This Year.

Well.
Here we are.
My bags are (mostly) packed,  my worldly possessions from a year of living, working, playing in this medieval city reduced to one suitcase, and two backpacks. I've given away books, prized spices, and an inexplicable amount of sugar. I still have a to-do list a mile long-- on it are thrilling errands such as: charity shop, bank, any library books???, send final letters, check in tomorrow morning.   It's funny how your life can be reduced to such a laundry list of banalities. The next inhabitant of room 206 will never know how long I sat at this desk (now returned to its original position), working on my dissertation. They'll never know how many times I rearranged the furniture, much to the bemusement of my downstairs neighbours (at least three times). They'll never now how often I walked across the hall to annoy/coerce/persuade Mimi to play cards, meander about the town, or check my appalling grammar (more times than I can even count). I can only hope that they'll be as lucky to find such an amazing friend across from them. Unfortunately, Mimi and I have decided to leave my second wardrobe in her room, so they won't have an immediate way to break the ice. Then again, they might not be the kind of person who needs a(n entirely fabricated) reason to talk to strangers.
But hopefully the future resident of 206 will share some of my experiences. They will find people with common interests, write essays, read books, pay overdue library fines at least once. They will walk the city walls on their way to the grocery store, just because they can. They will drink a single pint in several pubs in the course of one evening. They will drink a yard of ale, or watch their friends attempt it. As a result, they will be ruined for beer for the rest of their lives, knowing that Northern beer is the only option. And they will miss home sometimes, but by the end of the year, they will not possibly think that there is anywhere else in the world they could ever want to be.

This year, this city, these people have changed me in ways I never thought possible. I used to joke that I must have suffered brain injury because I became such a different person when I came here. But I think that, in truth, I had a chance here in York to be who ever I wanted to be. I spent the last four years of my life trying to decide what that person would be, and here I could put into practice. And I found yet another group of people who were supportive of me and my dreams. And when you have that kind of support coming from all over the world--from Colorado, from the Northwest, from Australia--it can really change how you approach life.
I don't think I can ever be described as a laid back person by any means. And while LC certainly did a lot to mellow me, I still am quite stubborn and determined. York has challenged me and given me a place to express that determination. I've been pushed far outside of my comfort zone, but I've realised that I can handle it. And while the future is looming ominously, I still feel in control of my life and my career. And while I'll never be laid back, and while I'll never like uncertainty, change, or transition, at least I've finally come to accept that fact.
I wish I could adequately express how much this year has meant to me, but I know I will fall short. So I'll just say that this year as been more than I could have ever hoped for, and that it has changed me for the better. I can only hope to live up to it.

(Pictures of people's desks always amuse me. [That is only one book stack of several.])

(My desks. Yes, desks plural. See also: teacups, plural; oranges, plural.)

   
Hey look! It has been less than a month since my last post. I am now on the home stretch of my dissertation, which feels so amazing. I did final edits this morning, and I have a few bits I want to smooth out, but now I am ready for the final bits and pieces: Table of Contents, Acknowledgements, printing and binding.
     I've wrestled a lot with this paper. At first, I never thought I would get to 15,000 words, but now I'm pushing the grace limit at 22,000 words. But I've also felt at a plateau with my writing this summer. This has happened to me before, most lately, my junior year of college. It's a really frustrating feeling--you just know you're writing can be better, but you have no idea how to get there. At the time, I had two professors who had some excellent advice for me, which I wrote down and carried around with me for years. Basically: be sharper, clearer, and deeper.
     This time around, none of my professors have been able to help me in the same way, except to remind me to be confident in my writing and my research. Instead, I've been reading a lot of authors I really admire (both fiction and nonfiction) and studying their prose for guidance. I can't say it's worked terribly well, but at least if I'm reading good writing, I might absorb some of it?
      Trying to be deep, sharp, and confident are three things that are incredibly difficult for me to do. I like to write in the passive voice, be polite in my analysis, and qualify every judgement I make. This might make me sound like a nice person, but it really doesn't come off well on paper. In an effort to combat this, I've spent the last week or so editing my paper, taking out qualifications, showing what research I've done, and writing and rewriting in an active voice.
     Today, I did a final edit, and my goodness. I had been so worn out with my paper; I felt so frustrated because my summer of research didn't seem to come to any real result. But after taking ownership of my research, being unafraid to critically judge museums, and having confidence in my conclusions, I am so proud of this paper. It feels like it was worthwhile, and that I have something to add to the discussion about heritage.

