happy thanksgiving & fresh green beans

Thursday was Thanksgiving. Did you have a good Thanksgiving? Did you have any Thanksgiving at all?

I went to a Friendsgiving. Yes, yes, I know. My household consists of lonely ol’ me, so yes, I did have Thanksgiving with people outside my household. But fear not, Mr. Cuomo! I see these people every week, so I guess they’re sort of like my pod? And we were being good—only six of us total, no hugging, we kept our distance, used serving utensils, etc.

Anyhow, it was potluck style and I was assigned green bean casserole due to my rudimentary cooking skills and everyone saying it was a “necessity” at Thanksgiving. But in truth, I’ve never been a fan of green bean casserole. I’m also lactose intolerant. Well anyway, I was told that green bean casserole is better with fresh beans, so that’s what I used. I had to Google how to blanch them, because I’d never actually cooked green beans before. All in all, the whole process was pretty easy. Wash green beans. Chop green beans. Blanch green beans. Mix green beans with a can of cream of mushroom, half a cup of milk, some pepper, and 2/3 cup of French’s fried onions. Bake in an 8×8 pan at 350F for 30 minutes, top with more fried onions, and bake for another 5 minutes. And done.

And you know what? Everyone said it was good. (Thank you, kind friends!) But the truth is, I still didn’t like it. It certainly was better than other green bean casseroles I’ve tried, but no amount of fresh greens and extra crispy fried onions will make it appetizing to me. It’s just too much mushiness for my taste. Sure I ate it, mixed in with the mashed potatoes and stuffing and a Lactaid pill … but it’ll never be my jam. Oh, but French’s fried onions? I have to say, those things are delicious. I’ve already eaten all the extra I had. Those beat green beans any day.

it’s been a bit

It’s currently raining outside—heavily. It’s already November now and it’s amazing/unnerving how much time has passed. The weather’s turning chilly, and outside the thunderstorm is battering my windows and is causing my walls to make concerning creaking sounds. But that’s just how it goes. That’s how this year has gone so far.

I live in an apartment building in New York City. The building has stood for decades, and it’s not going to crumble due to some rain, but one can’t help but wonder if. New York City is an international city, a place of business and commerce, a symbol of progress and prosperity. But this pandemic has shown its weaknesses, has shown it falter. The streets were empty for a time, emptier than I’d ever seen—emptier in the day than I’d seen in evenings previous—but more than the lack of people presence, it was the loneliness. It was the prevailing fear in the air, the uncertainty and unease that permeated the city. That permeated my mind. This strong city. Me. The pandemic showed its cracks.

I’m not an optimistic person by nature. People who meet me usually think I’m an optimist, an extrovert … at least at first. But that’s all learned and faked, through my experiences moving to new cities and meeting new people, through getting thrown into the world of marketing and figuring out the art of selling, through networking and making small talk. It’s a very well-developed “work voice” that I’ve learned to rely on for my own sanity, but it also terrifies me how comfortable I am putting on that mask and pretending that everything is fine. I hope for the future, and I hope that all will be well, and I hope that we’ll all recover our sense of safety and stability. But a large part of myself also can’t help but chide myself for being so naive.

But then I hope that maybe part of that happy mask has found its way into becoming part of my true face. After all, if gardening has taught me anything, it’s that nature always finds a way. Change will come, whether we want it to or not, and there’s only so much agency we truly have, so there’s no use trying to exert control over things we can’t control. I don’t know what the future will hold, and honestly, I try not to think too much these days, as it only causes me more stress and turmoil—more than I can handle. I see the cracks in my well-worn façade and hope it won’t shatter, because I like that face, and I’m not ready to let it go. I comfort myself not in the hope of the better, but in the reality that life will continue, in one way or another.