#home made tortillas phoenix

[tortillasrosario]

Embracing Size and Tradition: The Rise of Tortillas Grandes in Phoenix

Phoenix, the sprawling capital of Arizona, is a culinary paradise celebrating a rich tapestry of flavors. The city is a vibrant showcase of gastronomic diversity, but one tradition stands tall — the love for tortillas. In recent times, the city has witnessed an exciting trend: the growing popularity of tortillas grandes. Read More - https://tortillasrosario.blogspot.com/2023/06/embracing-size-and-tradition-the-rise-of-tortillas-grandes-in-phoenix.html

[peachyteabuck]

won’t you kiss me already? (fallon carrington x reader)

summary: after fallon finds out you’ve had a bad day at work, she’s determined to make it better

a commission for @devillskettle

pairing: fallon carrington x reader

words: 2124

content warnings: work-related anxiety, slight angst about said work, lots of fluff

Everything sucks. Everything really sucks.

You’re behind on deadlines because no one you work with can do their jobs properly. Everyone in the world seems to have your email and needs you to fix something. Your Internet is out at your apartment and you haven’t had hot water for a week. You spilled your coffee all over yourself this morning, making you late for a meeting with the VP (you always keep extra clothes in your office’s closet, but a button popped off on the first shirt you replaced, making it so you had to replace it once more). The same coffee was made wrong as well, the burnt taste souring your mood even further. Your laptop needs its battery replaced, and some random man tried to see an idea you’ve had for an advertising campaign for months.

Everything really, really sucks.

You’re just grateful to be home now, even if you can’t get any work done, and you can’t relax in a steaming hot bath while sipping red wine and reading a trashy romance novel. (You’ve still got the win and the bodice ripper, but it’s just not the same without the steamy bathroom and near-boiling water.)

Sitting alone in the quiet of your apartment eating from a giant bag of tortilla chips and a similarly large container of salsa that took five minutes to open is not how you imagined spending tonight. Still, it beats being at work.

Your poor mood becomes even worse when you hear a series of knocks at your front door—a sound that normally only ever brings your elderly neighbor asking for help with her ancient television or your downstairs neighbor asking you to not “be so loud” (despite you never moving furniture). On a normal day, you’d be willing to tell the sweet Italian woman that she just needs to turn the television on before changing the channel, or politely tell the douchey frat bro who you’re sure works for an unethical startup that if he’s hearing noises that aren’t there, he should take that up with his doctor and not you. But it hasn’t been a normal day, and you’re not in your normal mood.

Praying the person at your door will just leave, you remain face down on the couch with your feet dangling off the side. Hopefully, the person will just believe you aren’t home and will leave you in blessed silence.

Knock knock knock.

Of course, they don’t, though. Of course, this universe sees you struggling and goes “hey, want it to be worse?” without waiting for a response.

“I really don’t have time for this,” you grumble, speaking at a normal volume as you open the door. “Can you just-“

You stop in your tracks, frozen in place as you take in the sight in front of you.

It’s your girlfriend, clad in a signature well-cut pantsuit, with her giant work bag on one shoulder and both hands carrying a very large bag of what smells like takeout.

“A little bird told me you had a bad day,” she says, giving you a small, tentative smile as she steps into your apartment. “Was hoping I could make it better.”

You’re so happy to see her you legitimately could cry. And not one of those cute cries, where there are a few tears and you look like a newborn dear afterward. No, not an adorable little cry. Rather, one of those deep, guttural ones. The kind where snot runs down your chin and you scream so hard your throat hurts. The kind where sobs wrack your body and leave your muscles aching. The kind of cry that changes you, that represents a turning point in your life, where you emerge like a phoenix from the ashes of your old self.

Somehow, though, you manage to keep it all inside of you (and plan to let it all out when you’re finally able to take a steaming hot shower). You manage to give your lovely girlfriend a small smile, stepping to the side to let her in. Neither of you needs to say anything as she sits down on the couch next to your deeply sad dinner selection, rolling the top of the chip bag and closing the salsa before pushing them to the side to place the bags on your coffee table.

You, ever dutiful, follow her lead and curl up next to her on your old couch.

“Tell me what’s wrong, baby,” she says, handing you a hot black plastic container with a clear lid. It’s hot in your hands, and for a moment you relish the warmth. You can feel it, somehow, in your chest, a pleasant heat simmering inside of you. Maybe that’s just what happens when Fallon is near, though.

“I just a lot,” you sigh, popping open the Tupperware-like container and letting the tantalizing smell waft into your nose. You’d spent most of the last few days eating cold leftovers—not of food you’d cooked yourself, but late-night deliveries that had gone cold as you attempted to finish work. “I haven’t had time to call a plumber and every time the Internet company schedules someone to come out. Work fucking sucks, and then I can’t come home and relax. It’s like, never-ending. Everything always sucks.”

“Hmm,” is all you hear before you begin shoveling forkfuls of noodles and chicken into your mouth. It’s good, so good, both because you’ve missed warm, freshly cooked meals, and because you’re sure this is from the expensive Thai place that’s on the other side of town.

It's out of your way, but, more importantly, it’s out of Fallon’s way. She works even more north than you do, having to cross the city just to get it. Thinking of her exerting herself like this is sweet in a way that makes your chipmunk cheeks blush.

Putting her phone down, Fallon empties the rest of the large, brown paper bag. In her hands emerges a white, semi-opaque bag smelling of a deliciously familiar scent.

“Crab Rangoon?” you ask, your mouth watering so much you can nearly feel yourself drool.

“Crab Rangoon,” she confirms, handing you the delicious morsels encased in waxy paper. “I just ask for one as girlfriend tax.”

Truly, you could cry from sheer joy and the love you have for her, and so of course, once you rip open the stapled bag, you have over the first one you see.

You then, of course, devour three of them in less time than it takes Fallon to properly mix up her pad Thai curry. Can she blame you, though?

Neither of you says anything for a while, and the quiet is therapeutic. Every day, all day, all there is at work is noise—the sounds of Teams, meetings, people chatting around your desk (did you mention you don’t even get a real office?), the clicking of keyboards and computer mice. Being able to sit in a soundless space comforts you more than anything, especially as Fallon’s leg presses against your own.

That is, until you hear knocks at the door again and roll your eyes.

“Is that how you reacted when you heard me knocking?” she asks with a snort, getting up before you have a chance to swallow your massive bite of pad Thai and meet the mystery person outside the door.

To be fair, you think to yourself as you struggle to clear your mouth. I probably would’ve been happier if I’d known it was you.

Fallon answers the door, and whoever is there is then just let into your apartment.

You don’t want to be rude, and Fallon seems to know who’s traversing his way into your apartment and why he’s got a giant box of tools, so you don’t say anything. But you still furrow your brow, to which Fallon pointedly ignores.

“Thanks for coming,” she leads the man through your kitchen and towards the back of your apartment. “Water heater is this way.”

When she returns, all you give her is a raised brow.

“That’s Greg,” she replies. As if that explains everything. “He’s the handyman we call at the office when the usual guy isn’t able to come in time.”