     And that's a really good feeling.

(Apologies for the continued summer dissertation blogging. After next week, we'll return to your regularly scheduled blog, which will highlight all the other non-dissertation things I've done this summer. Same bat time, same bat channel.)

"‘Cultures’ defined as homogeneous ensembles are the most dangerous of all social illusions, the sources of all discriminations and pretexts for violence and the permanence of poverty."

So I've been sitting on this for a long time now, but with my final draft in to my professor, I feel like I can share without jinxing anything (which has happened to me once before).

I'm about to be published! In a book!

This is the greatest achievement of my life!!

(!!!)

Last autumn, I wrote an essay for my cultural heritage management class about a new heritage Convention, called the Faro Convention, and its possible impact on the LGBT community. Faro is notable for its insistance that heritage be defined by local communities and people, not by heritage professionals. With individuals making the decisions about what places, objects, skills or traditions are important to them, we as professionals can do a better job of preserving it. Simultaneously pretty cool and sadly revolutionary.

But! Where does this leave invisible communities? Ones that don't often have a voice in public discourse? When I set out to write this essay, I was thinking of the Romani community, who aren't tied to a physical place, which is a large part of traditional heritage definitions. But then I started thinking about the LGBT community and how many people often 'pass' in the wider community, as a safety measure. This notion of passing isn't limited to people--it effects buildings and meeting places as well. That means that, 50 years down the line, a pub that was very culturally significant to the gay community might be knocked down, because it was never seen as significant by the wider community. Which I think we can all agree is a bit of a problem.

So. I wrote an essay. And received a pretty rockin' mark for it, though I had strayed from the prompt quite a bit.

My professor suggested we send it off to some people who work with the Council of Europe, which wrote the Faro Convention. And then a few months ago, my professor invited me to revise it and submit it for a book on the convention he was putting together.

How could I say no?

So I am about to be published. I am so chuffed. This is a subject that's really important to me, and I'm really hoping that this can continue the conversation about how we think about disputed heritage, which is usually the province of war-torn countries, not unremarkable street corners. And it's just an honour to even be asked. I really respect this professor, and he's quite respected by the heritage community both here and abroad. In the midst of dissertation madness, I've also been scrambling to do this--going to Manchester for research, agonising over quotes, and just thinking long and hard. I can't deny that I'm also a little nervous--what if people don't like it? What if some one writes in and tells me I'm totally wrong and there's a whole body of research I overlooked?

But then I have to trust in myself. It will be good experience, even if I do get criticism. And I get to put it on my CV!

(So chuffed.)

In lieu of a real post, I present to you the first two chapters of my dissertation in picture form:

Put some new shoes on, and suddenly everything is right

Long, long ago, when I was young and naïve, and thought that I would Never Change, I was enlisted in helping with a move. Our family is well-known for sticking the word ‘party’ on to the ends of words that are not at all pleasant, in a misguided attempt to mask the true nature of the task. So, at this Moving Party, I got stuck carting, what seemed at the time, the world’s supply of shoes, helpfully sorted into laundry baskets by my ever-thoughtful Aunt Jan. Poor ten year old me. I could not imagine a time when anyone would need so many shoes. Why on earth would you need more than three pairs? Tennis shoes, sandals, and a nice pair for special occasions. Simple. Maybe a pair of slippers if you were feeling especially indulgent.

Oh poor ten year old me.

I complained rather loudly at having to move so many shoes, and I’m sure no one appreciated it. And I made a bet with dear old Aunt Jan. One that I thought I would never go back on, probably because I was ten and thought I would Never Change my opinion on anything. (For the record, mushrooms are still gross.)

I bet my Aunt Jan that I would never own more than five pairs of shoes. I must have given myself a little bit of wiggle room—probably for a pair of creekin’ shoes, or something equally important but not really in the true definition of Real Shoes.

Now Aunt Jan has moved once more, and I wasn’t there to cart around her shoes again. I’m sure she would have taken no small amount of pleasure in making me move her no doubt massive-at-this-point shoe collection. I’m not sure there are enough laundry baskets in our collective family to hold her shoe collection now. Thank god I’m across an ocean. This pasty, scholarly body probably couldn’t handle the strain.

