The snow started Saturday evening and continued all day Sunday. We spent most of the day shoveling—our pathway first, then the sidewalk in front of our house, then a few of our neighbors' sidewalks too. Our houses are close together. There's not much ground to cover. I texted my elderly neighbor and asked if she wanted me to take care of the path and stairs leading to her porch. She said yes, thank you. When I went to do it, I found another neighbor had already cleared it.

As I shoveled, I thought about our differences in this country. The stories we tell. There are people in the surrounding counties who are afraid to come into the city. I have family who are afraid to come here. I wonder if they know there are good neighbors here, too.

In the afternoon a young man with a snowblower came through and cleared the sidewalks for the entire block.

This morning I walked Frisket, both of us bundled against the cold. The sun was finally out. Few cars were on the road, mostly just snow plows. The few people out were walking dogs like me, or shoveling their cars out of a foot of snow. Or carrying sleds to the big hill by the ballpark.

We walked in the street rather than trudging through the sidewalks. I looked down. Frisket had lost a boot. I went back to find it—a small black speck in the snow. A man with his son got there first and tossed it to me so I didn't have to climb over the snowdrift.

We walked to the bridge overlooking the creek. Frisket doesn't like bridges but she always wants me to lift her up so she can see over the wall. She likes the view as much as I do. We looked out over the creek, icy and white. Blue sky above. I stood there a moment thinking about how beautiful the world is. Fierce, and terrible, and beautiful.

On the way home we stopped and watched some dads sledding with their kids.

I spent my lunch break calling my senators and going through my closet. I pulled coats and sweaters for our neighborhood ice watch group. Donations for people who can't go shopping for fear of being abducted by men with masks.

I think about how some people spend an awful lot of money to make us believe that the poorest and most disenfranchised among us are the reason everything is broken right now.

This afternoon I need to work on my shop. Go through photos of the things I made, upload them, write product descriptions. It feels unfair to engage in capitalism when all of this is happening.

I don't know if I'll make art about any of this. I feel a call to, but it also feels like my voice isn't necessary—there are already so many people saying what I'm feeling, better than I can say it.

And then I wonder if that's the wrong way to look at it. Maybe my voice matters anyway. In the way that protests are about showing up. Another body to add to the numbers. I prefer taking concrete action. I like helping people where I can, doing something instead of just posting about it. I don't want to make anyone feel worse. We already feel terrible.

I don't have an answer. Just this: I shoveled snow. I called my senators. I'm donating what I can. I'm working on my business. I'm trying to hold all of it at once.

It's the new year. 2026. I took the last two weeks off from blogging—Christmas and New Year's didn't need commentary from me, and I wanted to be cozy with family. Christmas at my sister-in-law's, then Virginia to see my dad, then New Year's Eve at our place watching the ball drop on 34th Street with friends and neighbors. It felt right to step back.

But now I'm sitting here feeling overwhelmed. Last year at this time, I was charged up. I'd worked through some difficult years and was excited to move from treading water to gaining ground. 2025 started strong. Then my dad was hospitalized on February 3rd, and everything fell apart. For months it was just me, him, and my stepmom in that hospital room. All my goals for the year suspended. Back to treading water.

My dad is doing much better now—better than he has any right to, honestly. I spent the last part of the year trying to get back on track. So here I am at the start of 2026, looking for that super-charged feeling again, but instead feeling like I have more to accomplish and less time to do it in.

Is there ever enough time?

I think a retrospective is in order. When you're looking ahead at everything you want to do and feeling swamped by it all, sometimes you need to look back at what you actually did. Not to pat yourself on the back—just to remember you've been building something all along.

Here's what happened in 2025:

I started blogging again. I've attempted this several times in my life and never stuck with it. But last year I showed up every week since October 1st (minus the holiday break). That's not counting Substack, where I showed up earlier in the year too.

I started gardening again. Planted a lot of things for the first time. Some things thrived and some didn’t. But I learned a lot. Including that pruning flowers is a really nice excuse to get out in the sun every morning.

I applied to and became a member of the Potters Guild. It's hard to get in. This was my second attempt, but I know some who’ve tried several times.