You nearly jump out of your chair, prepared to run and relieve this poor man of whatever duty your girlfriend bestowed upon him. “You made him come here?” you whisper-yell, pushing peanut pieces from your shirt. “Fallon, that guy probably has a wife and kids and shit. He doesn’t need to be here fixing my water heater!”

Fallon just smiles a little and stands up with you. “Babe, Greg is twenty-three and an art school dropout. I paid him like four times the usual amount for him to come. And he lives like five minutes away. Let him do this for you.”

You glare at her for just a second, trying to decipher the proud look on her face. “Fine, fine. Just-“ she squeals and gives you a kiss on your cheek, hugging you as you struggle to protect your precious dinner from the ground. “Just don’t let him fuck anything up too bad.”

“Don’t worry,” she waves her hand. “Greg’s great.”

You hope she’s right, given your snooty landlord. Fallon breaks your train of thought, though, as she speaks up once more.

“Also, uh…you don’t have to say yes-“

You brace for what she’s about to say—something you’ve heard a thousand times, but are still unsure of how to handle it.

“But I’m going to tell you again,” she pauses for a moment and waits for you to cut her off. You don’t. Neither of you attempts to meet each other’s eyes for fear “If you ever wanted to work a job at Carrington, or any company I ever own, just tell me and I’ll find an opening for you.”

“Thank you,” you finally manage. You don’t say anything else for what feels like an eternity, merely staring down at your half-finished food and letting the sounds of some random man tinkering with your water heater fill the air.

Minutes later, the man re-emerges, breaking the tender silence. When you meet his eyes, his face remains painted with the same, blank features.

Fallon, though, doesn’t miss a beat. “Router’s right behind you,” she says, gesturing with her chin. “Internet company has been blowing her off for days.”

He, still, doesn’t do anything to indicate he’s heard what your girlfriend said until he’s kneeling down to open the lower cabinet’s glass door and begins tinkering with the device. Again, awkward silence, as the nearly complete stranger hums to himself as he examines the issue.

“You’ve got a busted coax cable,” Greg says after what you feel is way too short a period of time, given how annoying the issue has been. His voice is much deeper than you expected. “Had an extra in my bag and replaced it. Should work fine now.”

Fallon’s “thanks” overlaps with your more enthusiastic “thank you so much!” as she gets up to pay him. You continue your silence, listening more than watching the interaction and subsequent “let me walk you out” despite the front door being just a few steps away.

“I think there are new episodes out of that bartending show you like,” she says when she returns, looking for the remote as she sits down. “Wanna watch?”

You nod, just grateful that you can connect to Netflix again. You also remember, as she sifts through your “currently watching” list, that Fallon does not like the bartending show very much. She called it “too flashy” once (a beautiful hypocrisy, coming from her), and doesn’t like one of the judges.

You know most of the world doesn’t see this version of Fallon. They get the version of Fallon she wants them to see—the mean, bitchy one who’d rather commit murder than be wrong or humiliated or underhanded. The Fallon who looks pristine and never has so much as a nail out of place. The Fallon who will buy out an entire company just because an executive laughed at her outfit. You’re sure this is the Fallon they want to see as well. Someone mean taking you down is one thing, but someone kind? That’s a whole other.

“What are you smiling about?” She meets your eyes for a few fleeting moments before looking back at the TV.

“Nothing in particular,” you say. You don’t want to make her uncomfortable, you know she’s a little insecure about how other people see her. That’s okay, though. You’re fine keeping this version of her to yourself. “Just that I love you.”

She smiles back, kissing you on your nose before readjusting on the couch. “Good, because I love you, too.”

[kuramirocket]

Devin Booker is one of only two active NBA players with Mexican roots. His connection to the Latino community is resonating with many across the Valley.

Arturo Ochoa the official Spanish broadcaster of the Phoenix Suns has been doing the team’s Spanish play-by-play since the 2004-2005 season. He said that, although Latinos historically root for soccer teams, as the year’s gone by and with Booker on the roster, the fever for the Suns among Latinos has grown.

“The truth is that the Hispanic community identifies a lot with those aspects,” Ochoa said, referring to Booker being only one of two active NBA players with Mexican roots. “It has a certain draw of fans to the stadium.”

“We’re proud of him and knowing that he’s also of the same heritage, Mexicano, you add some extra cheering,” said Elena Beltran.

The cheering can be heard throughout the Valley in English and Spanish.

“It's Los Suns for a reason, right? Los Suns,” said Richard Valdes from Phoenix.

Valdes says he’s a diehard Suns fan, so finding out about Devin Booker’s Mexican roots made him hopeful.

“I knew that he was going to take us far.”

Other Latinos dream of bringing Booker home for dinner to introduce him to their most favorite Mexican dishes.

“I would definitely, my mom’s rice, her sopa, cheese, and the tortillas, that's all you need,” said Elena Beltran.

There’s so much to learn about the Mexican culture, but Devin Booker says it’s never too late.

“My Mexican culture has taught me a lot about myself. It’s something that’s not too late to learn because, at the end of the day, this is what makes up me,” said Booker.

His maternal grandfather was born in Mexico but migrated to Michigan.

“Some of my favorite times as a child was my mom whipping up, you know, original Mexican dishes that she learned from her father or when we got the chance to visit my grandpa on the weekend.”

But Booker says it was here in Phoenix where he first experienced the Mexican culture.

“Growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, you don't get as much of it, besides the time that I spent with my grandpa and my mother, what she's passed down to us. But living around it and the culture and getting to see it day to day is a lot better. Being able to touch those types of communities in this area makes all this that much better,” said Booker.

The Latino community says they will stand behind him.

“The Suns just in general, the whole Valley is behind the Suns,” said Beltran.

Along with learning more about his mother’s bloodline, Booker has also embraced other Mexican American aspects like the Chicano lowrider style.

On Game 1 of the playoff series against the Denver Nuggets, Booker arrived at the arena in a 1971 Chevy Caprice with gold rims. He later published a video on his Instagram for his 4.2 million followers to see.

For die-hard fan Emmanuel Maldonado the connection is heartwarming.

“It’s beautiful and it’s great for Booker for accepting, not only embracing it but publicly sharing it,” Maldonado said. “That’s even better for the culture and for us growing up wanting to be like them.”

Seeing at least that small glimpse of his Mexican heritage on such a big stage is a victory of its own for Maldonado.

“It just shows us that no matter where you come from, we can all be united by something, in this case, it’s our bloodline and the sport,” Maldonado said.

Although news of Booker’s Latino heritage began to be known for the last several years, the Suns’ advancement in the finals, is helping amplify that fact.

Other sources: (x)

[pikkaria-blog]

Does Food Photos Makes You Crave?

Privileged insights of nourishment photography that make desires

Behind most expert nourishment photographs is a beautician who deceives the watcher. These duplicities go from a pinch of lipstick to blush a strawberry, to "milkshakes" produced using pureed potatoes. It isn't so much that nourishment beauticians are liars and cheats. They're just in the matter of spontaneous creation.

