mud pies to medicine: 2013

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

If home is where the heart is...

...then my home is in Vermont.

Ever leave a place and feel like you should still be there? That is exactly how I feel every time I leave our old farm in Vermont. A few snapshots from a day that was too icey to ski (or a day I just wanted to enjoy our house instead of the slopes).

The Barn

Pond Reeds

Night Sky over the House

Stars over the Barn

Can't get enough of skies that lack the light pollution that plagues New Jersey.

Monday, January 28, 2013

Remember that time...

I made a New Year's Resolution I couldn't keep? Story of my life.

Anywho moving on. Sometimes I see photos I took and I don't really like them and then I come back a year and half later and wonder why I did not love it from the start. Our tastes and styles change and thus is the story for these lovely little snapshots from India.

Money money money.

Currently the background on my computer:

Beans! Speaking of which I'm working on growing sprouts at this very moment. If that's a success I'll write about it. If I never mention it again either it failed miserably or it worked and dirty sprouts made me die of E. coli.

That's my foot. Which seems really neat until you've walked in my shoes... literally. Those shoes had holes in the bottom and looking back I'm truly surprised I didn't have some parasite make a home in the ball of my foot.

The inspiration you ask?

I miss making mud pies. There is this huge rock in my front yard. To call it a rock really does it a dishonor. It is a boulder, brought home by my father on a huge dump truck after he blasted it out of a work site. My mom one day told me that even though it is nearly 2.5 feet high, 6 feet long, and 2.5 feet wide, that it was, in fact, only half-showing. The scientist inside of me was disbelieving and set out to get some proof. Clad in a dress, bow in my hair, and my best accessory, a shovel, I trudged outside ready to prove my mother wrong. That is when the digging began. I dug, and dug, and dug, and nearly all 3.5 feet of Danielle fit in that hole when I had reached the bottom of the rock. That became my digging spot, my mud pie kitchen. Each day it was dug, and each evening it was filled back in. Sometimes the holes were small, sometimes they were enormous, and most days the hole was turned into my mud mixing bowl with that rock as my counter. The novelty never wore off. The ebb and flow of my childhood was, in many ways, measured by the ever-changing depth of that hole in the front yard, the hole that never really disappeared even each day after it was filled in. Even though the grass has grown back in that spot, there still remains, an indentation, the scars of a childhood well lived and the disbelieving scientists I have always been.

So, you ask me why I want to be a doctor? I do not want to be a doctor. I want to open a mud pie bakery with the cash register on that rock in my front yard. But, somehow, I doubt I would stay in business long, for the world seems to have lost its taste for mud pies. I guess being a doctor will have to do.