I tabled at my first market and actually sold some stuff. Like many artists, I have a strange relationship with selling my work. I'm used to clients paying me to do something specific, but making something and then offering it for sale is still weird. I knew I needed to jump in and start building experience, so I did.

I built a habit around language learning. It's always been a dream to be bilingual or multilingual. I tried to teach myself Russian with my dad's old textbooks when I was eleven. It didn't work, but it was the beginning of many attempts—four years of French, a couple Italian classes, Duolingo for Spanish, Japanese, Danish. Despite doing well with grammar, nothing stuck. Last year I discovered comprehensible input: learning like a child, seeking out media in your target language and just listening until it clicks. I've dedicated half an hour or more most days to watching Spanish videos or listening to Spanish podcasts. I'm very much still a beginner, but I can tell it's working.

I went to South America. I don't know if this counts as an accomplishment, but travel is meaningful to me.

I went to a lot of art museums. Again, maybe not an accomplishment, but very inspiring. I know a lot of what I encountered will show up in my own work this year.

I learned I'm stronger than I thought. Going through that time with my dad in the hospital taught me I could handle one of my greatest fears. I know people have to go through this—it's part of life for most of us. But that doesn't make it any easier.

I applied to literary agents and was lucky enough to talk with quite a few. I got offers and rejections. Nothing felt like the right fit at this time, but I learned some things and feel I'll be in a stronger position if I decide to make another attempt. For now I’m feeling called to other things, and that’s okay.

I started earning royalties on a number of projects. Not anything I did this year, but it’s still a boon and worth mentioning. Nice when past effort pays dividends.

I started building a feedback community for illustrators. It's practically done. I wanted to launch it last year, but with so much going on, I decided not to rush it. Also, between you and me, I’m nervous about it so maybe procrastinating just a bit.

A new year can feel like a new beginning, but you're not at the beginning. You're building on all the tracks you laid in the past year. Sometimes you were treading water. Sometimes you were gaining ground. Either way, you kept moving.

Two boxes arrived this week from a client. Samples I’m excited to show you. Samples I can’t show you until January. Or maybe February. The joys of being an illustrator.

They've been sitting under the bin of Christmas ornaments, still fully boxed up. We're still playing catch-up from a month of travel followed by Thanksgiving. And then of course there was the winter market. The next day we got our Christmas tree, and that night we noticed a leak in the basement. It could’ve been way worse, but we've been vacuuming up water, dumping the dehumidifier, moving furniture, and ripping up carpet all week. But we already had the tree and it had to get decorated, even though our living room is half-full of records. Some things can't wait. The boxes can.

I've been working on line art for another project for the same client this week. Working on my bed when I normally would’ve been curled up on the basement sofa. Drawing this piece while another finished piece sits downstairs in its boxes. There's something about that—creating the next thing while the last thing waits to be revealed. It all feels very in-between.

It finally snowed this week. Snow that stuck and then turned into icy patches as we dipped into the teens. Frisket ran circles in the park, frolicking hard as only snow can incite.

On Saturday Paul and I went to afternoon tea at the Pendry in Fells Point with friends. A special kind of splurge for the holiday season—tiny sandwiches, scones with lemon curd, the whole thing. Super fancy. There’s a champagne vending machine in the courtyard. I have mixed feelings about a champagne vending machine.

The contrast of the week—ripping up wet carpet one day, drinking tea from fine china the next.

The boxes will have their moment. Just not now.

The ferry from Montevideo to Buenos Aires had very dirty windows. We couldn't look out on the Rio de la Plata, so I pulled out my sketchbook and drew something from the previous day instead—the café at Alliance Française where we'd stopped for croissants. Saint Germain, it's called. I had a delicious pistachio croissant. The jasmine was blooming outside and there were kids playing in a fountain.

The second sketch happened on our third day in Buenos Aires. We were about to move from our interim hotel to the one Paul's company had booked, but Paul wasn't feeling well so he stayed back to rest. I wanted to walk around a bit, explore the Retiro neighborhood. I found a shady spot with a view of this ornate rooftop—lots of detail, beautiful architecture. Later I learned it was the Palacio San Martín.