By and large, to finish a photograph shoot, beauticians are relied upon to unravel any given emergency on the spot. No tzatziki on set? Manage with the mayonnaise or whipped cream in the ice chest. A customer needs that turkey skin to look "somewhat more red"? Better have nourishment shading close by.

"When shooting, you can't stop and state: 'Hello, ugh, I overlooked this,'" clarifies Denise Stillman, an Orange County-based nourishment beautician who's been in the business for a long time. "You simply need to ensure you [bring enough materials on set to] consider every contingency and afterward [ask yourself], 'What else can turn out badly?'"

Be that as it may, not all things are faked. The item the sponsor is attempting to sell is constantly highlighted, clarifies Stillman. When, for instance, she shoots an advertisement for Breyers, she shoots the genuine frozen yogurt. However, on the off chance that she's styling Gay Lea Foods' whipped cream, the frozen yogurt it rests on can be made of anything – insofar as it looks flavorful.

In the case of shooting a TV plug or print commercial, a nourishment beautician's objective is regularly to underline a fixing's common magnificence.

"I'm similar to hair and cosmetics for nourishment," says Charlotte Omnès, a beautician situated in New York. "At the point when you see models stroll down the runway, they don't resemble that. In any case, after they come out of cosmetics, no doubt about it.'"

On the off chance that you need your Instagram nourishment photographs to look like Bon Appétit covers, we've gathered some genius tips that will help. Six nourishment beauticians served us their insider facts on the best way to make regular dishes look prepared for their nearby ups.

pureed potatoes give the presence of mass

For a delectable looking enchilada, include crushed potato. Photo: Photo by Rick Gayle. Nourishment styling by Kim Krejca.

Mexican nourishment can't generally photogenic. Nobody knows this better than Kim Krejca, a Phoenix-based beautician who works with a ton of south-western food. "Enchiladas with sauce seeping into the beans [are] not outwardly charming," she says. "You need to change that yet at the same time be consistent with the nourishment."

Notice

To give the enchiladas the presence of massiveness (as observed above), she stuffed them with moment pureed potatoes, a beautician's go-to filling since they are anything but difficult to make and shape. At that point Krejca added meat and veggies to the closures where the tortillas open up. To complete the dish, she utilized a warmth weapon to make the cheddar dissolve impeccably on top.

Tacos

Tacos: attempt restorative wipes, paste, and WD-40. Photo: Photo by Rick Gayle. Nourishment styling by Kim Krejca.

In actuality, tacos are a flavorful wreckage. To make them satisfactory on camera, Krejca stuck two tortillas together and set corrective wipes behind the meat to keep the shells open. For dim and succulent looking hamburger, she painted the pieces with a dark colored sauce called Kitchen Bouquet, made of water and nourishment shading. Krejca then showered the loading up with WD-40, her distinct advantage to make Mexican nourishment sparkle. Stillman utilizes red peppers instead of diced tomatoes for an increasingly lively shading and pours corn syrup on beans so they look wet and new.

Oat

Do you incline toward your oat dry or with hair cream? Photo: Photo by Chris Elinchev at Small Pond Productions. Nourishment styling by Tamara Kaufman.

Promotion

This may demolish your craving, yet the milk utilized in grain photographs is generally phony. Since the genuine stuff rapidly makes cornflakes look spongy, nourishment beauticians have thought of options. Right now, based Tamara Kaufman utilized Wildroot, a white hair cream for men with a sunscreen salve like consistency that numerous beauticians pine for. Krejca favors the old fashioned technique for white paste, which photos simply like the genuine article. At the point when geniuses do utilize genuine milk, it's just an extremely limited quantity. As indicated by Michelle Rabin, a Toronto-based nourishment beautician, you can put the most excellent bits of grain in a bowl loaded up with vegetable shortening and spread it with a dainty layer of milk. "The shortening opposes the fluid and it would seem that the entire bowl is loaded up with hills of grain," she says. "The pieces will remain entirely fresh for quite a while."

Espresso: watered down soy sauce and gelatin give a smooth look

For a smooth-looking espresso, attempt water and gelatin. Photo: Photo by Beth Galton. Modifying by Daniel Hurlburt. Nourishment styling by Charlotte Omnès.

Dark espresso is difficult to work with in light of its sleek sheen. In a latte or cappuccino, the froth will rapidly vanish. Right now, utilized a blend of Kitchen Bouquet, water and gelatin to give the espresso a smooth look. When absolutely necessary, Rabin has utilized watered-down soy sauce and once needed to ad lib with cream and sauce browner on the arrangement of a well known Canadian brand. "I see that board I chipped away at and I'm similar to: 'That is clever, in light of the fact that that is not an espresso,'" she says. Kaufman utilizes the genuine article whenever the situation allows, yet includes drops of foamy water around the border with an eyedropper to reproduce new blend. The foam, beauticians state, is regularly produced using channeled cleanser froth.

Turkey: it might be crude and ridiculous inside, yet the skin looks great

Half-cooked turkey is frequently highlighted in promotions. Photo: Photo by Marshall Troy. Prop styling by Grace Knott. Nourishment styling by Charlotte Omnès.

Each home culinary expert knows it's difficult to make a winged creature fresh outwardly and damp within. Fortunately, nourishment beauticians just need to concentrate on feel, which implies they never completely cook one. "It is significant not to overcook them so the skin remains looking damp, stout and succulent," says Omnès. "These are viewable prompts that make your mouth water when you take a gander at it." New-York based beautician Brian Preston-Campbell says he frequently cooks five or six turkeys for a couple of hours each to get that "impeccable saint winged animal". "It's as yet crude and sort of ridiculous inside," he says. "It's sort of terrible yet it's about the finished result in the photograph."

Right now, nailed down the turkey's skin so it wouldn't tear in the stove. She lined the container and stuffed the flying creature with a water-splashed paper towel so it would steam rather than turn fresh. To accomplish that dark colored, shimmering look, she brushed the turkey with a blend of water, Kitchen Bouquet and dish cleanser.

Frozen yogurt or whipped cream: shortening, corn syrup and icing

Icing in addition to icing sugar makes an amazing looking frozen yogurt. Photo: Photo by Beth Galton. Correcting by Ashlee Gray. Nourishment styling by Charlotte Omnès

On the off chance that frozen yogurt were a human model, she would be a diva. The pastry is difficult to form, and in case you're not styling in a refrigerated space, dissolves rapidly. To stay away from the cerebral pain, specialists regularly go to different fixings. To make the "dessert" on the left, Omnès blended icing in with icing sugar (the cone on the privilege is the genuine article), yet the most well-known phony frozen yogurt formula is a mix of vegetable shortening, powdered sugar and corn syrup.

For other smooth sweets, beauticians have numerous hacks. For a dab of whipped cream, Omnès utilized a non-dairy half and half that "doesn't wither or sob". Kaufman lean towards Barbasol shaving cream yet takes note of: "The lady who erroneously attempted a chomp was not satisfied." For milkshakes, Stillman utilizes acrid cream since it's thick and simple to whirl.

