Sugar and Spice, Sharp but Nice

I've been repeatedly asked to imagine what flavour I would be, and I can never come up with a satisfactory answer. Probably because flavour means food, but there's so much more to food than flavour.

Oatmeal Cinnamon Chip Cookies

I'm not a foodie snob, just someone who loves enjoying her food. There's flavour, but there's also smell, there's texture, there's temperature. All those can make a world of difference. So I decided to cheat a bit and figure out what kind of foodstuff I could be… and the choice just sprang up without me having to think about it at all.

If I identify with a food item, in a 'come back as X' way, that would have to be my mother's spice and orange cookies. They don't look like those up there in the photo; she prefers to twist the dough into little braids and shape them into sticks, crescents or rings. They are vegetarian, as there is no butter, milk or egg in the recipe; baking them would always ramp up big time during fasting periods, and the smell of cinnamon, clove and orange greeted people from the landing, without even having to open the door into the flat.

They're fluffy and comforting when eaten hot, just out of the oven, or even warm, although I've always preferred them cold, at least a couple of days old, when they feel more solid and the flavours have blended. And unlike so many other cookies that seem to be designed to be dunked in milk, these are extra yummy when dipped in orange juice, leaving some of their spiciness in the drink.

I'm not sure if I identify with them because they tick all the 'favourite foods' boxes or if I like them so much because I'm so like them, but there you have it. I'm solid, dependable, low maintenance, a generally wholesome influence; sweet but with a little core of pungency, an acquired taste. I want to believe I bring a bit of comfort, even with some crumbly rough edges, to the lives of the people I touch, and leave something of myself in them.

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Up the Wall

I'm generally a laid-back girl, usually opting for the path of least resistance. That is the reason that the few things that drive me crazy really push me to the border of certifiability.

Stupidity 2

Actually, come to think about it, there are only two real things that drive me crazy – two major things that branch out into smaller instances, but we're looking at the big picture here.

The first is a lack of personal space and time. I need a corner, if that's all I can get, to build my book fortress and call it mine, with nobody messing with it. Sharing everything really makes me suffer. My old workstation, which I couldn't customise because someone else would be sitting there next shift, made me twitchy. Now I'm putting up with dodgy chairs instead of the comfy sofas, all for the bliss of having my computer desk as my exclusive territory.

Personal time may or may not be associated with my personal space. I really need some time alone each day, away from any kind of responsibility, to read or listen to music and decompress. That's either a half-hour sprawled on the bed with a book after the young one is tucked in, or a bimble to the supermarket with my mp3 player on, or, if I'm really lucky, a wander about town while shortstuff is at school. I become cranky and snappish if I don't get it, particularly long-term, as it tends to happen when we're visiting with my mother, who doesn't understand 'doing nothing time'.

The other thing, which makes me see red and gives me opportunities to exercise my self-control (not always successfully) is human stupidity. I used to spend considerable lengths on time on Yahoo Answers, and the sheer amounts of ignorance and idiocy spouted there were staggering. From the 'Catholic vs Christian' dichotomy to the father who was worried that his newborn daughter would become a lesbian if she breastfed, I would invariably end up debating ways to give that gene pool a good bleaching.

Now I'm on other debating communities, and some of the opinions I hear expressed there make me nearly foam at the mouth. I want to give some of the consistently WTF? authors a good shake (until their teeth rattle) and find out which planet they fell out of and if they maintain any link at all with reality. Just like the claim that public school-quality pizza is a full balanced meal. The stupid… it burns!

And then there's also the cunning stupid, when people attempt to pull a fast one and then wonder why I call them out on it. Like Jerry Springer guests. The bigger the jackass, the louder the bray.

I'll be looking for the latest edition of the Darwin Awards soon. And if I ever find any evidence that the stupid is contagious, watch me go all Ellen Ripley on the morons unfortunate enough to be within range. Really.

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Tick Tock, Goes the Death Clock

The Death Clock's predictions can become more than a little entertainment for Halloween as years go by.

“Nutrisco et Extinguo” Memento mori _DDC5301

The Death Clock (http://deathclock.com/) is a little widget that predicts one's date of death, based on a few lifestyle questions. It has been around forever and I've been amused with its predictions several times, especially comparing its four modes – optimistic, normal, pessimistic and sadistic. However, as I'm growing older and the dates creep closer, the whole thing becomes more food for thought than a joke.

In fact, if I found out I had only ten more years to live, that would make me 49 and would be a better deal than a certain sadistic mode prediction that offed me at 46, if I remember well. Not that I'd be particularly chuffed, but it would certainly be better than a lot of other possibilities.

My biggest fear is dying while my son still needs me; on top of that, leaving him young enough not to remember me well is my worst nightmare. Ten more years would make him 13. He would still need me, no doubt about that, but he'd be able to cope. I'd make sure to use these years to imprint his Greek heritage on him: take him visiting, especially as long as his grandmother is still alive, teach him the language, perhaps see about getting him dual citizenship. I'd hate to see that part of him wiped out through ignorance, while it would help remind his father of me.

