck them back into my closet. If anyone is interested in either pair (size 8.5), please let me know. I’d like $100 per pair, though should you be interested in buying both, I’d be happy to make a deal.

Earlier today, I had lunch with a friend. We spent a lovely hour catching each other up on our lives and happenings. On my way home, I stopped by the farmers’ market at Rittenhouse Square to pick up a few peaches and tomatoes (not having a CSA share this summer has put a serious crimp in my produce acquisition).

I took 18th Street home and as I was walking, realized that it was exactly a year ago to the day when I tripped on that very same block. It triggered a crying jag that helped me let go in a way that I really needed. And then two days later, I was laid off from my job and my whole world shifted for the better.

Thinking back on the last year, I can’t help but feel entirely grateful for that layoff. I was set free from a job that I should have left under my own power long before. It was definitely financially tight for a time, but even that has started to work out. I’m really looking forward to seeing what the next year holds.

I’m ever-so-slightly obsessed with my new Cuppow.

Flowers in jars at Roots Country Market in Lancaster County, Pa.

Enjoying Independence Day from our rooftop pool.

The first corn on the cob of the season.

Waiting to be a guest on Radio Times. It was something of a dream come true.

Selling books at Greensgrow with Robyn from Grow Indie.

Making pickles on a lazy Sunday.

Making apricot jam in my dear friend Andrea’s kitchen in sunny southern california.

Walking on the beach in Marina del Rey. I never pass up an opportunity to visit the Pacific. It’s my ocean of choice.

One of the maintenance guys in my building put aside this box of jars for me. I guess word’s out about my canning habit.

Piles of stuff on my dining room table. I just got home and now it’s time to leave again.

An array of preserves, eaten on Kaela’s back deck.

Kaela’s fantastic pickles. She ferments them first and then preserves them in a vinegar based pickling liquid. So good!

Amazing pizza from an outdoor wood-burning oven at the Coventry Farmers’ Market.

Breakfast with a friend I’ve known for nearly 20 years. Boggles the mind ever so slightly.

Hitting the Goodwill of my childhood with my sister and Emmett.

This was the message on the parking space I pulled into while in San Francisco. I hope it’s true!

This is the demo kitchen at Purcell Murray, an upscale kitchen showroom just outside of San Francisco. It was, by far, the most beautiful place I’ve ever taught a class.

Dinner with Cheryl Sternman Rule. She put together such a pretty plate!

Waiting for luggage at LAX, I felt a strong sense of deja vu. It’s only appropriate, since this was the airport of my first eight years of life.

After my demo at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market was over, I wandered over to find my Uncle Bill playing with his bluegrass band. It was such a kick to see him.