Beverages: that chilly glass? It's splash on antiperspirant

cola glass

FacebookTwitterPinterest If your beverage does not have the correct sheen, simply shower some antiperspirant on it. Photo: Alamy

Notice

Beauticians don't squander genuine liquor except if the advertisement is for liquor. To make mixed drinks, Omnès blends nourishment shading in water, a stunt Kaufman additionally uses to make "chardonnay" from weakened Kitchen Bouquet. In truth, the fluid itself is the sideshow. "The most significant part about mixed drinks are the obvious signals," says Omnès – prompts, for example, ice, bubble, air pockets and foam. "They [make the drink] look invigorating."

For solidified beverages like margaritas and daiquiris, the masters depend on ice powder, bits of gelatin that resemble squashed ice when blended in with fluid. They additionally utilize counterfeit plastic or acrylic ice shapes, which don't liquefy under the hot camera lights and vaseline on the edge of margaritas. To make ice, Stillman covers a lager mug with splash on antiperspirant and utilizations a blend of Scotchguard and glycerin to make sodas look frigid cold with dabs of buildup. "What an issue it would be something else," says Stillman. "Along these lines, you can pick the degree of wetness on the glass."

Hot pasta: incense gives the presence of steam

That minute when steam ascends from pasta like fog over a mountain is difficult to catch normally on camera. Kaufman conceals a tin foil bundle of steam chips inside the pasta bowl and adds water to make fume. To get a similar impact, she has likewise lit incense and later evacuated the stick with Photoshop, while different stunts include a garments steamer or tobacco smoke. By a long shot the most fascinating technique is to microwave water-splashed tampons (cotton balls fill in also) and cover them behind a dish. "I have them in my unit in the event of some unforeseen issue," says Kaufman. Despite the system, she says steam ought to consistently be shot against a dim foundation.

[bellamyblcke]

Without the Dark We’d Never See the Stars

Pairing: Bella Swan/Edward Cullen, Bella Swan/Eleanor (Edythe) Cullen

Summary: "I’ve never had a boyfriend,” I said. “Why not?” Jess asked, curiously. “You’re freaking gorgeous, it’s a crime for you to be single.” “No one ever really asked." “People ask you here,” Jess said, “and you tell them no.”

in which Bella Swan is the lesbian we always knew she could be

Read on AO3

In seventh grade, Ian McPherson had told everyone on the playground that he wanted to die in a shark attack. He’d mimicked the chomp of the shark’s teeth and all the girls had screamed and closed their eyes. Emma Patterson had said that she wanted to die in her sleep, because it was the most peaceful way, and why anyone would want to die being mauled by a huge animal she didn’t know, and Stephanie Smith had said that her daddy had died of cancer and she was probably going to end up just like him.

But I had never given much thought to how I would die. And even if I had, I didn’t think I could have imagined this, the reflection of the long dark room in the mirrors, the gleam of the hunter’s eyes, the pound of my heart in my chest.

The hunter smiled.

I’m sorry, I thought, I’m so--

.

My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I said a silent goodbye to everything we passed -- the Costco down the street, my favorite coffee shop on the corner, the mountains on the horizon, the palm trees. I would miss Phoenix, the vigorous, sprawling city. I would miss the sun.

"Bella," my mom said. "You don't have to do this."

"I want to go," I said.

Her brow pulled in a little. The furrow didn’t look right on her face. She had a face for laughing.

“I love you," I said.

She hugged me tightly to her. She smelled like lemongrass and mint tea, like home.

“How am I going to manage without my girl?” she said.

.

It was raining when I landed in Port Angeles. Charlie was waiting for me outside the airport in the cruiser. He got out of the car when he saw me and gave me an awkward, one-armed hug.

“It’s good to see you, Bells,” he said, smiling. “You haven’t changed much.”

It was unclear whether this was a compliment or not.

“How’s Renee?” he said, trying again.

"Mom's fine,” I said.

It was odd to see him in the grey Washington light. He looked older and more tired than he had the last time I had seen him.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I said, after slightly too long had passed.

.

Charlie still lived in the two-bedroom house he’d bought with my mother, though I could barely imagine my mother living in it. She always reminded me of warm things, burning incense and cluttered knicknacks. Charlie’s house felt cold and ill-used, as though someone had just moved out, though it had been eighteen years since my mother had left him.

Parked outside the house was a truck. It was old and red and slightly rusty, but I could see myself in it. It felt worn in a way that appealed to me.

“A homecoming gift,” Charlie said. He wasn’t looking at me, staring out the window.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

He shrugged, embarrassed. “It was nothing.”

“Nah,” I said. “It was something.”

.

It only took one trip to get all my stuff to my room. It had been five years since I had been to Forks, but the room -- the faded blue paint, the lacy yellow curtains, the rickety metal bed -- felt like my childhood.

Made it here safe, I texted my mother. Already miss you.

She responded immediately, and I knew she had probably been waiting by her phone.

Love you, love you, love you, she sent.

It made me feel tired, like just curling up on the bed and going to sleep. But I knew I would regret not unpacking in the morning, so I started pulling clothes from my bags. It calmed me to have some of my stuff in the space. Shirts in the worn, wooden dresser, a picture of Renee and I last summer on the desk in the corner, a pile of books on the small, childish bookshelf.

I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. I told myself it was the constant patter of the rain on the windowsill.

.

I woke to a sky full of mist. It felt as if the sky was caging me in.

After Charlie left for work, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three mismatched chairs and examined his small kitchen. Nothing had changed -- the dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor were all as they’d always been.  My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago. I sat there for a long time, but eventually, I had to go.

Forks High School was waiting.

.

"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?"  The speaker was a stocky boy with blonde hair carefully gelled into spikes.

"Bella," I corrected.

"Where's your next class?" he asked.

"Um, Government? With Jefferson, I think."

"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way.”

Everyone was staring at me.

"I'm Mike," he added.

I smiled tentatively. "Thanks."

We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up.

"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" he asked.

"Very." He was walking too close to me. I wondered if there was a way to politely put some distance between us.

"It doesn't rain much there, does it?" he asked.

"Ha, no,” I said.

"Wow, what must that be like?" he wondered.

I raised an eyebrow. "Sunny," I told him.

.

I feel like a bug in a spyglass, I texted Renee.

I clicked my phone shut after I had sent it and when I looked up I saw them.

They didn’t look similar, and yet they felt different than all the other students there. There was a strange stillness to them that felt far removed from the rest of the crowded cafeteria. I thought, sort of vaguely, that if they were in a movie, the frame would slow when it reached them. They looked like people the camera would want to linger on. They were all beautiful, that was part of it, but it was something more than just beauty. They were other in a way that was marked.

"Who are they?" I asked.

“Those are the Cullens,” the girl next to me said. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. All the boys are taken.”

.

When I entered the biology classroom, all of the lab tables were filled but one.

One of the Cullens, red haired and intimidatingly gorgeous, was sitting next to the only available seat.

I kept my eyes on her as I went to introduce myself to the teacher. She didn’t look up when I sat down. Instead, she was staring out the window, her hand gripping the desk so hard that I could see the tendons of her arm.  