The third sketch was done a few days later in El Jardín Botánico. We'd spent the previous day at the Ecoparque seeing animals, which was wonderful but hot hot hot. The botanical garden was shady and cool. I took pictures of a flame tree with red flowers scattered on the ground beneath it, and right after, a group of school kids arrived and got excited about the same flowers, picking them up off the ground. It was really cute.

I sketched the greenhouse—wrought iron and glass, very ornate, housing tropical plants. It was a lovely spot to sit for a while.

I did the fourth sketch near the rose garden in Parque 3 de Febrero. After visiting the rose garden, I went to lunch to get gnocchi at a place I'd read about. Paul was doing work stuff, so I was on my own. While I waited for my food, I pulled out the sketchbook again and drew the alliums surrounding the patio.

I enjoyed a spritz with my gnocchi. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

I photograph the paintings I want to remember. The full piece, the museum label, closeups of the surface. I’m collecting information to pore over later, to remind myself how someone achieved a particular effect.

Detail of La dama del abanico by Carlos Alberto Castellanos

At museums here in South America, I’ve been watching other people take pictures, too. Sometimes we’re photographing the same pieces, sometimes completely different ones. I’ve started wondering what lens they’re looking through. Are they studying technique like me? Sharing proof they were here, that they saw this? Trying not to forget they felt something? Or maybe they don’t know how else to interact with art—these days snapping a picture is a way to preserve something’s essence. A bookmark in a passage. A licked and sealed envelope.

Left: La dama del abanico by Carlos Alberto Castellanos; Right: A woman taking a photo of the painting

I try not to photograph everything that catches my eye. Sometimes I just sit with it, let it be ephemeral. It comes with a sense of unease. What if I forget how wonderful it was?

It's easier with famous pieces, since I know I’ll encounter them again sometime. (This is where I'd include pics of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera paintings had I chosen to photograph them.)

But here's a Kahlo drawing I thought you might like to see. For your particular lens.

Untitled by Frida Kahlo

At the Museum of Latin American Art in Buenos Aires, there was a provocative piece—a grid on the floor with a label that read: DO IT YOURSELF: FREEDOM TERRITORY. I almost walked around it like everyone else. Then I considered that passive viewing was a kind of prison. It's the norm to not touch the art—rightfully so. But I could see this was meant to be interacted with. An invitation to defy convention. Stepping inside was a kind of freedom.

So I did. I walked a few grids forward, up a few, over a few. Hopped to one. I was aware the whole time that the docent and other patrons could see me choose to engage while everyone else skirted around it. An outsider inside the art. A little self-conscious, I suppose, but at least I was free.

Then I stepped out and took a picture. So I’ll remember being free.

Do it yourself: Freedom Territory by Antonio Dias

Speaking of touching the art, at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam a few years ago, I watched a family—a mother and two teenage daughters—taking selfies with the art. We'll, not with the art, but in front of it. Glamour shots of themselves posing with a crown of flowers exquisitely rendered in oil by some Dutch master. Priceless art reduced to little more than wallpaper. In an attempt to get the perfect shot, one of the teens backed into a canvas, hitting it with her (unchecked) backpack. I was horrified. They heard me gasp. They looked chagrined but it didn't stop them taking more shots for the ‘gram.

Detail of Garland of Flowers by Jan Philip van Thielen

This morning at breakfast I spoke with a man who said he won't be going to any art museums in Buenos Aires because he doesn’t like art. That’s a lens too. I wonder if he means he doesn’t like art with a capital A, art that takes context and possibly a bit of pretension to parse. Would he like the art I like? The seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth century stuff, the beauty and craftsmanship? Maybe he'd find the portraits stuffy and the pastoral scenes banal. We'll never know. He’ll take his pics at the Railway Museum instead.

I'm in the hotel looking through photos from the museums we've visited in Montevideo and Buenos Aires. We're in South America while my husband attends a work conference, and I've been spending days wandering through galleries—four museums so far.

I keep returning to the same periods. Seventeenth and nineteenth century work. The Dutch masters with their impossible observation. The Impressionists with their perfect reductive form. I could stand for hours looking at how they recreated the translucency in a halved orange, the sheen of silk embroidery against a velvet frock coat, light passing through trees to bounce off a stream and highlight a cart horse. Petals in mud. Wisps of clouds. Distant hills.