But I also have a confession to make.

When I came to York, I brought not three, not five, but eight pairs of shoes.

And yesterday, I bought another pair. And I left several pairs at home, ranging from a pair of converse that are more holes than shoes, and some really nice heels.

So Aunt Jan, I am way past our original bet of five pairs of shoes. So if you remember the terms of our original agreement (I certainly don’t—I just remember that you made me cry!), I will do my duty and pay up. And if you don’t, well then maybe we should just get together sometime and revel in our expanding shoe collections.

Lathing Maidens in Devon

Greetings, dear Internet! Most of you probably thought I had died overseas, but this is not the case! I am alive and well, and oh so busy. I thought my summer would be a gentle one, full of research and croquet, but this is also not the case. Turns out, my summer has not been gentle at all. Nor has it been much of a 'summer', come to think about it. It's been rainy and 50 degrees since early May. And the one sunny week we had in May was the week before our assessed lectures, so none of us really got to enjoy it. Typical.
But my assessed lecture went really, really well. I got a 73 on it, which to American readers is heart-stoppingly low. But in fact, it's a distinction! So even though my gut reaction is always awful when I get my British grades, after a few seconds, my brain kicks in and tells me how well I've done.

But this post is not about grades and lectures. It's about Devon. Because Devon is amazing. One of the reasons  my summer has been so packed is because I've been helping other people with their building surveying recording and other such weekends.  I spent one week in June surveying a mill at Castle Howard, which was amazing experience but oh so time consuming. (Though I was also fed a lemon cake that was so amazing that I proposed on the spot.)

And this weekend, I went to Devon for a timber-framing course. Originally, I wasn't going to go, but as the course got nearer, people dropped out, and I stepped up so that a friend (she of the proposal-worthy lemon cake) wouldn't have to make the seven hour drive by herself. Also, carpentry looked fun.

Well. I  might amend that statement. Carpentry is hard. Really, really difficult. But also rewarding as heck. In three days, myself and six other amateurs constructed a green oak porch, and while it turned out a wee bit wobbly, it was solid! And all my mortices and joints fit! Talk about a sense of accomplishment.

(Lath making. On a shave horse. Most of the time I had to use the carpenter's son's horse because my legs are so short. Sigh.)

(Hammer of Thor. Charlotte does not approve of my antics.)

Charlotte and I drove down early Thursday morning, and arrived in rainy Devon around two in the afternoon. We set up camp in the rain, ate dinner in the rain, and played cards, in the rain. And didn't sleep for fear of being blown away in the night. The next morning, our course tutor, one Henry Russel told us we could sleep on the floor of the bake house. And then the caretaker of the Yarner Trust, which was running the course, agreed. Thankfully. Because holy cow did it rain. It was niceish the second night, but there was torrential rain the third. During the day, we had a barn to work in, and we learned all about timber and medieval carpentry practices. We learned to scribe joints--basically figuring out how wobbly wood fits together in a nice, tight joint (and the bane of my existance), we learned to lay out frames, and fit them together in multiple dimensions, we learned how to drill and chisel tenons and mortices (the holes tenons fit into), and learned to make pegs, lath and probably a millon other things. So it was a packed three days. Usually this course is over five days, and I think it would have been better in five. But three is what we had, so three is what we worked with. In the end we had a fantastic porch complete with seats and lathe sides, and two happy owners who fed us cake and tea. 

(The group of us feeling well chuffed.)

(Women laughing at lath.)

So it was an excellent weekend. I have a new name for a pub: The Lathing Maiden. I have only one slightly clamped finger. I have allergies from hell. I have now broken into an English Heritage property by accident (it was the largest cruck-framed building in the country, how could I resist?) And I have a new appreciation for medieval carpentry practices. What a weekend. 

Dissertationing like a boss

(Scarborough Castle--taken on a walk last week. See? I do leave my house occasionally.)

It has been far too long since my last blog post, even for me. This last month has just been a long slog of article reading, lit review writing, and dissertation worrying. I realise that I haven't really talked about my dissertation here at all, so here we go!

