Wednesday afternoon

sounds like: Andrew Bird, ceiling fans, the clickety-clack of typing furiously on a keyboard, Gary Clark Jr., and Zee Avi's smoooooth smooth voice. 

tastes like: a crisp white wine with sliced strawberries and mango, soft scrambled eggs with slow-sautéed bacon and tomato, and hearty vegetable soup with a rasher of smoked bacon and rosemary for depth and dimension. 

feels like: writing my French lit final and comparing food and art with existentialism (come on, are we at all surprised?), icy condensation on my wine glass, and the necessary freedom that comes with closing all social media to obtain maximum productivity (then again, I am blogging so..). 

smells like: rain in the air and pink peonies from the garden.

photo via Sandra Juto 

Wednesday evening

sounds like: the lemonade mix cd that Stephanie made me two years ago. It contains all kinds of wonderful songs by The Ink Spots, Nat King Cole, Pomplamoose, Doris Day, and Django. 

tastes like: roasted eggplant with balsamic vinegar over raw kale, green tea, and fresh ginger/apple/carrot juice. 

feels like: It should not have been 70 degrees on the first day of February. Reading Sartre's No Exit with a warm winter breeze through my open window which should be mildly depressing but is oddly pleasant. The music and breeze makes up for the "I'm stuck in hell's waiting room with two people I hate" existentialism. 

smells like: vanilla perfume, fresh laundry, and the promise of cold weather in the air. 

photo via Sandra Juto