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I see these things through an artist's eyes. I study them. I think about what it must have been like to recreate the image and how I can use that information. Sometimes I'll see a simpler, more modern painting and think—that's almost like a picture book illustration, how could I adapt that approach?

Pelando la pava by Pedro Figari

Which makes me wonder: do I appreciate these pieces for what they are, or do I just like what I can learn from them? Is there a difference? Does it matter?

My taste has changed completely since high school. Back then I liked modern art—Warhol, Pollock, Lichtenstein. I think I was drawn to work that looked simple, easy to create. I was impatient and impulsive. Dalí was my first step toward appreciating real craftsmanship. I got to see his work at the Salvador Dalí Museum in Florida. I went for the melting clocks and stayed for "The Discovery of America by Christopher Columbus." The man could draw.

The Discovery of America by Christopher Columbus by Salvador Dalí

I've been thinking about this in relation to my art. With illustration and licensing, I don't have much control over price—the market decides what a book should cost. With fine art, if a piece takes a hundred hours, I can price it accordingly. Theoretically. In practice, that means choosing between functional work priced for everyday use (books, cards, dishes) and art pieces priced for collectors. Functional has limits. Art doesn't, or at least less so.

Part of being an artist is navigating that tension—straddling the line between the time you want to spend on a piece and the time you can afford to spend on it. There's no one right path. Quick and affordable or slow and expensive. I think an artist can find success in either.

I wonder how many hours went into these pieces I admire.

Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes

I'm drawn to the slow path, toward craftsmanship that takes time. I'll experiment with techniques to speed up the process, but I don't think I'll ever abandon the detail I love. All these details I get lost in. Maybe someday someone will get lost in my work the same way.

Detail of a tile mural by Jorge Colaço

I've been stressing about sixteen-hour vases that need to cost what they cost. But at least the choice exists.

The idea was to keep it simple. Paul’s never been big on dressing up, but we had a Halloween party to go to, so I figured fancy masks with regular clothes would be a good compromise. A paper mache jackal mask for him, and a mushroom hat for me. Why a mushroom hat? Because I wanted to play with LEDs and I wasn’t sure how to work them into a rabbit mask.

I went to the art store weeks before Halloween because I really couldn't put it off any longer. Bought supplies, but didn’t actually start anything on account of being knocked out with flu and covid vaccines.

When I finally did start, I got to work with sculptural mesh for the first time. It’s like fine chicken wire you can shape and fold.

And like chicken wire, the edges are really sharp. It wasn’t long before I put on my gardening gloves. I probably should’ve watched tutorials, but I dove right in, making little origami folds to create the jackal's snout. I shaped the rest of the head and then affixed mesh ears with aluminum wire.

Then I made the mushroom cap using bowls to give it shape. I went on intuition, using the part of my brain that's good at form and mechanics. I got the hang of it quickly.

The paper mache came next. I cooked up some paste with flour and water, then used it to adhere torn newspaper strips to the mesh. Very elementary school. The mushroom cap was a breeze.

The jackal was a little tricky around the ears, but I quickly found smaller strips made for smoother corners.

It seemed to work fine, but when I painted a coat of white acrylic on the mushroom cap, every crease and buckle showed up. I did some research and discovered I could smooth it with drywall compound. I also learned I could make my own paperclay, which should eliminate the problem altogether, so I’ll try that method next time.

I applied a thin layer of drywall compound to both headpieces, then used a damp washcloth to smooth it down. Once dry, I painted the mushroom cap again. Not perfect but better.

The jackal mask was still rough, but all the painted details concealed it a bit.

For Paul's mask, I wasn't sure about the eye holes. I considered them in the very beginning, but decided it would be safer to add them after everything was formed and painted, and I think that was the right call. I had Paul try it on to figure out where his eyes actually were. Turns out they were right about where the jackal’s eyebrows could be. I used an awl to punch small holes, then shaped them by cutting through the mesh and paper mache with an exacto knife. Added nose holes too, to make it more breathable, though I'm not sure it ever became super comfortable.

But really, it just needed to be wearable for a few minutes at a time. Halloween masks get old quickly when there’s beer at hand.