One of the most exciting parts of buildings archaeology is learning to 'unpick' buildings, and read their history in the fabric of the building itself. One thing I'd noticed with many buildings but vernacular buildings in particular, is the tendency for well-meaning conservationists (or Victorians) to scrape later additions off of buildings, returning them to a *idealised* medieval or post medieval state. This constant return to the earliest possible state of a building implicitly values the oldest part of the building over the later. And I suppose that, for some, that is a sensible value. But why must we value things just because they're old? The great thing about vernacular buildings is that most of them survive today because they were continually adapted and changed to meet the evolving needs of their inhabitants. They were not left in their medieval states because, lets face it, an open hearth is not a comfortable or efficient means of heating. Also, staircases are awesome (and first floors are only possible with fireplaces). But rather than celebrating human progress and innovation, scraping buildings solidifies the past, and makes it into a (too clean) nostalgic idyll.

Open-air museums (similar to US living history museums) often collect vernacular buildings which are in danger of collapse, and rescue them by taking them to a remote location, and restoring them, often to this aforementioned medieval state.  It's like an animal sanctuary, but for abused buildings. So on one hand, they are saving buildings that would otherwise be lost, but on the other, they are rarely telling the public about the later stages of the building, which gives a false impression of the past.

At the Ryedale Folk Museum (est 1960s) in North Yorkshire, they have about 20 buildings, some of which are rescued and some of which are recreations. They span from an Iron Age round house to a 1950s sweet shop. They're spread over 5 acres in a pseudo-village (which in and of itself is a bit problematic), and each is fully furnished with a collection of items designed to illustrate rural Yorkshire life throughout the ages. The founder of the museum, Bert Frank, wanted to show life As It Was, as a way to connect the community of Hutton-le-Hole and the wider area with its heritage.

One of the first buildings he rescued was Stang End. It's a cruck framed building, meaning that it is constructed using oak trees which are split down the middle, and splayed in an A shape, and connected along the top and sides with purlings. (So if you looked at this building from the gable end, there would be 5 As stacked like a line of dominos...ready to fall down at a strong wind.) The crucks are held together with purlins and a prayer, and from the pictures I've seen of the construction of Stang End, I can imagine that Health and Safety would ahh... not be amused. Or impressed.
But I certainly am.

So for my dissertation, I'm going to be using Stang End as a case study to examine museum practice. How did Bert Frank decide to rebuild the cottage? Did he stick to the original planform (spoiler: no!) How does the museum explain the full history of the building? How do they explain the choice to bring the cottage back to its (possible) 1704 appearance when it was inhabited up to 1934? And how do the public interact with the building? What are they interested in seeing? Do they care to know what is 'authentic' about the building as opposed to Bert Frank's conjecture?  How could we improve the interpretation of the building to include this more complicated understanding of the building?


There are several strands to this dissertation, ranging from authenticity issues, questions of identity creation, authority and the role of heritage professional, as well as understanding the physical building itself. I've already been up to Ryedale thrice (there's evidence of this on facebook), and I'm planning another few trips to do some semi-structured interviews in June.  But I'm at almost 4000 words in my lit review, and it's only May, so I feel pretty good about it.
Right now, I'm eyeing the assessed lecture I have to give at the end of May with a lot of trepidation. I know it's just something I have to do and get it over with, but I really, really hate any form of public speaking, so I'm busting my butt to get it all written and practiced as soon as possible. And with my lit review due next Friday, I am drowning in work right now.
So, ah, expect more radio silence. Sorry. Here, have a picture:

(Stang End. With exposed cruck.)

Road Trip 2012

Holy Cow. What a Spring Break. What it lacked in underage drinking and jello shots and awkward sunburns, it made up for with milky sunshine, good company, and more historical nerdiness than even I could ever imagine packing into a brief 11 days. You know your parents really love you when they agree to drive to Newcastle because there’s a museum there that may be helpful for your dissertation. I’ll try and be brief, but it really was an awesome trip.

The first few days my parents were here in York, and we walked the city walls, Dad was lost to the train museum, and we took a day trip to Fountains Abbey, which again lived up to all its promise. I got a National Trust membership based on the Abbey’s stunning beauty in the winter, guessing it would be even more spectacular in the summer. And boy was I right. It was a gorgeous day (York had already had a week of nice weather, so it was a bonus that it stayed nice our whole trip), things were blooming, and the ruins were just... so majestic.

