Trail of Crumbs

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I’ve been thinking a lot about Malaysia Airlines flight 370 which went missing days ago. I suppose everyone has. It’s strange and sad, and right now it’s an open-ended mystery, which I think must be excruciating for the family members of the 239 people who were on board.

I honestly can’t imagine anything worse that not knowing.

Sunset on our flight coming back from Palm Springs.

I am not a nervous flyer. It’s hard to be with Rand. He constantly spouts out facts (or, at least, I assume they are facts. I’ve never bothered to check, because he says them with such confidence. And perhaps that’s for the best) about how flying is far safer than driving. About the infinitesimal odds of being in a plane accident. About how there is absolutely nothing to worry about.

Most of the time, I believe him. I dread turbulence not because I’m afraid we’ll fall out of the sky, but rather because I will inevitably start feeling sick. My concerns are not when I fly with him, or even when I fly alone. But when Rand takes a flight without me, I get nervous. I feel like facing the issue of my own mortality is way easier than facing the issue of Rand’s.

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Technically, this is an airport selfie, so it didn’t make the cut.

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I know, I know.

I already recapped 2013 with a bunch of nauseating photos of me and my husband, making out in various locations around the world. And many of you clicked through it, and managed to contain the contents of your stomach, and for that, you should be commended.

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This post was almost about macaronuts (which is, for those of you who are unfamiliar, a French macaron that is batter dipped and fried, like a doughnut. I whispered sweet nothings at it while eating it, like a praying mantis to her mate. But something slightly more interesting happened just today (if such a thing is possible.) and I figured I’d share that with you first, even though now we’re all thinking about macaronuts.

Mmmm …

Anyway, today we flew back from Palm Springs, after a week spent lounging around in the sun with our friends Sarah and Eric (and their little son), sharing meteorologically-fascinating tidbits about the current polar vortex, including this one: parts of the United States are currently colder than Mars.

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View out our porthole window, the Maritime Hotel.

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Do you ever have those moments where you pull something off (a meal, an event, a project), and it comes together so beautifully, and was almost effortless, that you are tempted to think, “This is my calling. This is what I was put on this earth to do”?

I totally haven’t, unless you count cake eating, which I’ve been repeatedly told is not a calling.

Usually I have quite the opposite feeling: I’ll try something, and it will be such an epic disaster that I am able to say definitively that genetics and the universe clearly never intended for me to carry out these tasks.

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Rand and I spent the weekend in Boulder, imposing on friends. I did a whole lot of nothing, which isn’t dissimilar to how I spend my days in Seattle, but being in Colorado, the nothing was done at a higher altitude.

This meant that it was slightly more work to do nothing.

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Observation: being jet lagged isn’t that radically different from being drunk. Your short term memory suffers, you find yourself in dire need of a sandwich and a shower (and briefly consider how you might tackle both simultaneously), and you litter your home with random articles of clothing.

Behold:

Note to self: next time you decide to post photos of your undergarments to the your blog, consider picking a slightly prettier pair.

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The view from our seaplane as we flew over the Great Barrier Reef.

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The other day, I botched a batch of homemade cookies that I had been making for get-together with friends (or maybe my intent was just to sit in front of the TV and eat all of them by myself. Whatever.)

This shook me to my core. A large portion of my life is devoted to the creation and consumption of baked goods. It is, as a friend of mine noted, “one of my core competencies.”

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I have a confession of sorts. It might be that last week, Rand and I zipped back to Europe, and went to Dublin for the second time in six months, and then to London for the umpteenth time since I started this blog.

Sitting in a tapas bar in London, I ruminate on whether or not there is pee on my coat.

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I know some of you are reading that and thinking, “Girl, no. I cannot spend another three weeks reading about the ins and outs of Anglo-Irish conflicts,” and to those dear folks I say, fear not. The thing is, this trip kind of sneaked up on me, and I didn’t really make any plans or do anything while I was there that is worthy of a blog post. I mostly just shopped, and ate sticky toffee pudding, and had more than my fair share of travel freak-outs. Including a particularly teary and noisy one that happened after I sat in what may or may not have been a puddle of urine in a Dublin cab. 

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