Jen Gotch is the boss behind Ban.Do, a company that I own too many sipsip tumblers from, but she said these words and I saw them quoted in my Instagram feed while sitting in an airport terminal in between flights for a work trip. I scribbled them out in one of my sketchbooks during the layover, and it's the last thing I've written in it since. What Jen said has stuck with me since because the truth of these words is liberating, and knowing that you have the freedom to fail or succeed doing something you're passionate about feels like everything even when you have nothing but a head full of dreams and on open page of imperfect lettering. I love seeing people get to do what they love because I so very badly want that for myself. And it's nice to see living proof that what you want is possible. So, note to self (and maybe you too): If you're trying, keep trying. And then make it happen.
hand written
good things
Hellooo. So something I’ve decided I need to do is write more/again/often so that I’m able to find my words when I need them. It’s not like I don’t write every day-- I can craft a well written work email and respond to a Facebook comment in brand voice when needed, but the words I’ve been missing lately are the ones that flow from my soul as creatively corny as that sounds. There’s a reason why people say “speak from the heart” though! And I’ve been feeling like I can’t do that as well as I used to before I got tied up in the world of SEO copy, social media content, and executive emails. So here’s hoping that if I pour a little bit of my thoughts out more often, I’ll eventually be able to scrape together something worth taking in again. Good things are coming. I hope, I hope, I hope. I’ll put my pen back to paper again and again until they do.
(I've started writing in a journal and it feels really freeing. Happy to have this small but much-needed outlet back in my life again.)
Persimmons & Wrinkles
This past weekend, my dad's side of the family spent a Saturday afternoon at my grandpa's house. We barbecued burgers and sat in the shade around Grandpa's backyard picnic table like always, eating and talking together. Right now, persimmons are in season, so the trees in his backyard were dotted with warm orange hues.
A bit of family history: Grandpa's backyard is the last remaining bit of land leftover from Kawaguchi Farms. My dad and his two siblings were raised on this farm where they primarily grew asparagus. The farm is gone now, but Grandpa grows a variety of fruits and vegetables in his backyard including oranges, apples, lemons, avocados, kale, tomatoes, and strawberries. When I was little, my brothers and I would play in this backyard "jungle" amidst dappled sunlight and the cloyingly sweet smell of fallen fruit.
For the 24 years I've explored his backyard, napped on his couch, and simply known my grandpa, he's always seemed so quiet to me. But that's dramatically changed in the past couple of years.
Grandpa just turned 92, but I feel like he's become younger since he passed the 90's threshold. He cracks hilarious jokes, his mind is still incredibly sharp, and his will to live is stronger than ever. When I called to wish him a happy 92nd birthday, he acted like I had gotten the year wrong, "I thought it was 29?!" and then proceeded to laugh so hard at his own joke that I almost cried laughing with him. One of the best things he's sassed me with was when I was happily telling him how when I get past 90, all I'm going to do is nap (I have a reputation as an excellent sleeper). He quickly shot back in his gravelly Grandpa voice with, "I thought you did that already?" Be still, my heart, this abuse is phenomenal. My Lola, my grandmother on my mom's side, is the same way. At nearly 91, she has decided she can do anything she wants, like eat Baskin-Robbins Nutty Coconut ice cream two times a day and justify it with a defiant "but I like it." Under doctor's orders, she can't do that anymore, but she's quick to cause other sorts of trouble. She initiated a fist bump with my grandpa at this last family potluck because Grandpa got caught in a lie, "Yes, Mits! You don't have to tell the truth!" I was ecstatic and alarmed at her lack of moral discipline all at once.
I wasn't trying to make this connection when I started writing all this, but I guess like dried persimmons, wrinkles can bring out the sweeter side of things. Anyway, on to the persimmons!
Grandpa already had a few buckets of persimmons picked and ready to be prepped for dehydration. He's not able-bodied enough to pick the fruits himself, but his caretaker, Mary Ann, was under his instruction for picking and drying them.
A first batch of persimmons had just come out from the dehydrator. They almost shrink half their size after taking the heat! Some people prefer to slice their persimmons before dehydrating them, but Grandpa says dried sliced persimmons don't taste as good as whole ones, so we don't do that. He makes the rules after all.
Once the persimmons are dried, they get flattened down by hand. Mary Ann showed me how to press each persimmon between her fingers.
They'll go in for another round in the dehydrator before they're completely done and ready to eat!
Even though he was worried it wouldn't be tasty, Grandpa let me try one of the first round of dehydrated persimmons off the drying rack-- it wasn't ready, but it was still super delicious! It was still warm from the dehydrator and perfectly sweet.
It was a very good Saturday. And a great reminder to live simply and sweetly.