Halfway through the class though, I paused in my note taking and looked over to find her staring at me. Her pupils were blown so wide that I couldn’t tell where they ended.

The instant the bell rang, she was gone from her seat, swinging her bag over her shoulder with a fluid motion. She was taller than I would have expected, almost like a dancer, and it was only a moment before she was out the door.

.

"So, did you stab Eleanor Cullen with a pencil or what? She looked terrified of you."

"The girl I was sitting next to?" I asked.

"Yeah," Mike said.

"I don't know," I said. "I didn’t even speak to her."

.

“I’m sorry, hon,” the receptionist said. Eleanor Cullen was standing at the front desk when I entered. I stopped where I stood. She seemed too tall and bright to exist in the drab office. “I just don’t think we can switch you,” she continued. “All of the classes are full.”

The door opened again, cold wind blowing my hair around my face. Eleanor turned at the sound of the bell.

For a moment, she met my gaze.

"Never mind. Thank you," she said, and then without looking at me again turned out the door.

When I got to my truck, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed like a haven, already the closest thing to home I had in this damp green hole. I sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshield blankly. But soon I was cold enough to need the heater, so I turned the key and the engine roared to life.

.

The next day was both better and worse.

It was better because it wasn’t raining, and because I now knew what to expect. Mike sat next to me in English and walked with me to my next class. He smiled a lot.  People didn’t stare at me as much, for which I was grateful. I sat with Mike, Eric, Jessica and several other people who seemed almost familiar to me at lunch, and I wasn’t drowning.

It was worse because I was tired. The wind in the eaves of the house kept me awake throughout the night, and I felt as if I was walking through my day in a haze. It was worse because Mr. Varner called on me in Trig when my hand wasn't raised and I had the wrong answer. It was worse because I had to play volleyball, and the one time I didn't cringe from the ball, I hit my teammate in the head with it.

And it was worse because Eleanor Cullen wasn't in school.

.

The Thriftway wasn’t far, just a few streets south of the highway. It was nice to be inside the supermarket. The linoleum floors, the long rows stacked high with cereal and peanut butter and tortillas, the wandering middle-aged women, it all felt normal.

When I got home, I unloaded all the groceries, taking my time to set a place in the cupboards for each item. The barrenness of Charlie’s cupboards was almost sad. It felt good to fill them.

“You’re cooking?” Charlie asked.

I turned around to find him standing in the doorway. He’d taken his boots off and there was something jarring about seeing his bare feet.

“Steak and potatoes,” I said.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“Your cabinets were empty, Dad.”

“Right,” he said. “I’ll go to the store tomorrow.”

“I went today.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“I didn’t mind.”

.

That night it was finally quiet. I fell asleep quickly, exhausted.

.

“So, did something happen with you and Eleanor Cullen?" Jessica asked. “Because she’s staring at you.”

Eleanor was finally back in school and I was trying to pretend as if I didn’t think it was a big deal.

"I don't think she likes me," I said.

Jessica just shrugged. "The Cullens don't like anybody. Well, they don't generally notice anybody enough to like them."

"Stop looking at them," I said.

She laughed.

“Calm down, Bella,” she said. “I don’t think your social standing rests on what Eleanor Cullen thinks of you. No one listens to them anyway.”

.

"Eleanor, didn’t you think Bella should have a chance at the microscope?” Mr. Banner said.

I flushed a dark red, but Eleanor just laughed. “Bella identified three of the five.”

"Well," he said after a moment, "I guess it's good you two are lab partners."

After he left, I began doodling on my notebook, drawing spirals on the cover.

"It's too bad about the snow, isn't it?" Eleanor asked.

"Not really," I said. I couldn’t believe I was talking to her.

"You don't like the cold?" Her head was tilted to the side and her hair fell in a wet tumble over her shoulder.  

"Or the wet,” I said.

“Forks must be a difficult place for you to live," she mused. She was staring at me. Most people, I realized, didn’t actually look at you that often.

"You have no idea," I said.

.

"Eleanor seemed friendly enough today," Mike commented as we shrugged into our raincoats. “What’d you do to charm the ice bitch?”

“She’s not a bitch,” I said automatically.

.

When I opened my eyes in the morning, there was no fog veiling my window. Instead, a fine layer of snow covered the yard, dusting the top of my truck and whitening the road. The needles on the trees spread in dripping icicles. It took every ounce of my concentration to make it down the icy brick driveway. I almost lost my balance when I finally got to the truck, but I managed to cling to the side mirror.

Things I needed not to think about:

Breaking my neck on an ice slick

a problem I would not have if I was safe back in Phoenix

Eleanor Cullen

or her stupid, gorgeous hair

My truck seemed to have no problem with the black ice that covered the roads and when I got out at school, I saw why. Something silver caught my eye, and I walked to the back of the truck — carefully holding the side for support — to examine my tires. There were thin chains crisscrossed in diamond shapes around them. Charlie had gotten up who knows how early to put snow chains on my truck.

I was standing by the back corner of the truck, when I heard a high-pitched screech. I looked up, startled, and saw several things simultaneously:

A sea of faces all frozen in the same mask of shock.

Eleanor Cullen, four cars down, staring at me, a streak of red hair across her face.

A dark blue van, skidding, tires locked and squealing against the brakes, spinning across the ice.

I didn’t even have time to close my eyes.

.

"Bella? Are you alright?"

Eleanor’s face in close up. The sharp angle of her nose. The warm gold of her eyes.

"I'm fine,” I said.

.

When she pulled away from me I saw that there were dents in the side of the car in the shape of her hands, as if she had pushed the van off me herself. Little Eleanor, smaller than I was, almost birdlike in her delicacy. But still, there they were, those dents, impossible to unsee.

.

They brought me to the ER, a long room with a line of beds separated by pastel-patterned curtains. In a town this small on a Tuesday afternoon, it was mainly deserted. It was just Eleanor and I in our section of the room, her leaning against the side of one of the beds, tapping out a message on her phone, looking far too put together, and me wearing my neck brace, watching her anxiously.

“Eleanor,” I said. “Can I talk to you?”

Eleanor looked up from her phone.The screen made her seem almost ghostlike, washing her pale features in blue light. "Your father is waiting," she said.

"You owe me an explanation," I said.

"What do you want from me, Bella?" she asked. Her hair was very red in the bland room, her eyes very dark.

"I want to know the truth," I said.

She had that look in her eyes again, the scared look. She was silent for a long time. “You should let this go,” she said. “For your own good.”

And then she was gone, turning from me before I could say anything more.

.

It was dark. Ahead of me, a figure was waiting. I couldn’t see her face, just the pallor of her skin and the bright red of her hair.

“Eleanor!” I called, but she wouldn’t turn.

I started running, but I felt as if I was moving in slow motion and however fast I ran, I could never catch her.

Troubled, I woke in the middle of the night, breathing hard. I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time after.

.

And so time passed.

.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Jessica asked for the tenth time “You weren’t planning on asking him?”