After a few short days in York, we headed up to Newcastle/Durham so I could visit Beamish open air museum. This museum is something like 300 acres, with several buildings scattered across the landscape, each forming their own little recreated world, all dedicated to a different era and demographic. Since it was still the last week of the winter season, not all of it was open, which was a shame, and they seemed severely understaffed, which is a huge problem when your museum prides itself on no interpretive sign boards, preferring the human element. So rather than being a educational experience, it was mostly a nice day out. Nothing wrong with that, of course.
We also swung through Durham, which is just a wonderful looking city, and I know I’ll have to go back.

The next day we went into Northumberland, to the Holy Island and the castle Lindisfarne. This island was originally the home of a priory and St Cuthbert (who was buried on the island, until the monks fled to Durham following Viking raids in the 8th century). The priory was also famous for the Lindisfarne Gospel, a wonderfully illuminated manuscript.
The castle was built in the 16th century, and saw a little action in the English Civil War. In the 19th century, it was bought by Edwin Luytens, who added on bits and pieces to turn it into a more habitable (and hospitable) humble abode. Lindisfarne was just breathtaking. Again, the warm weather followed us up north, and even though it was windy, it was still quite warm. The sea shimmered, there was a castle looming on the hazy horizon, and it just inspired calm. I confess, it’s always a little hard to get back in the habits you have with your family, and it always takes me a few days to get fully comfortable, but after a morning at Lindisfarne, and the chance to just breathe, away from York and school and stress, I really felt comfortable again.

That same day, we drove through the Northumberland National Park, and down to Hadrian’s Wall. No big deal. (At last check in, we put in over 1000 miles on the rental. That’s how we roll in the Dierschow clan.) It was windy and cloudy, but still neat just how massive this undertaking was. Mom and I tried to guess when Hadrian’s wall was built-- she said 700CE, I said 70 CE, I talked her down to 300CE (using the logic that there was a Mithraic temple on the map, and Constantine had converted to Christianity in the late 300s...thanks statue of Constantine in York!), and it turns out to be built in 122 CE. Not bad for one semester of Roman History!!

After Northumberland, we went down to Norfolk (the county of Nelson!) to see our friends Juile, Alan, and Sarah. Mom likes to believe that it was Alan and Sarah who put me on the buildings track, and while I think I’ve always liked buildings, I do acknowledge that Alan definitely got me thinking about buildings, rather than just looking. Positive reinforcement, and all that. And now that I’ve finished all the teaching sections of my masters, I have much better questions to ask when Alan and I get together.
We went to so many National Trust properties (eight in the end, I think)! Oh my goodness. (I’m having to look at my map just to recall them all.) On the way down, we stopped at Belton Hall, then in the next four days we hit Sutton Hoo, Felbrigg Hall, Dunwich Heath and Sandringham. Belton, Felbrigg and Sandringham (winter home of the Royal Family) are all grand houses with fancy paintings, pretty wallpaper and a ban on stilettos. But still! It’s fun to see how the other half lives. Sutton Hoo was by far my favorite in terms of interpretation, because the new visitor center is amazing. Even though the original finds are in the British Museum, they’ve recreated the whole boat and burial goods, and did an excellent laying out the social and political context of era.
Sandringham was bloody gorgeous. I know I’ve used that word and its various iterations throughout this post, but really. The grounds were stunning. It was such a lovely day (the last for a while) and it was fairly quiet, and there was a stream walk and I just...just... was so satisfied.

We also went to a little town called Bury St Edmund, which is where the body of King Edmund is now buried. It’s a nice little market town, and there’s a huge, ruinous abbey just in the middle of the town next to the cathedral. Pretty interesting. And I had the most delicious lunch in the Dog and Partridge. Basically, battered and fried smooth feta. My poor heart, I could feel it congesting with every bite, but it was so.worth.it. And the chips! Fluffy and light! Ommnomnomnom.
And Julie made us legit mexican food--the first really good stuff I’ve had since coming here... it was divine! I miss Mexican so much!
(I feel like it’s only fitting to sum up this post with a record of the food--this is the best I’ve eaten since Christmas!)

