While my life has hardly been dull recently, I had a difficult time choosing a topic to write about this week. True, I went to church for the first time since I’ve been in Europe (that is, an actual church service; I’ve spent plenty of time in churches, but I went to an Anglican service with a Scottish priest, and it was excellent), as well as popped in and out of museums and landmarks. I finished Sense and Sensibility. I actually prayed the rosary. But those are experiences that still feel too open-ended, too underprocessed.

So instead, I’ll tell you about something close to my heart and fully digested: food. My host dad is a farmer, vintner, and the cook of the house, so between the magnificent meals we have for lunch and the few meals I’ve treated myself to on the weekends, my diet has been a thing of beauty. Here are a few highlights from the last week.

1. Cheese. I’m already sad, thinking about returning to America and pasteurization and whatnot. Could some of this cheese kind of punch you in the face? Maybe, but only when you first try it. Once you’re used to it—wow. There’s one cheese, whose name I forget (though I think it’s a cow cheese), and it’s my absolute favorite. It has a lovely herbed rind, so the actual cheese is creamy and strong but with a lovely, infused rosemary flavor. And with a little bread or oil? Life-changing.
2. Pâté. Pâté, which is an uncooked meat patty, is, in fact, amazing. I tend towards fish pâté myself, because 1) I love fish, 2) I’m very used to eating raw fish (love you, late-night sushi runs!), and 3) the idea of eating other kinds of raw meats still feels a little odd. Of course, by other kinds of raw meats, I really only mean beef, but still! I had an especially lovely salmon pâté on Sunday at this adorable restaurant called Brasserie Lipp. It was a place kind of hidden—you had to go up a hill in Geneva and then down this staircase to find it—but I sat at a white-linened table under the cream white umbrellas, tout seul, and enjoyed rather fancier meal than I usually have. (There were multiple garnishes!) A summer storm threatened overhead, and I was delighted to watch the family across from me and the young couple kitty-corner and maybe read a few pages of Sense and Sensibility. 
   1. I should note that beef pâté is, in fact, very good. I tried a bit when my host dad ordered it, and while eating an entire serving of beef pâté, as it is usually served, would be a little overwhelming, the dish is very pleasant.
3. Mussels! I’d never had them before, but my host dad made them for lunch (the largest meal of the day here) and I was very excited, if for no other reason that I could eat them with my hands in polite company. (I’ve yet to recover from the amused shock of watching a hamburger be eaten with a fork and knife.) My excitement was well-founded, though: he cooked them in white-wine and cream and scallions and they were absolutely delicious. Of course, I love seafood in general, but these were a delight unto themselves. Even the girls, who can be difficult eaters sometimes, were happy to dig in. And these is something very satisfying about slurping little bits of meat from their shells and then mixing the leftover sauce with pasta.

And these were only a few of my favorite things I’ve eaten recently—note that they’re all things I’d almost certainly not get at home. Honorable mentions include some amazing sets of ribs (my host dad could give Texas a run for its money, actually), lamb shank, and a custard-y apricot cake.

So, on that note: santé and bon appetit!

Summer on a ranch usually has a surprisingly small amount of interactions with cattle. It’s one of my favorite ironies. This past week, however, I was able to take many breaks from driving in circles (or, more precisely, disking the fields) to working with the contrary animals. The job ended with me covered in dust, dung, and deadlifting a four-wheeler out of a ditch. I only managed to wash all of the dirt from my hair this evening. Needless to say, I love working with cattle. 

When I was in 3rd or 4th grade, I decided that I wanted–nay, needed–to know what the presents from Santa looked like before everyone else. I wanted to be the first of my siblings to know who got the most presents, the biggest presents, the prettiest wrapping paper–I needed to know what Santa had done.

I very much enjoy blogging. There’s a certain rhythm to posting weekly, and the audience interacts in the blogosphere far more than they do with an art form like books. The problem is that I don’t do much. I have another blog that I use while traveling, and that’s easier. I know what to talk about there: the world and my opinion of it as a first-time visitor. As a student, I’m not so sure. Is my latest choir concert an interesting subject? Does my audience want to hear about how little sleep I’ve been getting? (I know my mother doesn’t.) So while blogging is a good outlet for the words that occasionally well up in the recesses of my mind, my struggle is against… a form of writer’s block.

See, some days the issue is that I don’t know what to write. And some days the problem is that I don’t know how much to write. There’s a fine line between journal entry and authenticity, and I don’t want to be the blog equivalent of the drunk Facebook aunt. The challenge, like almost every other issue in my life, is about balance. Can I share enough to be relevant without completely dumping my emotional garbage at the readership’s feet?

Yet.

I would like to continue blogging. I value stories but sometimes discredit my own. Blogging is an exercise, not only in the discipline of writing and publishing two pieces twice a week but in looking within myself to find something to share. Every week I am forced to step back from the chaos that I live in and inspect myself.

I’m not going to continue this blog, but I may start a new blog in the weeks to come–one that doesn’t have the phrase “WordPress” in the title…

There is an SNL sketch from last year called “A Thanksgiving Miracle”. In it, a family meets around the table for Thanksgiving and immediately begins talking about politics. Chaos ensues. Words are spoken. Yet every time it almost comes to blows, the little girl of the family turns on Adele’s “Hello”. The screen turns sepia. The wind begins to blow. Everyone sings along. The spell of her song is cast. By the end of the sketch, the song ends, and the family sits down to a meal in which they, miraculously, all get along.

This is one of my all-time favorite SNL sketches of all time; it’s just the right amount of cringe to be both entertaining while still being relatable. And, though it was posted a year ago, it reflects the current political climate disturbingly well.

I was thinking about that sketch as I walked to my uncle’s for Thanksgiving. I usually enjoy political discussions–I am minoring in politics–but with the current polarized political climate, even I cringe. (If politics came up, I planned to steer the debate towards philosophy. Insisting on one black-and-white answer practically goes against the point of philosophy, so I figured it should be safe.)

Yet it was a non-issue. For one, I ended sitting with my siblings instead of the adults, so the largest problem we faced was whether or not to get more cranberries or more stuffing. (Or both. We went with both.) And then, later, we played card games as a family. And we laughed. And it was fun. By the end of the evening, I had come to a simple conclusion:

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for King and Scum.

There’s a moment right after I finish a novel that feels a little like waking up–drowsily disoriented but suddenly reminded of just how real the world is. For a while after that moment, the words keep coming, even though the book is closed. But it’s my story in those words, and in those first few minutes, I see my world through the eyes of the author. I hear the narration of my own movements, the turns of phrase, the descriptions of those around me: a boy, mousy but sharp, a girl with long hair and tired eyes, a woman whose smile ends at the point of her nose.

I’ve read this book. It’s about a girl who’s different, but not in a way that’s obvious. I enjoyed the book, but I can tell you this: objectively, there isn’t much about Red Queen that is different from any other book about a girl who’s different, but not in a way that’s obvious.