The mushroom hat got LEDs. I took the awl and made holes all over the cap, threaded lights through, then capped each one with hot glue. The whole time I was thinking I hope the batteries don’t die before the night is through.

At the base of the mushroom hat, I made a cardboard frame which I covered in chiffon to resemble gills—this part sat on my head, attached to the cap with double-sided carpet tape. Then I added a white chiffon veil to cover my face, and ribbon ties out of old tulle so that it wouldn’t fall off the moment I leaned over.

At the party, I met a neighbor dressed as a voodoo doll. Her costume was fabulous. Pins sticking out everywhere, full outfit, mismatched shoes, elaborate headpiece. I thought it looked like exactly the amount of work I was trying to avoid. Meanwhile she thought mine sounded like a ton of work because of the paper mache and LEDs.

Her partner came as JP Prewitt—David Duchovny's character from Zoolander. He crafted his homemade hyperbaric chamber from a plastic display dome and an LED strip. He had my vote for the costume contest.

The world’s greatest hand model. And a pixellated flasher.

He tied for second. I came in third. There were four people tied for second, so take that as you will.

Most people knew I was a mushroom. Some thought I was a samurai. One trick or treater asked if I was an angel. Another asked if I was a forest maiden, which struck me as very funny—forest maiden was in his vernacular. One kid informed me that mushrooms are red. One man said he knew what I was because "I eat a lot of mushrooms."

I'll definitely do more mask making in the future. Maybe not until next halloween, but certainly at some point. It’s always nice to have an excuse to play with a different medium. Working with sculptural mesh felt inspiring in a way I didn't expect, despite the fact that I now know what they mean by “death from a thousand paper cuts.” And there's something satisfying about making costumes that are fully one-of-a-kind, even if they're a little uncomfortable and take too long and some kid thinks you're a samurai.

One of the people who tied for second was at another party I went to on Saturday. It was nice to have that connection, to recognize each other from the Halloween party. Small neighborhood moments like that are why you spend weeks making a mushroom hat in the first place.

I've been on the hunt for napkins.

I switched from paper towels to cloth a while back, but the ones we’re using are very spring floral. Fuchsia, baby blue, grass green. That's not going to cut it for the cozy vibe I’m cultivating this winter. I need understated—pumpkin, rust, yellow ochre. I need this:

Fall colors at the part down the street.

I started my search at HomeSense. That's where I found the floral ones, plus a white linen set I'll probably never be brave enough to use. Didn’t find anything. So I switched my search online. I had my heart set on these gingham European linen napkins. But oof, sixteen pounds each. That's more than I want to spend on something duty-bound to get stained on the first use.

Fancy European flax napkins

I found some half-decent substitutes, but didn’t trust the quality. Everything online was either too bright, printed rather than woven, or polyester. No synthetic fibers for me. If I can't find linen, I at least want cotton. They may take more care, but I didn’t switch away from paper towels only to add microplastics to the mix.

I finally found something that looked moderately close to the European linen at Kohl's, so I drove to Towson to check them out. Didn't love them. Cotton-poly blend. But I'd already driven there, so I stopped by HomeGoods. Nothing there either—just Christmas stuff and a William Morris print that's ubiquitous now.

But then my eye caught on something. A 100% cotton napkin. Natural ecru with a pumpkin-rust pattern woven in at the edges. Not gingham, but definitely the vibe. I looked around for the rest. Nothing. Then I looked down at that bottom shelf where everything lands. I got on my knees—yep, I was that woman—and peered under. Found another one. Further down, one more. Then I started digging behind stuff on other shelves. All in all, I found eleven.

I figured there had to be at least one more since napkins often come in packs of twelve. But I didn't want to start taking things off the shelf. I’m not that woman.

I took my eleven loose napkins to the checkout, hoping they'd sell them to me. While in line, I looked them up—found a set on eBay. They come in packs of eight. That means there are at least five more in the store somewhere. I'd love to have them, but I have a dog to get home to.

At the checkout, the cashier called someone from that department. He asked where the tag was. I said there wasn't one. He went to find it. I could've saved him the trip. Eventually he came back and told the cashier to make up a price ‘cause they didn’t have any more. Could've told him that, too.

Eventually, I left with my prize. Washed the napkins, folded them, put the old ones in the drawer under the china cabinet and set the new ones in the wooden box on the table.