Beyond that, I have very few goals to achieve. My bucket list would be very short. I don't care for a career now, let alone if I knew my time was running out. I don't care for travelling; I don't feel there's a single place on earth to see or thing to do to be complete. I'd just spend my time doing what I enjoy. Writing, getting as many stories of those that swarm inside my head out of it before they fell silent. Reading the words and worlds of others, especially during times when my own strength might fail. Above all, spending time with my husband, quality time, without letting the petty concerns of day to day life get in the way. I'd help him with everything right to the end, but refuse to burden myself with business that must remain unfinished.

In the end, I would just make sure to get my green burial, hopefully with a rowan planted over me. I like the idea of returning to the earth literally, back into the circle of life, feeding some of the creatures that grow to feed others of my kind. I expect my faith would be my refuge, empowering me to face the transition without fear but with hope, and to let go of what I used to have and know, as must we all.

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Attempts at Countrification

I was born and raised in Athens. A sprawling metropolis of about four million souls, spectacularly magnificent in places and spectacularly repellent in others. I guess it spoiled me for any smaller place.

Athens

I used to say that, as a dedicated city girl, I couldn't see myself living in a smaller place. Well, I'd jump at half a chance to live in Edinburgh, despite it being about 1/10 the size of Athens, but beyond that, I'd only leave for an even bigger place, like London, Paris or New York. I couldn't even imagine then that I would end up in semi-rural Essex, coping with life out in the fringes of a modestly sized town. And really, coping is the word.

You see, I'm definitely not cut out for life in the wild. Even if that means a housing estate a short bus ride from town, as wild as a domesticated mouse. I miss being able to pop out to the shops at a moment's notice, or finding myself among people with a few minutes' walking. We're on a dorm estate, where I can go for half a mile or so without meeting a soul on the street, and I resent having to plan a bloody journey on the bus to get into town. The local lifestyle is heavily skewed in favour of drivers; walking is a desolate experience and public transport combines extortionate fares with unreliable timetables. If we didn't have a huge supermarket, that allows lots of browsing, close by, I wouldn't have anywhere at all to go, outside town limits. I'm still wondering at a retail estate with several furniture, furnishings and DIY stores, but no bookstore.

I've spent long periods of time in the real countryside, in a house without hot water or an indoor bathroom, where we still gathered our dinner ingredients from the garden. I know I'd make a lousy farmer's wife; I've even lost the feeble interest in gardening I used to have, much as I would like a chance to grow some of our own food. But I'm no good even in the faux countryside of the boonies. I just miss people too much. It's bad enough that there is absolutely nothing to do in town once the shops close. (By 6pm. Which, in high summer, means long hours of empty streets in broad daylight. Creepy.)

I know now that I could live in an even smaller town. I'd just have to be smack in the middle of it all.

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To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I've never put much stock by dreams, mine or others'. I guess that came in handy when I pretty much stopped having any.

Bows (faux dreamcatcher)

I blame it all on that dreamcatcher. Not sure if it was handmade (it did look a bit too regular for that, though), but a beautiful piece, with a set of wind chimes hanging from it. I hung it at my balcony door and used to give the chimes a ring at least once a day. I'm picky with my chime sounds, and that set was more than nice. I thought I'd got a good bargain.

I didn't even realise for the longest time that I no longer dreamt of anything at all. I'm not very perceptive in the long run, unless I keep notes. I believe it was a few years later, probably after I had grown tired with the thing and got rid of it, that it dawned on me what had happened.

I had found a set of fabulous instructions on how to craft one's own dreamcatcher, and there it was mentioned that the centre of the web should be left open, like in the picture above, not closed with a bead, as is the case with most ready-made dreamcatchers. The lore behind the craft says that nightmares are supposed to get tangled in the web and stay trapped there until the morning light dissipates them, while good dreams find their way through the central opening to reach the sleeper. Blocking that opening can only stop the dreaming altogether. The tribal inventors of dreamcatchers would be appalled.

One way or another, my dream life dwindled away to nothing while the dreamcatcher was in place, and hasn't bounced back since. I'm not particularly sorry. I've always found the fact that dreams remain unfinished (because you can't remember it if you don't wake in its duration) frustrating. Remembering good dreams was also rare, while nightmares stayed with me much longer. Must be my natural glass-half-empty attitude. I wasn't sorry to see those go. Up until I got admitted to university, I'd be chased by Lovecraftian horrors, or falling endlessly, screaming my throat raw without any sound coming out, more nights than not. Enough was enough.

Mind you, I don't mean I don't have REM sleep or anything. I bet I do, or I'd have been a subject of medical study long ago. I just get only the utilitarian dreams, the ones I don't wake in the middle of. I've never had a significant-feeling dream in my life. The odd nightmare still slips in when the stress levels hit the red, but that's par for the course.

A superstition from my neck of the woods claims that when you dream of the dead, they want something from you. My father died unexpectedly when I was 17, before I acquired the dreamcatcher. To this day, I count the event as one of my most traumatic experiences. And yet, I've never dreamt of him, not in the shock of the first nights, not in the quieter grief that has accompanied me since. I take it that he's happy with me, wherever he is.

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