Please update your readers!

Please update your readers!

When I was seven my friend Carolyn lived at the end of the road in a big old white house shaded under huge maple trees. Her house was more interesting to play in after school when our parents were at work than my house was, because her house was older and larger than my house, and it had more corners and places to explore, but mostly because it wasn’t my house. And so we rode our bikes up and down the street, and we climbed the maple trees in her yard, and we explored the basement and attic and other back corners of her house, and then one day while we we exploring we found the old jars of pickles at the back of the pantry closet behind the kitchen stairs.

There were two jars of dill pickles, big half-gallon mason jars we could barely lift out of the closet and onto the kitchen counter. We didn’t know how old the jars were, and there was no one else around in the house to tell us. The tops of the jars were furry with dust and although there were labels on the jars the writing had faded so we couldn’t see the dates. Inside the jars there were whole pickles, packed tightly, and if we tipped the jars on their sides we could see garlic and peppercorns and whole spiky brown heads of dill seed through the cloudy brine.

The pickles Carolyn and I found in the closet behind the stairs didn’t look much like deli pickles. They had faded to a pale greenish grey, and they were smaller and curved to fit into the jars. Still, they were obviously pickles, and the prospect of a whole jar of homemade pickles all to myself was thrilling to me. “Let’s open a jar,” I proposed, and Carolyn eagerly agreed.

The lids of the jars were rusty with age. Carolyn held a jar and I turned the lid, but even with our combined seven-year-old strength we couldn’t budge it. We tried with a towel, and we tried with a rubber jar-opener that Carolyn found in a drawer. I had read in a book that if you whack the edge of the jar lid with the handle of a knife, you can get a jar open. We tried that and only managed to dent the lids and the knife handle, too, which would get us in big trouble later on when her mom found out. We carried the jars outside and banged the lids against the edge of the old brick wall that separated the driveway from the yard. We knocked the jars upside-down on the driveway itself (“Don’t break it,” Carolyn warned. “I’m not,” I replied). We took the jars back into the kitchen and pried at the lids with the knife, at the bottom edge along the neck of the jar and also along the top of the lid where it looked like there was a seam. Finally we got one of the lid to slowly turn with a grinding noise. It looked like the rim of the lid was turning, but the top of the lid wasn’t, which was curious. But something was moving, which gave us confidence in our jar-opening skills, so we kept working at it, and eventually the lid came off.

Or, half of it did. The lid was in two pieces: a flat disk on top of the jar itself, and a band around the edge that screwed onto the jar and held the disk in place. This explained the seam on the top of the jar -- the seam was where the two parts of the jar came together. It took still more prying with the knife to break the seal on the flat part of the lid, but finally it came loose with a pop. Out from the jar emerged a faint ghost of dill and vinegar.

Inside the mouth of the jar the olive green heads of the pickles peeked out of the brine and there was a big head of dill stuffed into the top. Carolyn got me a fork and a plate and I speared a pickle. It was softer than I expected, so soft it took some work to unbind the pickle from the jar without breaking it in pieces. I put the pickle on the plate and cut it open with the knife. Other than the funny color it looked like a pickle, with a bumpy cucumber skin on the outside and seeds on the inside. There was nothing moldy or gross about it or anything.

“Do you think its bad?” Carolyn asked.

“It doesn’t smell bad,” I said. “How old do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” Carolyn said. “Really really old.”

I put my finger into the pickle juice on the plate, and then put it into my mouth. It tasted like vinegar, and maybe a little metallic. I cut off the end of the pickle and put it into my mouth. Carolyn watched me like she expected me to fall over dead any second. “What’s it like?” she asked me.

“It’s really good,” I said, and I cut myself another piece.

It was a dill pickle, but not sharp and sour like the glow-in-the-dark pickles I was used to, and not plain and salty like the deli half-sours. It was both sour and salty and tasted of dill and garlic and spices and something else, something deeper and delicious, something I had never tasted before. There was also that slight taste of metal, like an old can, but if I tried I could put that taste aside. I reached for more.

