Disco Diaries is a free series of essays and vignettes. If you love it, consider sharing it with a friend or dropping a note to say hello. Thanks for reading!
Gone, but only for a while, our hero returns a changed woman. Six months older, married, tanner, wiser. She dilly-dallies, repotting basil plants and sorting papers, until there’s nothing left to do but unearth that long-running note from the depths of her Notes app, suffocating beneath the weight of two dozen half-checked lists.
She scrolls back through time: travel notes, packing lists, chaotic one-liners… and at last! A note titled “Disco.”
Abandoned though it was, the note carries a child-like hopefulness, like it anticipates something vague but good. Maybe the way a baby feels being driven to a party. It seems like the future is bright, even if it is currently unclear…
Dear readers,
A lot has happened since the last time I wrote to you. My band put out a song and music video. We went on tour. I created, organized, and produced an offline music festival. I got married! We went to Portugal. We lost two grandmothers. The band went on another tour. I killed another mint plant.
In the rare still moments of a full calendar, I thought about how excited I was to redefine my personal writing practice.
I think we should start slow, take things easy. No need to rush our commitments to one another. We want this to be a “happily ever after” thing, not a “will they, won’t they” thing. Paid subscriptions have been paused since March and will remain so for now. Those who have supported my work in the past or may do so in the future, know that I’m extremely grateful.
Long ago I formed two theories:
You can tell a lot about an individual by their shoes.
You can tell a lot about a family by the contents of their fridge.
The first theory was developed out of desperation while attending a private school with uniforms. Shoes were the only medium for self-expression, so I read into people’s sneakers for their personality traits. I would look out for a pair of Converse or Vans, having deemed these the “alt” shoes. Those who wore high tops with their plaid and khaki would be able to relate to my emo rocker lifestyle. This was one of my earlier judgmental practices.
The second theory was developed because it’s true.
Here are some hypotheses of fridge contents and meaning:
Freezer stocked with meats = cooks often, frequently for guests
Crisper drawer with half a cucumber going bad = wants to have time for sit-down lunches but doesn’t
Crisper drawer with several rotting vegetables = optimism turned defeat
Partial container of milk, expired and forgotten = keeps busy, always looking for next experience
Containers of leftovers, labeled and dated = in a good place, have hit their stride
Our fridge currently has four opened pickle jars (=forgetful), some kale going bad (=busy), tomatoes from the market yesterday (=dreamer), and lots of old leftovers (=problem with follow-through). What’s going on in your icebox?
Personifying groceries makes me more likely to use them. They’re sitting on a shelf, waiting to be lead to their destiny, and they deserve a worthy experience. Only we can give that to them. Right now, I’m guardian to a head of broccoli that only has a few days left in its prime, and it really doesn’t want to retire without a moment in the spotlight. If I keep in mind its burning desire to be somebody, I’ll be more likely to attempt stir fry tonight. Plate that baby up with a drizzle of chili oil on top and make it feel special.
Our lifestyles define our groceries. And I think that what we eat and the way we eat it influences our mood. I’m not talking about sugar being linked to depression. I’m talking about the quality of a sandwich determining the emotional character of a lunch break. Dry peanut butter and jelly on smooshed bread doesn’t set the same tone as micro greens on fresh sourdough, does it?
But in our busy culture with all of its gross standards, meals tend to move low on our list of priorities. Dinner is so often a chore when it should be a treat. There are times I fantasize about taking a pill that gives me my nutrients and makes me feel full. Even though I think eating is one of the greatest pleasures of life. But I, like so many others, am too tired to get something together, too broke to eat out. I take lazy meals in front of the screen, emailing at lunch and watching TV at night.
Our trip to Portugal saved me from this tedium. We ate out every meal, dining in packed, candle-lit nooks or shaded patios, leaning over linen table cloths to share small plates.
All of the servers were attentive but nonchalant. In my stateside serving jobs, I usually got the impression that appearing rushed and on edge was seen as virtuous, like the patrons felt at ease knowing that the staff was going full throttle on delivering their appetizers. In one restaurant, the chef had hung up a framed, hand-drawn sign that read “Sense of Urgency.”
In Portugal, our servers would start by asking us if we wanted the couvert, a starter of bread, butter, olive oil, cheese, and the like. If we didn’t know what we wanted by the time they came back with the bread it might be a while before we saw them.
At first I found this frustrating, but then I understood it as permission to take our time. I learned that we only needed to signal that we were ready. Then we could order our plates of fish and pork, peaches and tomatoes, carafes of vinho verde, cold glasses of unspecified beer.
I’m used to eating fast. At the beginning of the trip, I would rapidly devour the well prepared dishes, then sit there waiting for the check. The servers would clear plates as we finished, but rarely asked if we needed the check or wanted dessert. This, too, annoyed me, until I realized it was another gracious allowance. You didn’t have to sit for another hour finishing your wine, but you could if you wanted to.
As I became accustomed to this pace, I started seeing it as my own foodie-themed mindfulness exercise. I habitually keep a chaotic schedule and make high demands of my time, frequently skipping meals altogether. Allotting three hours of my day to meal time was an indulgence that challenged my values.
If I could bring one habit back from Portugal, it would be these long, slow meals. Normal life has more restrictions than our honeymoon, of course, but I’m eager to find the middle ground.
I believe the secret lies in care an attention, not time and money. It’s time to keep the table clear and light candlesticks for dinner. There is great potential behind well-plated pastas and dinner-time playlists. We have to eat dinner every day, so could it be our one non-negotiable reminder to slow down? I have a date with a head of broccoli tonight, and I’m going to find out.
The broccoli's burning desire to be somebody had me weepin'! Love this, was so excited to see in my inbox :)
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