Little Love #5: Toothpicks

Little Love Number Five: Toothpicks

I have the gross and sometimes-painful habit of picking at my skin. I can't remember exactly when it started, but I do remember accidentally drawing blood on my little finger when I was maybe six years old. Though it's probably not a very healthy practice, I've never been too worried about it: I'm not ingesting chemicals, and I'm not shaping my life around my finger-picking. Should I ever decide to become a serious guitarist, I'll already have killer calluses to back it up.

In the numerous times I've tried to quit this habit, though, I've noticed one consistent crutch: toothpicks. Having a toothpick to fiddle with means that I don't have to torture my fingers raw. Instead, I can focus all my nervous energy into chewing on a tiny piece of wood, all the while improving my periodontal health. In college—an especially nervous period—toothpicks helped me bite my way through countless classes and essays. In fact, I think my best piece of academic prose was born between several mangled toothpicks in a Panera in Cambridge.

Until I manage to swallow a splinter (à la Sherwood Anderson), it's not a bad trade-off.

Little Love #4: Radio Tuning

Little Love Number Four: Tuning to that exact radio frequency

Since before I can remember, the radio has almost always been on in my living space: in the car on the way to school, at night as I fell asleep, on Saturday afternoons around the house. A constant companion, more or less. (I should also mention that my dad was, for years, a radio reporter, so that probably factored into our family's near-obsession with the format.)

Last Saturday, I was—somewhat unusually—changing the station on my little clock radio. It had been a while since I'd wrestled with the dial, and I forgot the small sense of victory one feels when getting the tuning just right. There's almost an entire dramatic arc within the act of tuning a clock-radio: the initial frustration of losing your channel; the false triumph of hitting your station and (alas!) replacing the radio on your bedside table, only to hear further static; the tentative hope when, fumbling with your radio (this time still in its place), you think you might have gotten it this time; the final, humble relief when you sit back to a crisp, unobstructed frequency.

Or maybe it's just me. 

Little Love #3: Wool Socks

Little Love Number Three: Warm wool socks

As the weather gets colder, I'm increasingly impatient for the heat to come on in my apartment building. The whole place relies on a basement boiler; and my neglected, dusty radiator is itching to come alive again. Until that day, I'll be drinking lots of warm liquids and wearing only my coziest socks. My favorite pair is covered in constellations. They were a gift from my friend Hayley during our first year of college. She and I were on the crew team together, and those socks kept my toes warm through many cold mornings on the Charles.

As a kid, I used to think that socks were the worst gift a person could give. Now, I would be overjoyed to get some. It's funny how those things change.

Little Love #2: Friendly Neighborhood Cats

While I could write a whole encyclopedia about why I love my cat Nala, there's something equally special about sidewalk cats.

Little Love Number Two: Outgoing neighborhood cats

I was out walking the other night when I heard this irrepressible meow coming from down the block. I kept walking, eventually reaching the source of the noise: a peppery black-and-gold cat with a smushed-in face and a fierce scar over its left eye. It was balanced on the wet wooden rail of a small balcony, but when I came close, it tentatively slid down the railing to jump onto the sidewalk and say hello. I extended my hand, and the little guy ran toward me.

Man, this cat was all about being pet. I guess a lot of cats are, but this one wouldn't shut up for one second. I adored it for that reason alone.

After a few minutes together, I noticed a sign that said "Don't beware of dog: beware of owner," so I slipped away as I heard the front door open. A young kid in a yellow t-shirt emerged, and the cat followed me to the corner before going back home.

I'm smiling now, just thinking about it.

Little Love #1: Frozen Leftovers

I've decided, for my own selfish reasons, to begin a modest little series of "little loves:" minor things that make me disproportionately happy. I don't spend enough time celebrating these things, I don't think, so I'm trying to change that, and to share my tiny excitements with all of you.

I could, of course, just embrace my own Goop-iness and call this what it is—a stupid little gratitude journal—but I've got too much pride for that. So here we go.

Little Love Number One: Defrosting and eating six-month old frozen leftovers 

A few days ago, I dug into my freezer and pulled out the verenika I'd been saving. Verenika, in case I caught you unawares, is a gift from on high: little pierogi-type dumplings filled with cottage cheese and covered in ham gravy. They're a cornerstone of Mennonite cuisine, and I used to eat them every year as a kid. My parents would take us to Hutchinson, Kansas, for the annual MCC Sale, and we'd load up on the stuff. My sister and I went with our mom in April, and we both froze some to eat later on.

I'd held out for half a year, and now my wait is over. I'm eager for the small comfort of this food, this piece of my youth and my family history. I know they won't be as good as they are fresh, but verenika are like fries: even when they're bad, they're still pretty good.