If the Good Lord gave me custard cups, I would make a thousand creme brulees in His honor...
I've reached the Recipe Redline with custard cups--meaning I have so many recipes involving custard cups waiting in my mental "recipes I'd like to try" queue that I simply must, must have custard cups. I even went to get some a few weeks ago, but IKEA was out. And now between my furlough and...well...my furlough, I really can't justify buying custard cups. No matter how many cute egg custard recipes I happen to happen upon.
It's a wonder that I like Lawrence Ferlinghetti as much as I do, considering the fact that I loathe many of his contemporaries. Take this adorable snippet:
Recipe for Happiness in Karbaraovsk or anyplace
One good boulevard with trees
with one grand cafe in the sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups
One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you
One fine day
It's true, it's cute, it's clever, and the last line is so very Ferlinghetti. (The poem came out of Choice Cuts, btw, an edited collection by Mark Kurlansky, pub'd 2002 by Penguin. Sara Jaye bought it for me. This isn't where it was originally published, obviously.)
Cooking this evening got me thinking about love and vocation--how we can turn things we love into vocations, and how vocations (or jobs, really--I don't think a real vocation would do this) can turn things we love into things we hate.
When I reread that last sentence, I realized that I wasn't really thinking about vocation correctly. Vocation usually means "job" when used casually, but in the church it means "calling." Vocation comes from the Latin vocare, to call. So it really refers to your life's path (your calling) rather than your job. So your vocation is your love--the tricky part is knowing how to turn your vocation into a job. I think that people most often end up turning vocations into jobs when they aren't really paying attention to the process; when instead, they're just getting things done and looking at what's in front of them, and suddenly, Bam!, they're spicy. It's so...Zen.
Speaking of people who've melded job and vocation, take a look at this guy. He's 26, he's collaborated with Bjork, and I have a huge crush on him.
It's a wonder that I like Lawrence Ferlinghetti as much as I do, considering the fact that I loathe many of his contemporaries. Take this adorable snippet:
Recipe for Happiness in Karbaraovsk or anyplace
One good boulevard with trees
with one grand cafe in the sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups
One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you
One fine day
It's true, it's cute, it's clever, and the last line is so very Ferlinghetti. (The poem came out of Choice Cuts, btw, an edited collection by Mark Kurlansky, pub'd 2002 by Penguin. Sara Jaye bought it for me. This isn't where it was originally published, obviously.)
Cooking this evening got me thinking about love and vocation--how we can turn things we love into vocations, and how vocations (or jobs, really--I don't think a real vocation would do this) can turn things we love into things we hate.
When I reread that last sentence, I realized that I wasn't really thinking about vocation correctly. Vocation usually means "job" when used casually, but in the church it means "calling." Vocation comes from the Latin vocare, to call. So it really refers to your life's path (your calling) rather than your job. So your vocation is your love--the tricky part is knowing how to turn your vocation into a job. I think that people most often end up turning vocations into jobs when they aren't really paying attention to the process; when instead, they're just getting things done and looking at what's in front of them, and suddenly, Bam!, they're spicy. It's so...Zen.
Speaking of people who've melded job and vocation, take a look at this guy. He's 26, he's collaborated with Bjork, and I have a huge crush on him.