“No, Jess, I don’t even think I’m going,” I said.

The Sadie Hawkins dance was next Saturday and it was all anyone could talk about.

“Come on, Bella,” Jess said. “It will be fun. You don’t even have to go with a date if you don’t want. Though there are like ten million boys who would die to go with you. Ask Erik, or Tyler.”

I tried to think of a polite way to say that I had zero interest in either Erik or Tyler.

“Have fun with Mike,” I said. “Really, I’m good though.”

.

Mike was quiet when he walked with me to class, and he didn’t broach the subject until I was in my seat and he was perched atop my desk.

"So," Mike said, looking at the floor, "Jessica asked me to the spring dance."

"That's great,” I said.

"Well…" he said, examining me closely. "I told her I had to think about it."

"Oh,” I said. “Why?”

Mike was turning red.

“I was wondering if… well if you might be planning to ask me.”

I could tell Eleanor, seated next to me, was listening.

“Mike,” I said. “I think you should tell her yes.”

.

“Bella?” Eleanor’s voice should not have been familiar to me.

I turned.

She just looked at me. She hadn’t talked to me since the incident with the truck, weeks before.

“What? Are you speaking to me again?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But it's better this way, really."

“Why?” I asked. It came out more vulnerable than I intended.

“It’s just,” she paused, frustrated. “It’s better if we’re not friends. Trust me.”

I thought about her eyes when she’s saved me, how they’d been warm and soft, and how quickly they’d hardened.

“It’s too bad you didn’t figure that out earlier. You could have saved yourself all this regret.”

“You think I regret saving your life?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Bella,” she said, softly.

“I know you do,” I said.

“You don’t know anything,” she said.

.

Charlie seemed suspicious when he came home that night and smelled green peppers. I couldn't blame him — the closest edible Mexican food was probably in southern California. But he was a cop, so he was brave enough to take the first bite.

"Dad?" I asked when he was almost done. We so rarely spoke, Charlie and I.

"Yeah?" he said, looking up.

“It’s cool if I go up to Seattle next week, right?”

"Will you be back in time for the dance?"

Only in a town this small would a father know when the school dances were.

"I don't really dance, Dad,” I said.

I didn’t get my dancing feet from my mother, so he just nodded.

.

When I got to school the next morning, Eleanor Cullen was leaning against the side of my truck.

“I thought you were supposed to be pretending I didn’t exist,” I said.

“I wasn’t pretending you didn’t exist,” Eleanor said.

“So are you trying to irritate me to death then? Since Tyler’s van didn’t do the job.”

I was never like this, hot and cold, and worked up over nothing.

“I’m going to class,” I said, turning and walking away. But she followed right beside me.

She looked amused. “Do you want a ride?”

“What?” I said.

“To Seattle. I heard you say you were going.”

“With who?” I said.

“With me, of course,” she said.

.

“Jess,” I said, coming up to her as I entered the lunchroom, grabbing her elbow. “You’ll never believe what happened to me this morning, like it was so fuck--”

“Bella?”

I turned and saw that Eleanor was standing right behind me, holding a lunch tray, and looking almost… nervous?

“Umm, hold on one sec,” I said, releasing Jess.

“Do you want to eat?” Eleanor asked.

“Um, yeah,” I said. “Yeah I do.”

“Bella,” Jess called. “Are you ditching us?” But Eleanor was already leading me across the cafeteria. I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination or if everyone was actually staring.

"So,” I said once we were seated. “This is different.”

She laughed.

“I decided if I was going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly,” she said.

I shifted, uncomfortable.

“I think your friends are angry at me for stealing you,” she said, after a long moment had passed.

“They’ll survive,” I said.

“I may not give you back,” she said.

.

The next day, she was waiting for me outside my Trig class.

“Lunch?” she asked and I nodded.

She  lead me outside. The air was heavy, but it wasn’t raining.

“If you were smart, you’d stay away from me,” she said.

Her hair was bright against the green of the lawn.

“And if I’m not?”  I asked.

“Well then, I guess we’ll see,” she said.

.

We’d sat together every day that week. It was a routine that felt too easy to grow comfortable in.

I concentrated on unscrewing the lid to my lemonade. I took a swig, staring at the table without seeing.

“Your boyfriend looks like he wants to fight me,” she said.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I said, though if I had one guess I’d bet Mike was glaring. “But I’m sure you’re wrong,” I added.

“I’m not,” she said, looking amused. “Most people are easy read.”

.

Mike put his arm around my waist and pulled mine over his shoulder. I leaned against him heavily. When we were around the edge of the cafeteria, I stopped, and he helped me to sit at the edge of the walk. I felt dizzy and a little nauseous. At least I hadn’t eaten at lunch, too anxious from Eleanor’s proximity. If this kept going, I was going to lose a lot of weight.

“Wow, you’re looking kinda green,” Mike said.

“Bella?” a voice called from a distance. “What’s wrong -- is she hurt?”

Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.

“I think she fainted. I don’t really know, I mean she was fine and then she--”

“Bella,” Eleanor’s voice was right beside me. “Can you hear me?”

“No,” I said.

“We were doing blood typing in biology,” Mike said, from somewhere behind me.

“You faint at the sight of blood?” Eleanor asked, her voice right in my ear. “How ironic.”

I groaned.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll drive you home.”

.

Eleanor’s car was the fanciest in the parking lot, a bright silver Volvo. She drove so fast the world outside was just a blur. The sound of her music, soft and muted, the smell of her in the rain, the reflection of her in the door window.

“Do you think I could be scary?” she asked once we were parked outside my house. The light in the car was dim.

“I think you could be, if you wanted,” I said, honestly.

"Are you frightened of me now?" she said. My stomach twisted in my chest.

“No,” I said, but my voice came out low and throaty.

“Maybe you should be,” she said.

.

Friday, we were back at our same table. I thought I would have gotten used to her presence, but I hadn’t. It felt like the longer I was around her, the worse it got.

“Have fun at the beach, tomorrow,” she said. Mike had been planning the trip for weeks. Eleanor was looking out the window at the pouring rain. I wanted her to look at me again. “Good weather for sunbathing.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No,” she said. “I’m going out of town.”

“Doing what?”

“Hiking,” she said.

She didn’t strike me as the outdoorsy type. “Hiking where?”

“Goat Rocks,” she said, turning back to look at me. “It’s supposed to beautiful.”

.

"Do you know a place called Goat Rocks or something?” I asked Charlie that night. “I think it's south of Mount Rainier.”

"Yeah,” he said. “Why?"

I shrugged. "Some kids were talking about hiking there."

"It's not a very good place for hiking." He sounded surprised. "Too many bears.”

"Oh," I said. I tried to imagine Eleanor standing next to a bear in her expensive jeans and gauzy blouses. "Maybe I got the name wrong."

.

I woke to sunlight. Clouds ringed the horizon and the sun hung too low, but there was blue in the sky. I lingered by the window as long as I could, afraid if I left it would disappear.

The Newton’s Olympic Outfitters store was just north of town. A group of kids stood next to a rundown Suburban. I pulled in next to them and Mike came up to greet me.