The napkins I fought for

We christened them the next day when we had friends over. Paul made pulled pork. I tried hard not to dirty mine, but of course I couldn't tell anyone else not to. At the end of the night I collected them—grease stains on every single one. I crossed my fingers, sprayed them with natural laundry detergent, added oxygen booster, and washed them in the sink before hanging them over the shower rod to dry. The next day they were good as new.

They're not European linen, but I'm happy with them. And honestly, I feel like I earned them.

Not sure what I’ll do if I have more than eleven people over this winter. Maybe bust out the white linen.

I've been harvesting cherry tomatoes all week. I grow some on my deck—bright orange. I swear they smell like citrus when I pick them. Grapefruit, maybe. And there's a patch of red cherries near the old mansion in my neighborhood where I sometimes walk with Frisket. My neighbor calls wild tomatoes volunteers. I appreciate their effort.

Monday I cooked them with Italian sausage, broccolini and a bit of butter. Is there anything better than tomato infused oil? Tuesday we had leftovers. By Thursday we were running low, so I foraged more.

Saturday night we went to DC to see our friends in Black Eyes play at the Black Cat. On the way, I drove, so I got to pick the music. The Psychedelic Furs—a band I loved since childhood. I told Paul about one of the most cringe things I've done, which involved holding a boy's hand and listening quietly through an entire song. Paul said, "I think you have to be cringe to be an artist."

I asked him what he meant and he elaborated. "You don't get cringe without taking risks. It's not cool to feel things deeply. And why even bother making art if you don't care about anything?"

Arriving in DC, we saw soldiers walking around. National Guard, brought in by Trump. I've been to Guatemala, where police wear camo and carry assault rifles. It was unsettling there. It's unsettling here. But I saw more people wearing FREE DC shirts than soldiers, which was comforting.

Black Eyes are fun. I missed their heyday—they'd broken up just before I met them all, and now, twenty years later, they're touring again. Young girls in pigtails and X’d up hands moshing at the front of the stage. That used to be me.

During the set I reached into my coat pocket and felt something unexpected. Soft and smooth, like a superball. I pulled it out—a cherry tomato, probably in there for a month. Totally fine somehow.

This is me, at a dance-punk show, with a foraged cherry tomato in my pocket.

When I got home I put it with its brothers.

Sunday night we saw more old friends. Pissed Jeans at the Ottobar here in Baltimore. Heavy punk. Raw and yet flawless. Feels like you're watching the Stooges. The drummer is one of my oldest friends. Sometimes you're states apart, but when you see each other again, you know you're family.”

I stayed to watch the headliner, High Vis. Hard core/punk with a very British flavor. The singer performed like Shaun Ryder. When they warmed up with a Stone Roses riff, I knew I was in good hands.

At one point during the show, I put my hand in my pocket and felt something nestled in a fingerless glove.

Another tomato.

So I guess that's my thing now.

Saturday started with pastries at Motzi. I got an heirloom tomato and pesto danish. Can tomato season please last forever? Paul got pain au chocolat. We'd gone for their new softserve (melon and creamy basil swirl) but it wasn't ready yet. We'll have to go back.

Then we grabbed Frisket and headed to the Remington Shop Small Crawl. Hotdogs at Glizzy's first, then into Greedy Reads to browse, then a cocktail at Pink Flamingo. Rum and apple cider with a dash of this and that. Perfect for early afternoon when it's still a little cool out.

After that we drove over to Bolton Hill for the Festival on the Hill. What a pretty neighborhood! Old row homes, tree-lined streets, architectural details I want to explore more. We got oysters at a stand, then I found my friend Jen's booth (Yummy & Company) where she was selling pottery.

Her pieces are beautiful—delicate jewelry, mostly. Small sculptural forms that sit in your palm. I didn't get photos of her work, which I'm kicking myself about now, but there will certainly be other opportunities. I'll just have to share a blue and white snake I have of hers. It looks like Delft, which is totally my jam.

It's so nice to see a friend's work displayed like that, price tags and all. It makes you see it differently. More seriously, maybe. And perhaps you can take your own work more seriously, too.

