'cause a costume can be quite comfortable

Tierney Gearon

There is a process for peeling a pomegranate. There are also several dozen youtube videos dedicated to this process. I tried to watch one this morning, and after two minutes I gave up and started carving liberally with a steak knife. I ate my yogurt and pomegranate seeds with red stained fingers and watched the snow fall.

I spent today baking and sewing. Someone must have been watching over me while I picked out my fabric in the garment district, because it has been three whole days and I still love my color palette. I am almost done with my first dress- I'll post pictures as soon as I'm feeling good about the finished product.

The baking involved a lot of vanilla and almond and butter, which created the most intoxicating smell you could imagine. Every year that I can remember, my great grandma Oma baked tray upon tray of vanillekipferl. They are lovely, moon-shaped vanilla cookies with crushed almonds, dipped in powdered vanilla sugar. This was the first year that I took on the task of baking vanillekipferl, and they turned out amazingly. I can't upload any pictures right now, but here is a beautiful picture from a dessert blog: http://teacia.blog.hr/2007/11/1623580284/vanille-kipferl.html


I love the feeling of creating something. Watching a dress form under my fingers, molding almonds into little white moons, mangling a pomegranate beyond belief... Today was beautiful in so many ways. I will update soon again with more photoshoot pictures that are long overdue, but for now, here's a photo for your eyes, a taste for your mouth, and some words for your soul.

I am reading aloud the book of my life on earth
and confess, I loved grapefruit.
In a kitchen: sausages; tasting vodka,
the men raise their cups.
A boy in a white shirt, I dip my finger
into sweetness. Mother washes
behind my ears. And we speak of everything
that does not come true,
which is to say: it was August.
August! the light in the trees, full of fury. August
filling hands with language that tastes like smoke.
Now, memory, pour some beer,
salt the rim of the glass; you
who are writing me, have what you want:
a golden coin, my tongue to put it under.

-From Musica Humana by Ilya Kaminsky