The Ides of March.

I once stood where Caesar was stabbed.  In the Largo di Torre Argentina, in Rome, when I was nineteen.  There are lion statues there and the myth goes that one puts his hand into the lion’s mouth and if it closes, he’s deceitful.  I didn’t put my hand in.  I’ll never put my hand in.

I lie a lot.  I lie about small things that aren’t even white, they’re paler than that.  They are innocent, but entrapping.  They are gnat-like and hover around sweet things, sweet people I find attractive.  I want to impress.  It’s been a characteristic about me since I was a child. I don’t know if I’ve ever really impressed anyone, but it’s always fun to pretend.

Loneliness is the most unkindest cut of all.  I am often left in a dissatisfaction at my own amusement with simple pleasures.  I have had the house to myself for two days and have taken Murphy to the sitter’s and drove in the car for nearly an hour and a half total.  I put a bid on a house, a house that’s shared, a house that has a concrete backyard and is close to a tennis court.  A house that’s in a nice neighborhood, but is equalized to our standard by the budget we set for it.  I could never live alone.

Then I wonder why I crave it so much.  Why I sit facing a certain way, away from others.  Why I am so bothered by the constant, incessant need to ask how my day is.  Why do pleasantries make me recoil?  I think it’s the inauthenticity of it all, the mechanism of courtesy and the lack of true, distinct attention that I may get from so-and-so.  I cannot impress the disinterested.  I need an audience to survive.


I’ll wait patiently.  I will go to the dog park that doesn’t have grass and is volunteer-driven and I will talk to a woman named Mariel about our dogs and I will drain my battery to 10% talking to my dad about his business trip to Arkansas and I will drink a whole Gatorade and wake up at 5:45 am to ensure I get to read A Farewell to Arms in the brown leather couches of a Starbucks close to work.  I applied for a part-time job at a French bakery and lied on my resume (as I always tend to do). I ate cereal for dinner last night.  I made tacos today.


And while I wait for my audience to come back, I will listen to Murphy breath heavy and taste the goods I made myself.




Cornmeal Cookies (via)


  • 1 stick unsalted butter, softened (1/2 cup)
  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1/4 tsp. salt
  • Zest of one lime
  • 1 large egg
  • 1 tsp. vanilla extract
  • 3/4 cup flour
  • 1/2 cup 100% yellow cornmeal + extra for rolling 


  • Preheat oven to 375 Fahrenheit
  • In a large bowl, whip softened butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
  • Beat in salt, zest, egg, vanilla.
  • Add flour and then cornmeal once incorporated.  Use a rubber spatula to mix to ensure full incorporation, as mixers often do not get the bottom/sides of bowl.
  • (Variant from original) Allow to rest in freezer for a few minutes.
  • Pat or roll onto floured/cornmeal-dusted board.
  • Cut into rounds.
  • Place on parchment-lined baking sheet.
  • Bake 8-12 minutes until just golden on edges.
  • Allow to cool.


(I paired these with a grapefruit curd, which will be featured in my next post)


One response to “The Ides of March.

  1. I think everyone likes company, but real company. While I’m out and about, I’m perfectly content in my own little world. But when I’m home? No, I need to talk and i need to talk alot. It’s just i like genuine conversation, not light fluff with everyday encounters where the other person is just praying for a one word answers so they can go about their day and not be stuck chatting with someone they don’t even care to chat with. I don’t even bother “being polite” and offering greetings at work and people like me for it. We can stand there and smoke a cigarette on break and I wont chat their ear off. You can sit next to me and eat in peace. I don’t like to feel obligated to talk to others and I hate when people talk to me because that’s how they feel. Oddly enough, my selective talking has fosters some casual friendships at work and they seek me out for genuine conversations.

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