Emboldened by my tasting, Carolyn had some of the pickle, and agreed with me that it tasted really good. Both of us had more of the pickle on the plate. Then we had another one. Before we knew it, we had eaten the entire jar.

Carolyn’s mother was completely aghast that we had eaten the jar of pickles at all, let alone the whole thing. In amongst the scolding she said something about “grandmother’s pickles,” although I never found out if it was Carolyn’s grandmother or Carolyn’s mother’s grandmother. She was even angrier when she saw the state of the knives. She called my mother, and then between the two of them we both got a very stern lecture on Absolutely Positively NOT eating strange food we found in back closets. Although today I think we would have had a fast trip to the emergency room for a date with Mr Stomach Pump, at the time I think we were just watched overnight to see if we got sick. Neither of us did. Carolyn’s grandmother, or great-grandmother, knew how to can, and even though the pickles were old they were fine. Although the second jar of pickles, the one we couldn’t open, never did reappear after that. I never got a second taste of those pickles after the one afternoon. Carolyn’s mother probably spirited that jar off to the trash before we found a way to get it open.

* * *

Some people spend their whole lives trying to recreate some fundamental memorable experience in their past. They are always searching, reaching, grasping, tasting, but no peach tastes like that one perfect juicy summer vacation peach. No kiss is ever like that first one with the girl who broke your heart. No roller coaster is ever as exhilarating as the one on the beach that was torn down in 1956.

For me one of those core experiences is that jar of pickles. Thirty-five years later I can still taste those pickles. Thirty-five years later I am still trying to understand what it was about those pickles that made them so good. I’ve learned how to make and can pickles, and I’ve learned about vinegar pickles, and, and fermented salt pickles, and kosher pickles. I’ve made batches and batches of my own pickles, and I know how to use canning jars with the two-piece lids to keep pickles almost indefinitely. Thirty years later I am still searching for hundred-year-old pickle recipes, still gathering recipes from grandmothers and great-grandmothers all over the internet, still collecting heirloom cucumber seeds, and locating lost spices and ingredients with strange names that barely sound edible.

I’m still searching. I don’t know if I will ever find the pickle of my childhood, or if the memory of the perfect pickle is too idealized in my head. But I do believe that someday I will find a pickle that will be good enough that when I step up to the deli counter for an old fashioned sour dill, that pickle-eating adventure won’t be nearly as good as the pickle-finding adventure I’ve already had.

I hadn't been planning to contribute to ALD, just because my blogging has been totally moribund over the last year (twitter: addicting). But I woke up today and read a few posts was so inspired that I suddenly felt compelled to write anyhow. I'm not precisely following the theme, but I hope that can be forgiven.

My first job right out of college in the late 80's was at Sun Microsystems. It's hard to imagine it now, but at the time Sun was one of the top companies in Silicon Valley, one of the best places to work, and where there was huge amounts of innovation in both hardware and software. When I mentioned to my friends that I worked at Sun, they all said "oh, that's so cool." I felt very lucky to have ended up there.

After drifting through a few projects and after a few reorgs at Sun, I settled into a small division called SunPICS, which stood for Printing and Imaging and two other things that I've forgotten. We wrote the software for Sun's printer, which was actually harder than it sounds, because with Sun's printers the PostScript rendering engine was on the computer and not in the printer (there were advantages to this at the time). We also did fonts, color management, printer device drivers, multi-user and multi-system printer queue management -- all kinds of things are are boring now because they're built into any computer or printer in the world and completely hidden from view, but at the time they were all new.

SunPICS was not a sexy group at Sun. We were not developing SPARC processors, creating high-end UNIX workstations, working on the guts of UNIX itself or writing an X11 windows server. We didn't get much attention in the news, or make zillions of dollars for the company. We did printers. But we were kind of unique within the company because we had lots of women engineers. Even within Sun, which was known for being a good place for women to work, we were special. We were a magnet for women. In the group I worked directly with there were five women and just one guy. In the larger division we were more than half women. We were an extremely close group; we were smart and technical and we got stuff done. We shipped product. We did good work. Even ten years after the group disbanded we were still getting together for reunion lunches.