A few stands down we saw my friend and neighbor, Alison of White Hill Pottery. She makes really cozy ceramic dishes—the kind that makes you want to take all the doors off your cabinets so you can display them. Big fan. I didn't take photos there either, but here's the charming little stand she has on our street.

I've been painting pottery myself this week. Nothing as refined as what they're making—they've been at this for years—but I'm learning. Friday afternoon at the Potters Guild, then again on Sunday. It's a different kind of making than drawing on paper and screens. More deliberate. More patient. You paint it, it gets fired, and only then do you see if the three layers of white you applied successfully covered the smudge of blue you couldn't wash out.

I've been so busy writing for the community site this week that I haven't drawn much. The pottery was freeing—just getting to make something without anyone to answer to except myself.

We came home and our friends Van and Alex came over. We grilled more hotdogs (hotdog day, apparently—no complaints), had eggplant and potato salad, then Taharka ice cream, which is seriously the best. Then we played Isle of Cats, a board game I'd never played before. I won despite having no idea what I was doing and playing what I can only describe as a very lazy game.

Sometimes that's how it goes. You see your friends selling work they've refined over years, you work on your own pieces between other projects, and then you win a game you weren't even trying at. There's probably a metaphor in there about creative practice, but I'm too full of ice cream to figure it out.

I've been wanting to blog for months but it felt like such a production. Then someone said: don't create, just document. So here's a week.

Monday

It’s Monday morning and I'm plugging graphics into the community site I’ve been working on. They look... fine? I drew them last week and was pleased then, but now I'm not sure. Website design is fully in my comfort zone. I did it for ages. But I realized I’ve always worked with someone else’s text. Drawing images before I actually know what I’m saying is maybe putting the cart before the horse. I'm trying not to spiral into perfectionism about it. It's fine. Probably fine.

The weather was lovely, so Paul grilled for dinner. Impossible burgers and fresh corn and eggplant from the CSA. I used to hate eggplant. Now I love it. I don’t think it’s a texture thing, because I still don’t like it when it’s not fully cooked through. It needs to be soft, to almost disappear in your mouth. Paul is happy because he loves cooking with it. He has so many tasty recipes for it. Have my tastes changed so much? Makes me wonder what else I might learn to love. Olives, maybe? Blue cheese?

Tuesday

On Tuesday I made esquites with the leftover corn. We somehow ended up with three unopened bags of tortilla chips after the block party last weekend, so corn salad seemed like the obvious solution. Mayonnaise, lime juice, garlic, chile pepper, cotija cheese. So yummy with the charred sweetness and crunch of fresh corn!

After lunch I did puzzle edits. The job was done months ago—finished, paid, put away—but then the client wanted changes after seeing proofs. Not small ones. There’s always a level of guesswork in estimations, but I sent them a rate that felt fair—a balance between a good rate if it went quickly and a reasonable rate if it dragged.

It's dragging.

I've been timing myself and I’ve already sailed past the "good money" mark, and now dipping below "reasonable." But I like this client. They’re good people, and I want them to feel good about the work they’re getting, so I keep noodling around, even adding a few details they didn't ask for but will probably appreciate.

Wednesday

Wednesday morning, back to the community site. Writing the landing page, trying to explain what I'm creating. It took forever to find the right words. I hope people get it. Thinking about making new illustrations after all.

Lunch was the leftover esquites with a fried egg, fresh avocado, and tomatoes from the garden. More tortilla chips, obviously. We're going to be eating chips until 2025 at this rate.

Still working on the puzzle in the afternoon. Still over my estimate. Still adding little touches because they feel right.

Thursday

It rained all day Thursday.

I did laundry in the morning and then finally sat down to work on blogging. I've been wanting to do this for ages but haven't prioritized it. Or—I'm trying to reframe this—I haven't practiced prioritizing it. Time is finite. If I want to do something, I have to take time from something else. Which means deciding it's worth it.

So I guess I'm practicing deciding it's worth it.

In the evening I sketched new thumbnails for the community landing page. The old ones didn’t have enough visual storytelling. And it needs visual storytelling—it's a site for illustrators, after all.

I think this would be much easier if I wasn’t an illustrator. Then I could use stock photography and call it a day. But I don't want stock anything, so I need to make something custom. Simple. Meaningful. Which is literally my job, so I should probably trust myself to do it okay.

