Red curried cauliflower in the oven. Buried in eggs, spinach, beets, fried plantains. Call it a quiche. Call it dinner.
My name is Ryan Loveeachother. Formerly Ryan McLaughlin. Sometimes I wish I would have went with Ryan X.
Every time I grapple with something that’s existentially larger than myself, a little voice in the back of my head says shhhh. Sit down. Be humble.
At breakfast Kate and I were talking about Whole Foods and how they have these refrigerated lockers where you can order food up to 3 days in advance on Amazon and pick it up at the store. Already collected and paid for. We were talking business ideas. What could South Saint Paul sustain? Could South Saint Paul sustain a natural foods coop? How about a movie theater? Okay back to the coop. What’s the future of grocery? Is it Amazon prime? What’s the business model of a farmers market? I’m thinking about buying a whole pig and splitting it with my dad, my sister-in-law, my mother-in-law, and father-in-law. 30ibs of pork is more manageable than 150 Ibs of pork. This collective buying allows us to buy more for less. Is this the future of grocery? Of consuming? It’s local commerce that’s smart and organized and direct.
The little voice is almost always other people. I rarely reality check my ideas. I just birth them. And then, when I spout spout spout, I see people’s facial gestures, their upturned lips (mocking smile) or downturned brow (disapproval). And then, the little voice appears.
I keep thinking. Nobody is as interested in my life as I am. Nobody else cares, to the degree I that I care, about my patellar instability—my knee keeps popping in and out. Nobody cares about the isometric exercises and the pros and cons of a knee brace as much as I do. I feel like this has a) always been the case and b) will continue to be the case. Whether it’s because we’re all hyper self-interested or whether it’s some commentary on either the nature or intensity of my obsessions, I don’t know.
I need to get back to yoga. And I will. 30 minutes a day will be a good reimmersion. I did a 30 minute hip focused flow this morning. It’s been a while. But I’ve focused on other things: open water swimming, running, moving, finding jobs, unpacking. There’s only so much time. Family. Sleep. Thai massage. But stretching is key.
The argument between Kate and I this morning wasn’t an argument. It was “this is my preference” and “well that’s not my preference.” And then, words words words to try and establish a compromise. The details are irrelevant, and still simmering. But the big beta point is the grueling ground of compromise. Evolutionary biologists and social scientists wonder whether marriage will survive the next 50 years. Surveys show declining support for lifelong pair bonds. But. For me, from the moment I met Kate until now, it’s been to my benefit. I hope I confer similar boon on her. From sobriety to be chill to be kind to be honest to take the high road, I’ve gained what one might call a moral compass from time with Kate. I’m intrigued and attracted to the idea that the Teacher is now. And you’re where you’re at right now because the Lesson hasn’t been learned.
There’s a fair chance I spooned too much red curry into the cauliflower. I kind of did this whimsically. Without thinking. Just boop, in goes the red curry. There’s a 50-50 probability that the curry will jive and enhance the ensemble, and then there’s an equal chance that it will rupture the thing. And Kate will wooooooaaaahhh what the hell is this.
We watched a romantic comedy last night called “When We First Met’ and while obviously two-feet shallow and Chucky Cheese cheesy, it did position the premise of fate and inescapable destiny right next to the conception of romantic love. I’m less interested in the idea of fate. And more interested in the idea of now. Like what the fuck do I need to let go of now? What do I need to accept? What part of myself or others (because some argue that the distinction is illusory) to I need to love?
The dog is neglected, here in South Saint Paul. At least compared to Georgia. Our shit was settled in Georgia. Routine stamped down. Here we’re all over the place. Which isn’t yet good or bad. But it does mean the dog gets far fewer steps and is probably behind in the cosmic canine Fitbit challenge.
The quiche will be good. The curry will congeal with the plantains and collapse into the carmelized onions and then BAM colossal metamorphosis into QUICHE DADDY!
Post half-marathon workout is 4 miles easy. Massage legs. Do patella stability exercises. Eat eggs.
Also return library books. And make apple sweet potato dessert. With cashews, raisins, honey, peanut butter. Bake.
Some days. I feel like I’m writing to nobody except my mom. Like it’s just me writing directly to her. This Sunday morning feels like that.