Because I was young, and so inexperienced, I didn't realize how special this was at the time. I thought it was totally normal to be working right in the epicenter of the high tech universe, and to be surrounded by outstanding women of all ages, nationalities, and backgrounds.

I've often wondered if the experience of working in this group was one of the reasons I had the confidence, after I left Sun, to strike out on my own, to write books, to do consulting, to teach web tech to others. Because of Sun, because of the SunPICS group, being a woman in technology, being a smart geek woman just wasn't all that unusual. For a long time I simply couldn't comprehend questions people asked me about how I overcame the barriers or discrimination of being a woman in tech. Barriers? There are barriers?

It was only later, after I moved onto other companies, that I realized how unique this situation was. Most of the time today I am the *only* woman in the engineering groups I work with. I see the barriers for women in tech now, and I think there are more barriers -- if only the barrier of being so much more alone. There are fewer women in tech now to begin with, and fewer big tech company environments where a group of women can comfortably organically build the way it did for me at Sun. I feel tremendously honored to have had that opportunity.

So for Ada Lovelace Day, I salute my SunPICS co-workers, for helping make me into the woman I am today. To Liane, Frances, Lorraine, Penny, Leila, Pan, Margaret, Brenda, Deborah, and any of you I may have forgotten. Thank you.

If you don't know what twitter is, its kind of like a short-form blog, each post less than 140 characters, answering the question "what are you doing?" It tends to skew kind of trivial.

Note: the following procedure refers only to the consumption of Smarties(tm) brand citric-acid based candies available in the continental United States. For information about the consumption of Smarties(tm) brand chocolate-based candies available in the UK and Canada, refer to subsection 4.3.2(a), Proper Consumption of M&Ms.

1. Shuck the Smarties.

Regardless of the total number of Smarty rolls to be consumed, all individual Smarties must be removed from their respective wrappers and piled up on a flat surface. Shucking and collecting Smarties ensures even distribution of flavors across rolls.

2. Spread out the Smarties.

After piling up the Smarties, spread them out into a single layer so that all flavors and colors are visible. A single layer enables the smarties to be properly sorted.

3. Pick out and eat the pink ones.

Ideally, each individual Smarty should be nibbled around the edges until both sides of the Smartie are flat (rather than concave). Then the Smarty itself can be squared off, octagonned, rounded again, and eventually reduced to zero. If you're pressed for time, this step can be skipped.

4. Pick out and eat the orange ones.

5. Pick out and eat the yellow ones.

6. Pick out and eat the green ones.

7. Pick out and eat the purple ones.

8. Eat the white ones.

One could make the eating process more efficient by sorting the Smarties into piles by color after shucking them from the wrapper. But that would be obsessive.

"I know that's what he told you," he said, "but I'm sick of that shit. You tell him that he needs to get that work done. You tell him that he's had three months now and that work isn't done and he needs to get OFF HIS ASS AND GET THAT SHIT DONE. NO. NO. You're NOT LISTENING." The man was poking the air next to my head. I edged away nervously. The people in line behind him edged away nervously. "You need to get on the GODDAMN PHONE AND tell him what I'm telling you. Tell him I WANT THAT WORK DONE AND I WANT IT DONE THIS WEEK OR HE'S GOING TO GET A VISIT DIRECTLY FROM ME AND NO ONE WANTS THAT DO THEY. OK? OK? OK? GOOD."

The man slapped his phone shut and moved up to the counter. "Hi," he said to the barista, who edged away nervously. "I'd like a decaf pumpkin latte."

When Eric and I got up on Friday morning last week the rain wasn't so bad but our internet connection was out. So we made the incredibly stupid decision to leave the house and go to work. Because, you know, having access to your email is so much more important than knowing that your house and your pets are safe and dry or having a familiar place to sleep that night.

The day turned out to be full of incredibly stupid decisions. My second stupidest decision was choosing to wear a long wool coat to work, rather than a nylon waterproof rain jacket. My logic at the time went thusly: the wool coat is just so much more attractive than the nylon rain jacket; I only have to go from my car to get coffee and back, and then from my car into my building at work; and I have an umbrella. How wet could I possibly get?