So I probably didn’t mention about half of what we did, but that’s a taste! We had such a great time together, (even if I couldn’t answer half their questions...is that what children are like?) and I’m so glad they came out to see me! Thanks mom and da! While we didn’t eat ice cream every day (or at all, now that I think about it..) we did manage to drive B roads, coastal roads, winding country roads and didn’t really ever get lost (until 8 in the morning trying to find the Norwich train station, sigh). Impressive! And really, it was the best of Dierschow road trips--diversions to see historical towns, deliberately circuitous routes designed to go through National Parks, and Mark Knopfler on the radio.

All in all, an excellent way to shake of the last term and get me geared up for my dissertation!

(One of the most exciting parts of the trip for me!)

Wow. What a weekend. As most of you probably know, I am not one for bunking off. As in, I honestly cannot remember a single time in the last 10 years of my academic career when I have decided to ignore pressing academic matters in favour of extended leisure activities. I mean, yeah I'll go on a hike one day of the weekend, but I'll always come back feeling slightly guilty, and make up for in the next day. (I have been informed by many reliable sources that tendency makes me, alas, a Stick In The Mud.) It's just not how I operate.

On the plus side, I do have a shining academic record to show for it.

But, dear internet, I'll tell you a secret. I went away this weekend. I did no work what so ever while I was gone. I watched several movies (most featuring Colin Firth). I ate more than I thought was physically possible. I took dogs for walks. I went to the beach in the pouring rain and driving wind to play with said dogs. I drank more tea, wine, and gin than was probably advisable (especially the tea). I made dirty jokes that made even the heartiest of Yorkshire girls blush.

And you know what was the best part? I don't feel guilty one.bit. Not one ounce, not one teensy tiny smidgen. When I got home last night, I sat down and busted out 800 words, and today I'm over half way done with one essay, and a good third way into another. And I still have two weeks to finish them. I think in the last 12 hours I've been more productive than I would have been the whole weekend.

And I feel great.

For such a beastly month as February, twenty-eight days as a rule are plenty

February! What a month! Ugh. For being so short, it sure has a way of dragging on. I really haven't been doing too much interesting stuff, besides researching and thinking about my dissertation. Which is actually really exciting for me, but it means that I am much less inclined to do research and writing for my two summative essays which are coming up. Sigh. Why can't we just jump into the dissertations, yet?? (I'm sure, come July, I will be cursing vernacular buildings with a passion.)(Though that's another post entirely... I'm not sure if I've discussed the dissertation here yet?)

So not much to report, though I thought I would share this amusing photo with you:

My tea collect just keeps growing and growing... I think it's because the Twinings boxes £1.19, so when ever the winter blahs threaten to take over, I just buy a box of tea instead. Also, York has brought about a lot of changes in me, making me a more confident, social person, but I think the biggest change so far is the way I take my tea. I don't know if it's a sign of sheer laziness or something deeper, but I now forgo the sugar in my tea, in favour of just milk. I know, I know! I'm sorry! I just like it better that way!

Also, have a picture of Lincoln Cathedral. We went to Lincoln as a class a couple of weeks ago, and ended up spending more time on the bus than we did in the city. Poor planning! But I really, really want to go back, now!

Pretty!

Now dear internet, gather round close and I will tell you a story.

It's a well documented fact that I and Not A Fan of snow. Growing up with something can often times ruin your taste for it (see also: "but it's a dry heat" and "too cold to snow"). But what I do like is the snow day. My first real snow day didn't happen until I went to Portland, when I had two of three finals canceled. (Needless to say, my GPA that semester was excellent). Snow days are a great excuse for getting no work done, because hey! it's a snow day and no one's doing any work, either.

And yesterday, it snowed. For the last few years, York's been pounded by snow, but this year it was blissfully dry and sunny. And then yesterday the flakes started lazily coming down, and by the next time I lifted my head from the books, there were about 5 inches on the ground. And I mean, at that point, you're pretty much required to stop doing work.

Snow days also come with another benefit: required dinner options. In my mind, you can eat one of two things for dinner on a snow day: chili or breakfast. And with some eggs, a nice loaf of bread and some potatoes in my cupboard, I set out to make a most excellent breakfast for dinner.

Now, dear internet, in my experience of cooking, I've always been terrible at timing things right, and end up with sauces congealing on the countertop while the pasta water is still coming to a boil. I think the true sign of a good chef is the ability to time everything perfectly.