“You came!” he  called, delighted. “I told you it was going to be sunny.”

I was really going to have to find a way to let him down easy.

“I told you I was coming,” I said.

"Will you ride in my car?"

"Sure,” I said.

He smiled blissfully. It was easy to make Mike happy.

.

"Have you ever seen a driftwood fire?" Mike asked me.

When I was a child, I used to come down to First Beach with Charlie. It was beautiful: the water a dark gray, white-capped and heaving, the cliffs, uneven summits crowned with soaring firs, the stones lining the beach a multicolored array, terra-cotta and sea green, lavender and blue gray, the driftwood trees bleached bone white, the brisk wind coming off the wave.  

"No," I said as he placed the blazing twig carefully against the teepee of wood.

"You'll like this then."

He lit another small branch and laid it alongside the first. The flames started to lick quickly up, a swirl of blue and green.

.

“You’re Isabella Swan, right?”

I looked up and saw a boy standing over me. He was very tall, and pretty in a way that boys seldom were, all finely drawn cheekbones and long, glossy black hair.

“Bella,” I said.

“Jacob. Black.” He held out his hand. “You bought my dad’s truck.”

.

The flames were intoxicating to watch and the beer had loosened everyone, so that we were all sprawled and lazy around the fire ring. Jacob’s arm had found its way around my shoulder and I leaned into him. He smelled like fire and boy.

“So you build cars?” I asked.

His eyes were dark, not dark the way that Eleanor’s war, inhuman and mysterious, but warm and kind.

“When I have the parts,” he said. “You wouldn’t know where to find a Volkswagen Rabbit master cylinder, would you?”

I laughed. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“Bella.” Lauren, one of Jessica’s friends, blonde and so straight it hurt, stumbled towards me. “I was just saying to Tyler that it was too bad that none of the Cullens could come. You’re friends with Eleanor, right?” Jessica had told me, in confidence, that Lauren had always had a bit of a thing for Emmett, Eleanor’s tall and brawny brother.

One of the older boys seated across from us looked up at that. “Dr. Carlisle Cullen’s family?” he asked.

She turned towards him, swaying. “Do you know them?” I put a hand out to steady her.

“They don’t come here,” the boy said in a way that closed the subject.

.

It was cold by the waves, and I stuck my hands in my jacket.

“What was that boy back there saying about the Cullens?” I asked Jacob.

“Oh, well, do you like scary stories?” Jacob asked. His voice was husky.

“Yeah,” I said. The dents in the car. The way that Eleanor’s eyes always seemed a different color: black and ocher and pale yellow. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, in the old Quileute legends people claimed that we were descended from wolves and that wolves are our brothers still. It’s against tribal law to kill them.”

“Okay,” I said, drawing out the vowel.

“And there are stories about the cold ones, the natural born enemy of the wolf.”

“The cold ones?” I asked.

“Your people call them vampires,” he said.

.

The green light of the forest. The crashing of waves in the distance. Jacob Black, tugging on my hand, pulling me towards the blackest part of the forest.

“Jacob? What’s wrong?”

His face was frightened. “Run, Bella, you have to run.”

A voice in the distance, calling my name.

"Why?" I asked.

Jacob let go of my hand, shaking, falling to the dim forest floor.

I screamed his name, but he was gone, and in his place was a giant, red-brown wolf.

A light came from the beach and Eleanor stepped out from between the trees.

“Trust me,” she said. “Bella, trust me.”

.

I pulled out my laptop, curling up on my bed, and typed in one word: vampire.

I closed the laptop.

And then I opened it up again.

.

“I never noticed before, your hair has red in it,” Mike said, catching a strand between his fingers.

“Only in the sun,” I said, as he tucked it behind my ear.

“Great day, isn’t it?” he said.

“My kind of day,” I agreed, looking out across the parking lot.

.

That day, the first school day since I had come to Forks that it had been sunny, none of the Cullens came to school. I tried not to draw conclusions.

.

I found a quilt in the linen cupboard and a tattered collection of Jane Austen and went out into the backyard to soak up the sun. Part way through I stopped. I couldn’t focus on anything but Eleanor. I rolled onto my back. I would think of nothing but the sun on my skin, I told myself. I focused on each part of my body it touched, the tips of my eyelashes, the edge of my elbow, and soon found myself asleep.

.

“So, I’m thinking date two will be the first kiss date,” Jessica said. “With Mike I mean. Obviously.”

The radio blared a whiny rock song.

“But like I think it was good that we didn’t kiss on the first date, it means it's more about like a more emotional connection, don’t you think?”

“You’re so dramatic, Jess,” Angela said.

I laughed.

“Coming from the girl who hasn’t had a crush on anyone in like five ever,” Jess retorted. “Like what even is your type?”

Angela looked uncomfortable.

I was still awkward and clumsy with these sort of girl friendships. “Umm,” I said. “What exactly are we looking for with these dresses?”

Jess turned to me and Angela shot me a grateful look. “It’s semiformal,” she said. “Whatever the fuck that means.”

.

The mall in Port Angeles was a dismal place, the sort of liminal space that always disoriented me, all white tiled floors and strange mirrors.

“What are these dances even like?” I said, as we strolled the racks full of dresses.

“You’ve never been to one?” Angela asked, holding up a particularly abysmal sequined thing.

“Didn’t you ever go with a boyfriend or something?” Jess asked.

I laughed. “Umm no. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“Why not?” Jess asked, curiously. “You’re freaking gorgeous, it’s a crime for you to be single.”

“No one ever really asked,” I said.

“People ask you here,” Jess said, “and you tell them no.”

.

After the dress shopping, I went off in search of a bookstore. The girl’s night high had faded and I wanted some time to myself.

It was getting dark, the clouds finally returning. I found that I’d wandered past the part of Port Angeles that I was intended to see. I’d left my jacket in the car, and a sudden shiver made me cross my arms tightly across my chest. A single van passed me, and then the road was empty.

“Hey there, baby. Aren’t you looking fine tonight.”

There was a group of men lounging against the side of the building. As I turned to them one of them pushed off the side, walking towards me. I stepped backwards, wondering if I should run, though I’d never been particularly fast. Soon, he was almost upon me.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing,” he said. His eyes were hungry.

I slipped my purse over my head, gripping the strap with one hand. Heel of the hand thrust upward. Finger through the eye socket. Knee to the groin.

Headlights suddenly flew down the street. A silver car barreled down the street before fishtailing around and skidding to a stop in front of me.

“Bella, get in.”

I got in.

.

Eleanor was intensely focused on the road, taking turns at a speed that was dizzying.

“Eleanor, are you alright?” I asked, surprised at how hoarse my voice sounded.

“Not really,” she said.

The car came to a stop. It was too dark to see anything beside the vague outline of dark trees along the roadside. We weren’t in town anymore.

“Bella?” she said.

It was like a shock to the system to be around her again. It had only been five days, but it had felt longer. Like an eternity.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?” she had turned her attention to me and I was surprised at the emotion I saw on her face, as if she had been scraped raw, as if she was as frightened as I was.