I contemplated that question for a good long while as I sat in my car in the parking lot outside the coffee shop near work, as my car rocked back and forth on its suspension while the wind tried to blow it right over. I was parked four cars away from the door but the rain was coming down so hard I couldn't actually tell if the coffeeshop was still there. I bravely picked up my umbrella, pushed the car door open and the wind forced it closed again, nearly taking off my fingers. I put down my umbrella, which was now quailing in fear, and had another long contemplative moment. While I contemplated the wind pushed my car another parking space away from the coffeeshop, leaving grooves in the pavement like the rocks in Death Valley. Did I really need coffee that bad? I took a deep breath and kicked my way out into the storm.

So the answer to how wet can one possibly get in a wool coat in a rainstorm is quite wet indeed, and the third stupidest thing I did on friday was wear tennis shoes. When you are dashing across the parking lot in a storm with your wool coat up over your head it is hard to tell that the wide puddle you are about to splash across is actually eight inches deep. And cold. Very cold. Did I mention the cold?

No, actually, I did not need coffee that bad. That was definitely the line right there.

But I got my coffee. And I got to work. Later on, my group went out to lunch. The wool coat was well and thoroughly soaked through after still more trips running to and from the car, and here's something I never realized: a soaking wet wool coat smells kind of like a big wet dog.

It was such a peachy day.

First of all, thanks to everyone who sent me mail (and mail to my sister!) wondering where I was and if everything was OK. All this time I was thinking my readers (both of you) might be disappointed that I had stopped writing but that there were five trillion other blogs that could take my place. Little did I know that I had FOUR readers and that they did indeed miss me. Wow! :)

What I've Been Up To, the Short Version

I am fine. My health is fine. My head is fine. It's all good.

I have been running, and swimming. If I start bicycling again I will end up accidentally training for a triathalon. I have acquired a small flock of chickens, and a piano. I cleaned my office (this is is a big deal). I lost eight pounds (this is not a big deal; I have lost them before but they keep coming back). I have read something like three dozen books in the last six months. I got my hair cut short. I gave up caffeine again, three times. I sleep ten hours or more a night, but I have strange dreams where tiny espresso shots cruelly laugh at me.

Most importantly, I successfully survived turning 40.

Unplugging...Sort of

I did get a big ugly case of Deep Thoughts at 40, and a whole series of those Deep Thoughts concerned the amount of time I spend on the internet every day. I really did not want to have "successfully maintained her social network" carved on my gravestone. I still don't.

In August I was reading hundreds of blogs a day, keeping up on dozens of mailing lists, web forums and old-style BBSes, reading and (um, sometimes) replying to personal email, and regularly posting to this blog as well. All of this in my spare time, on top of my normal daily workload. I didn't have to get this involved in the internet, but I had built it up over time, slowly abandoning my own writing and my other interests and feeling like I was behind if I didn't keep up on my email and my feeds. Even when I did sit down and write or draw or play music on my own I felt lost and blocked, as if there was nothing there in my head to draw on.

This was also a time when twitter and facebook were very popular amongst many of my friends. I was having a hard time imagining signing up for more internet time-sucks when I already felt so stretched for time and attention, and so creatively empty.

I'd like to say I unplugged from the net in August and that I feel much better, but I'm not that virtuous. I have cut tremendously back on the amount of net reading I do, I turn off my IM most of the time, and I am not on either twitter nor facebook if you've been looking for me there. I feel like I'm wasting less of my life on the net, but I still don't feel good. I still feel like I have a lot of work to do to pull away.

A Bad Case of Why

Another Deep Thought I had this fall I did was wondering why I blog at all. I suspect this is a phase that every blogger goes through, a nobody-cares-why-bother-its-all-pointless phase. It just took me a while to get here and probably lasted for far longer than it should have, given that I've been a writer my entire life and writing a blog should come easily to me.

