Here's to You, Earth

Tomorrow may be it. Or maybe not. But what if?

What if Harold Camping is right? What if the rapture does come on May 21 and five months later we all bid farewell to Earth? What if this is it?

The simple fact is, no one knows what tomorrow holds. Or the next day, or the following, or further and further on in time. Believe what you will, but this is an unshakable truth.

Faith is an iridescent spinning web of possibilities and uncertainties. However, no matter the practice or denomination, some of its pivotal lessons impart teachings of goodness and the acquisition of knowledge.

As a child, my favorite part of attending mass was interacting with fellow parishioners by spreading peace amongst each other. Either with a friendly handshake, a familial hug, or a loving kiss, wishing peace to those around you always left me with a good feeling.

I can't say what tomorrow will bring, but I know that I will do at least one thing that my religion of birth taught me. I will be spreading peace and I hope you will too.

The Incas Had It Right

Once you've split from the nest and don't have the luxury of family cooking or the bank account for constant takeout, learning to cook is pretty much your only option. Unless you want to work for your supper by partaking in a never-ending sea of research studies or sift through the web to find free meals and events, you'd better whip out your spatula and roll up your sleeves.

Cooking has been a hilariously tumultuous though rewarding experience for me. Trying to make an apple pie with little flour and almost poisoning my family with permanent dry mouth was not my finest moment. Torching a crème brûlée to perfection and watching classmates lick their lips in delight was a win, however. The more I cook, the more confident I become.

Recently I became aware of a dish called quinoa, a grain used by the ancient Incas similar in consistency to couscous. Quinoa (pronounced keen-wa) is high in protein and is gaining popularity as a super food.

Cooking quinoa is comparable to preparing rice. Boil water, add the grain, cover, and let simmer. Fifteen minutes later and voila, dinner!

After I made quinoa for the first time and didn't burn it or scald myself, I decided to get a little more creative. This time, I added quinoa to some diced roasted red and green peppers, onions, and cucumbers. The vegetable medley was then drizzled with balsamic and olive oils and sprinkled with salt and pepper. Meanwhile, two hollowed peppers (one yellow, one orange) were baking in the oven at 350 degrees for about 20 minutes (also seasoned with olive oil, salt and pepper). Once the peppers were slightly soft and the bottoms were lightly browned, I pulled them out of the oven and filled them with my vegetable medley. I also boiled some corn on the cob for a side dish in anxious anticipation of summer.

This may sound like a healthy meal, but not necessarily a filling one. Oh, but it is! Quinoa will fill you up quickly. Even a serving will give you a quicker satiated feeling than rice or bread may. And it is delicious! Light and fluffy, these little balls of delight go well with any number of dishes.

Experimenting with quinoa as a sweet grain reminiscent of oatmeal a week later proved too much like a burnt marshmallow instead of a sugary treat. I read that rinsing the quinoa prior to cooking can help with the flavor if you're looking to make a syrupy version. I prefer the savory form and will continue to experiment with this delectable ingredient.

The ultimate lesson is that cooking takes practice and patience. And everyone should investigate his or her inner Julia Child. You never know, there may be a chef within you that you've yet to meet.

Love Hate Book

Being inspired by writing is a monumental experience. I would construct a world to commemorate the first time I read The Giver. A new species should evolve from my devotion to any Jonathan Safran Foer novel. I scrutinize the essence of a good story, rereading each syllable and word to savor every nuance and point of punctuation. My pace of reading moves in slow motion as I desperately elongate the literature to prevent the bittersweet feeling of finality that comes with every last page. Sure enough, that time has come yet again.

When I started writing this post, I was enthralled by Nicole Krauss's The History of Love. Krauss's story within a story about a young woman trying to help her mother reach out of depression while an old man grapples with his mortality was beautifully envisioned. Biblical imagery and plenty of chutzpah hooked into me from the get go.

The execution of this story is startlingly similar to the writings of Jonathan Safran Foer, ironically the author's husband who released his wildly popular novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close around the same time as THOL. While Foer juxtaposes narratives and character struggle in a similar fashion as Krauss, the former author presents a much more fleshed out plot than his wife does. A tale that spans lifetimes and continents but keeps the reader centered on the current page, The History of Love aspired to greatness.

Unfortunately, greatness is rarely fully reached. A central character who turns out to be dead in the last few pages of the book along with a curt ending and lack of plot resolution made me stare in disbelief at the back cover. I flipped in reverse through the last several pages to make sure I hadn't missed any extra paragraphs, but alas there were none.

Bittersweet epitomized my feelings on The History of Love until I finished the book. Note to self: Don't be too attached to an opinion; it may change. Note to potential readers: If you're going to read The History of Love, write your own ending. Preferably one involving the character 'Bird' and some daredevil antics.

Say Hello to Cybil

I don't know how or why it started, but for most of my life I have lived for others. Maybe it was a childhood defense mechanism against feeling scrapes from rollerblading or avoiding kisses from over zealous elders. If I avoided feeling anything, I was untouchable. Or perhaps I wanted to be the epitome of a perfect child, of everything my parents ever dreamed. I was an accident baby, so the least I could do was smile at my mother's laundry ruining abilities and chuckle at my father's sophomoric pranks. I mostly did what I was supposed to do. All of the ingredients for a perfect existence were sprinkled into the spread of my life. And yet the mix was sour.

I have lived a life of two opposing ideals. One side of me conforms and follows the well-trodden path of comfort while the other side of creativity and rebellion screams to run off into the weeds. People need challenge and stimulation, otherwise why even exist? How long can an individual go without recognizing and acting upon what does and does not bring one's existence to the foreground? I have let more than enough sunrises pass.

This forum will be dedicated to critical thinking and reflection. To happily embracing the outrageous and sometimes bizarre side of oneself and the world. To a life worth living.

-Cybil Disobedience