Trying not to overthink.

Friday

Friday was delightfully sunny. I took Frisket to the park to play fetch.

Then she got to see her good friend Chowder (a dog), and her good friend Ray (a human). Ray always has treats at the ready. Pretty sure Frisket thinks he buys them just for her. They're besties like that.

I cleaned the studio for fifteen minutes. Trying to make it a daily thing. Even five minutes makes a difference.

Then I drew. I selected a couple thumbnails from yesterday and got to work on final images. Naturally I didn't like where it was going for the first hour. Just had to keep pecking at it until it got better. Oh the ugly phase. It’s a part of every piece, and yet I still have to remind myself that I just have to keep going and I’ll make it through to the other side.

I made it through.

Weekend

We booked hotels for South America on Saturday. Paul has a conference in Buenos Aires, but we're starting in Montevideo and taking a ferry across. Can’t wait!

In the evening I went to the wedding of an old classmate from the Potters Guild. It was in a beautiful old church that had been converted to a community space. It was a great time. Good food, delicious cocktails, lots of dancing. Were there pottery moves on the dance floor? Possibly.

After the ceremony, I got a text from my stepmom saying my dad was going to the hospital. He’s recovering from severe acute pancreatitis and complications relating to it, so he’s been in and out of the hospital for months. He’s okay. But it’s stressful, and I was happy to be surrounded by friends and an atmosphere of celebration. There are worse things than dancing away your anxiety to Gaga and ABBA.

Sunday was a cookout at Paul's parents' house. His dad's theory: if you're lighting the grill, might as well cook everything. So. Much. Sausage. And more corn. And more eggplant. And zero complaints.

I have a self-professed brown thumb. Or I did. I guess that might not be true anymore as I have quite the container garden on my deck. My crops are huge right now, and my neighbors are impressed, and I think a bit surprised when I tell them this is my first year successfully growing anything more than houseplants.

It’s all thanks to Monty.

Last summer, I was holed up in my one-bedroom apartment feeling absolutely miserable. Don’t get me wrong, it was a great apartment, top floor, lots of light, right in the middle of San Francisco’s Mission District. And because we got it in 2008 and it had rent control, we were paying about half what similar apartments were going for. It didn’t matter that it had no outdoor space, because the whole city was our back yard. But then the pandemic hit. And the heat waves. And the wildfires.

That summer, we couldn’t go anywhere because of lockdown. There was no place to go. And even though we could have gone camping, we chose to heed the guidelines of no unnecessary travel. It wasn’t all bad. During nicer weather, we could bike to the park and have a distanced picnic with friends. But when ash from the wildfires lingered over the city making the air toxic, we couldn’t even open our windows, much less go outside.

So, like a lot of people, I resorted to escapism. I spent a lot of time dreaming about a home with some kind of outdoor space where I could have a garden. That meant looking at homes on Zillow and watching A LOT of gardening shows.

I suspect Monty Don is a household name in the UK, but I’d never heard of him until last summer. I learned a lot from him and his gang on Gardener’s World. I also learned a ton from a show called Grow Cook Eat, which is nicely organized by crop. Even though I had no way to apply what I was learning, it surprises me how much I soaked in. I can identify way more plants now. I even know the latin names for some of them. And the difference between espalier and fan-trained trees. And what stepover apples are!

So when my Zillow journey led us to buy a house back home near family (for less than we were paying for our SF apartment), of course I started a garden of my own. Our yard is by no means expansive, but I’m happy to start small. I put a few containers on the back deck in which I’m growing lettuce, cherry tomatoes, tomatillos, five different peppers (including two we inherited from our neighbors), and a whole bunch of herbs. It’s basically a salsa garden.

I’ve been planting, watering, pruning, and tying back plants for months and now it’s finally harvest time! It’s a nice feeling going out to water the plants in the morning and coming back in with a colander full of produce.

Next year I’m definitely adding more fruit. I want to have a few different berry bushes, plus some kind of fruit tree. My neighbors have figs, and I kind of want one, but maybe I’ll go with a plum and see if they’ll trade.

Do you have a garden? If not, what do you wish you could grow?