My pants are all dirty, the butt pockets and thighs streaked with wet flour handprints. Today I swept my hair off the patio and measured the inside of an old ice chest to make an insulated box for cooking beans and making yogurt. Liz and I joined a buying co-op, and yesterday I got $30 worth of food for $11. This is the news.
Eugene is treating us right. It is not pushy, overwhelming or smelly. . . ok, it is smelly, but when the smell is coming from a big grain mill and it smells like oatmeal for two blocks of the bike ride to the library, it's alright. The smell of thousands of apples in our yard and on our street, now there's a good replacement for the acrid dump truck smell that blasted me in the face everyday when I worked in Bethesda.
The smell of beer brewing in a garage across the street! That's the smell I'd been waiting for. I had my first Oregon homebrew a couple nights ago with none other than the president of the Society for Native Oregon Beers (SNOB; apt, no?), who has the most impeccable, jealousy inducing brew setup. Granted, he's been doing it for 17 years and he's a molecular biologist so he knows how. I'm just impatient to get to a point where I can brew like that. I suppose I need a kit first. And a job.
In the meantime, my occupation has been cooking for nearly every meal with local veggies and thousands of spices. Vegan carrot cake? Yes! Naan? Yes! Bread? Of course! And hopefully I'll be able to go mushroom hunting with Bert, a housemate, who loves to take newcomers into the woods.
Well. Now. Life has been far less interesting to write about since we stopped moving so much and have been focused on nesting and scouring craigslist for jobs every day. If something interesting comes up, or I try a really great beer (Marin IPA, as a matter of fact), I'll do a write up. . .