I think I have been unconsciously influenced by the so-called A-list bloggers, who are blogging as a business and who have a single-minded focus on attracting readers so that they can pull in advertising dollars and thus get rich and famous and quit their jobs. I've never really viewed this blog as anything more than a hobby and a place to write once in a while, but I still find myself feeling guilty that I violate every major business blogging rule. Thou Shalt Not Write a Journal Blog. Thou Shalt Write About What Everyone Else is Writing About and Cultivate Pagerank. Thou Shalt Not Post Cat Pictures. I've been guilty that I can't seem to follow the rules and thus I'm not rich and famous like the business bloggers. Never mind that not even the business bloggers seem to be doing all that well at the rich-and-famous-quitting-the-job strategy. I can find a whole lot to be guilty about if I try.

But looking over my archives it does seem like I've been trying to do too many things and imitate too many other sites. I have a focus problem. I'm not kottke or boingboing or engadget but it is like I'm trying to be all these sites and a half dozen others, in addition to posting my own stuff. What I do notice from my stats is that the most popular posts on this blog, the ones that are linked the most and commented on the most, are consistently the longer posts, the more personal posts, the opinions or essays or reviews or stories about cooking or gardening or tech. The funny posts are usually a big hit.

What a surprise: my best posts are the ones where I actually write like me.

2008 Blog Resolutions

It's time for a blog reboot. (for the content, at least. I want to do a new design and move the blog to wordpress, too, but that will have to wait for when I have more time.)

In 2008 I want to stop trying to be other people's blogs, and be more creative on this one. What this means, I hope, is longer posts and more personal stuff. Fewer link-log posts and more funny essays (or at least attempts at being funny). I'm probably going to talk more about gardening and cooking. I'm going to post about work (not so much "my co-worker is an asshole and the coffee here sucks" type of things but more about technology and teaching and writing and publishing, which is what I do). I would really like to post more fiction. There will be cat pictures.

What I'm aiming for is an unpopular blog that is nonetheless richer for me to write. And, I hope, if all four of you stick around, richer for you too.

Midway in our life's journey, I went astray
from the straight road and woke to find myself
alone in a dark wood. - Dante, Inferno (Ciardi, trans.)

Ten years ago I wrote an essay called Thoughts on Turning 30. It was a very personal essay, for me. One of the big reasons I wrote it was because I don't keep a journal (kind of unusual, for a writer). I had talked in that essay about how I had spent time at every significant birthday up to that point moping about my life and about what I had learned. But I had never written any of it down. Part of my intent in that essay was to capture a moment in time, to explain how I was feeling at that moment so that Future Me would know.

I am Future Me now. Today is my 40th birthday. I joked in that essay that Future Me would look back on 30 me and laugh about how naive I was. I read that essay now and I don't think that I was all that naive. I'm not laughing. I am, however, struck at how self-confident 30 me was. Self-confident, and optimistic. I was a bright young woman with a big attitude, at the top of my game, with big ideas and a whole lot of years to accomplish them stretching ahead of me. 30 me had so much to look forward to. 30 me was, frankly, really cool.

30 me, unfortunately, didn't know how quickly things could unravel, didn't know how dark the next ten years would actually be. How easily things could change with a few health problems and a lot of worry. Life sometimes jumps up and stands in the way of one's big fabulous plans.

I'm not here to write thoughts on turning 40 and moan about how terrible things have turned out for me. They're not terrible. I'm healthier than I've ever been, I have a good career, a terrific marriage, and a very comfortable life. But things are much different now than they were for 30 me -- quieter, more settled, more introspective, more routine, more boring. Which would be fine, if I was happy. But there's a lingering, nagging doubt in the back of my mind, and sometimes the front, that I could be, should be, more than I am. There's a doubt that is only underlined when I read 30 me excitedly talking about what she has learned and how much more she's looking forward to. I find myself at 40 envying the overwhelming energy of 30 me, and wondering when it was I lost the drive to change the world. Is this just what happens when you get older, or did I make a wrong turn somewhere? Am I, like Dante, lost in the dark wood? And if I am, what I do I need to do to get out again?