So I made my breakfast potatoes, turned on the oven to 80, warmed up a plate, kept the potatoes warm while I made my scrambled eggs, remembered to put the toast on, and plated my eggs on to an oven-warmed plate right as the toast popped up.

Needless to say, I was pretty chuffed.

And basking in the satisfaction that I might not be motivated to make much else besides pasta, stir fry, and breakfast, but when I do it, I do it right.

(I'm a little worried about what this post might say about the rest of my life...if my crowning triumph of the week is a well timed dinner, but I can assure you that everything is fine, just fine. But essays, you know. Essays.)

Afterword, we went out into the backyard, had a massive snowball fight and made a snowman. Some people here had never seen snow before, so it was fun to watch them get all excited about it, only to realize an hour later just how freaking cold it can be. Haha, suckers.

(St Rebecca of Wheat Ridge and the Venerable Mimi, at Fountains Abbey, Yorks.)

Formative essays are once again creeping up on me, so clearly it's time for another blog post! 'You're still alive?' you ask. Yes, yes I am, you smarty pants. I wish I could say that I've been doing loads of interesting things in the last few weeks, but I cannot lie. You all saw that massive reading list of mine. But! In the weeks before, I got up to plenty of things!

1. I went to London with my friend Mimi, where we spent a few excellent days hitting up museums, ice skating at the Tower of London, drinking wine and playing gin. It was tons of fun! We successfully navigated around a part of the city I'm not overly familiar with, saw the Sherlock Holmes museum, came up with a theory that if a Pizza Express is around, it must be accompanied by a Pret a Manger and a Starbucks, and just generally had a good time. After our ice skating escapade, I managed to fall and seriously bruise/injure my tailbone, which made for a painful rest of the winter break, which was a bit of a damper on my enthusiasm, but Mimi was a saint dealing with my need for comfy chairs and inability to bend over.

2. I went to Harry's sister's for Christmas, which was excellent! Lucy was amazing in the kitchen and I think I ate as much in 5 days as I have in the last month! We also went down to Lewes, which led to *more* eating. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It was really great to see Beth and Harry, and Lucy and Ed, and hopefully I'll get a chance to see them again this summer. I also now have an invitation to Cornwall in April, and I might just have to go...

3. On New Year's day, my best friend from university came to visit me! It was excellent. Sam is my homeboy! But since we're both on break, we didn't do a whole lot. We played cards, hit the pubs, made excellent pizza, and talked up a storm. Seriously, we did not shut up for almost two weeks straight.

Here is a picture of us together:

It is one of two pictures of us together in existence, but we have known each other for five years now. Dang, it does not seem nearly that long! On this day, we went to Fountains Abbey, which is a ruined abbey about 2 hours west of York. It was beautiful in the morning, so we walked about 4 miles to the abbey from Ripon, and by the time we got there, it had clouded over. I loved the abbey so much in the grey that I became a member of the National Trust so that I can go back and see it in the summer, which I'm assured is a much prettier view.

(I'd also like to point out that, in this picture, you can see just how tall Sam is. The third member of our trio, Jake, is even taller. And we used to go hiking together. What was I thinking??)

And then Sam left, and I jumped straight back into school. This term seems a lot harder than last, so I'm really buckling down and trying to study as much as possible. I also have to come up with a dissertation proposal soon, so I've done a lot of thinking and planning, and I'm meeting with my advisor on Monday to hammer out what I might do.

So there you go!

Oopha. It's been a month since I last updated! Granted, I was on break for that last month, so I've been out and about and entertaining guests, and not writing blog posts, it seems.

Right now I am up to my eyeballs in reading. I had to buy a different planner because my old one didn't have enough room to put all of my reading down. Here is an example:


Yeah, that's all one day of reading. Granted, this week I only have class one day, so it's all shoved on to one page, but it is a lot of hours in front of the computer.

Well, not all in front of the computer. Today my friends and I are off to the York Railway Museum. We all obsessively watch The Big Bang Theory, and Sheldon, a character in the show, really loves trains. So we are dressing as characters of the show, going to the train museum and have prepared 3 random facts to share throughout the day, because Sheldon is a fount of useless information.

I love my friends.