"Yes,” I said.

“Could you just…,” she stopped for a second, closing her eyes. “Distract me. Please.”

“What?” I said.

She was very close to me and I could smell the scent of her hair, feel her breath on my face. How was it that moments before I had been standing, clutching my purse, ready to defend myself?

“Distract me,” she said.

And then I was leaning up and kissing her.

.

My phone rang and I pulled back from her. Her eyes were black, her pupils blown wide. She looked as windblown and shocked as I felt.

“Hello?” I said.

“Bella, we’ve been calling, but your phone’s gone straight to voicemail. Where are you?”

“Shit, Jess, I’m sorry. It’s complicated.” I was very conscious of Eleanor right beside me, the shift of her leg, the way the AC ruffled her hair, almost touching my arm. “I’ll be there soon and I’ll explain, okay?”

“You better,” she said.

“I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up and turned back to Eleanor. She started the car without saying anything and soon we were speeding back towards town.

She turned towards the restaurant before I said anything.

It felt, suddenly, like there was a chasm between us.

Jessica descended on me as soon as we pulled up.

“Explain,” she said, and then she caught sight of Eleanor. Her gaze was shrewd.

“Would you mind if I joined you?” Eleanor asked.

“Um, actually, Bella, we already ate while we were waiting,” Angela said.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s fine. I’m not even really hungry.”

“You should probably eat something,” Eleanor said. “I can drive you home.”

I turned to look at her, but her expression was unreadable.

“Okay,” I said. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

.

“You should drink,” Eleanor said. “Sugar will be good for you.”

I sipped my soda obediently, and then drank more deeply, surprised at how thirsty I was. I finished the whole thing and she pushed hers towards me.

“Are you cold?”

“It’s just the Coke,” I said.

“Here,” she said, shrugging out of her jacket.  

It was cold, the way my jacket felt when I first picked it up in the morning, and smelled like her perfume, floral and sharp.

“That color looks nice with your skin,” she said, pushing the bread basket toward me.

“I’m not going into shock,” I said.

“You should be,” she said. “But you don’t even look shaken.”

“I feel safe with you.”

Her brow furrowed.

“You shouldn’t.”

.

Eleanor held the passenger door open for me. The wash of streetlamps played prettily off the planes of her face. She was so beautiful it almost hurt.

I thought of the wikipedia page I’d read on vampires, and felt ridiculously silly, yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the dents, the missing days, the way she seemed so other, so different from anyone I had ever met.

“Saturday at the beach, I ran into an old family friend,” I said once we were seated in the car, speeding along the highway. She turned to look at me. “We went for a walk and he was telling me some of the old Quileute legends,” I continued. I was watching her face in the reflection on the windshield, I saw how she stilled. “About vampires.”

“And you thought of me,” she said.

.

It was late. We’d been sitting in the car outside my driveway for a long time.

“Why don’t you drink human blood?” I asked.

She was holding my hand and I felt more aware of that than our conversation: the smoothness of her skin, the slow drag of her thumb across the back of my hand.

“I don’t want to be a monster,” she said.

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” I said, softly.

She was quiet for a long time, and when I looked over at her I saw that her expression was pained.

“Bella,” she said, softly. “This is so wrong.”

I pulled my hand out of hers.

.

Charlie was in the living room when I came in.

“Bella?” he asked.

“Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

He was sitting watching the baseball game but he muted it when I came in. “Did you have fun?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. The girls’ night out seemed very far away. “They both found dresses.”

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m just tired,” I said. And it wasn’t until I was in the shower -- the water too hot, burning my skin -- that I realized I was freezing too.

I stood in the shower until the hot water ran out.

.

“I want to know what you’re thinking.”

Eleanor was wearing a light knit t-shirt today that clung to her body in just the right ways.

“I always tell you what I’m thinking,” I said.

“You edit,” she said.

“Not much.”

She hummed. “Enough,” she said.

“You wouldn’t want to hear it,” I said.

“I would,” she said, her gaze heavy on my face. “I want to hear everything you think.”

.

“She’s going to ambush you in class,” Eleanor said. Her eyes were on Jessica as she walked away from us.

I shrugged out of her jacket and handed it to her.

“So,” she said. “Come on, tell me. What are you going to say?”

“What do you think she wants to know?

“She probably wants to know if we’re dating or not,” she said.

I couldn’t read her expression.

“What should I say?” I asked.

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I suppose you could say yes,” she said. “If you wanted.”

.

“So like was it a date?” Jessica asked when I sat down in Trig.

Here goes nothing. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I think it was.”

.

Walking into the cafeteria hand in hand with Eleanor Cullen was a lot like my first day here: everyone stared.

“Jessica’s analyzing my every move,” she said. “She’ll break it down for you later.”

“I’m sure she will,” I said.

She leaned closer to me. “Should we make it interesting for her?”

.

“So, you and Eleanor, huh?” Mike asked me during gym.

I winced. I really didn’t want to start disliking Mike.

“What about it?” I said.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“You don’t have to,” I snapped.

.

A group of boys were surrounding the car next to Eleanor’s, a shiny, red thing (“Ostentatious,” Eleanor mumbled when we passed.)  They turned to stare as we passed. I wanted to duck out from under her arm. I didn’t like the way that their gazes lingered.

.

That night, I dreamed of Eleanor. I woke in the morning restless and wanting.

.

“About this Saturday,” Charlie said, turning on the faucet.

“Hmmm,” I said, noncommittally.

“Are you still set on going to Seattle?” he said.

“That was the plan,” I said. Eleanor had said she had a surprise for me.

He began to wash the plate slowly, not looking at me, “You’re sure you can't make it back for the dance?”

I winced. “I’m not going to the dance, Dad.”

“Didn’t anyone ask you?” he asked.

“It was girl’s choice.”

“Oh.” He frowned as he dried his plate.

I felt a wave of sympathy for him. It couldn’t have been easy, being a father.

.

That Friday, Eleanor was at my door bright and early. I wondered if her driving me to school was going to become a thing, if that was what girlfriends did. I didn’t have enough experience to know. Still, I followed her out to the parking lot after school, let her take my hand over the gearshift.

We sat outside my house for a long time, but we didn’t go in.

“It’s twilight,” she said, softly.

She was watching the horizon though the windshield, even obscured as it was with clouds. Suddenly, her eyes shifted to me. “It’s the safest time of day for us,” she told me. “When day becomes night.”

I didn’t like the way that melancholy had stolen into the car, the easiness between us vanishing with the light.

“I like the night,” I said, softly.

“You don’t find it sad?” she said, and I wondered then, in a way I hadn’t really before, how old she really was.

“Without the dark, we’d never see the stars,” I said.

She hummed. “Charlie will be here soon,” she said.

.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Charlie said. Billy and Jacob Black were standing in our doorway. Charlie’s house wasn’t really made for visitors and the entryway felt small and cramped.

“I hope this isn’t a bad time,” Billy said.

“No, it’s great,” I said. “I’m sure Charlie would like some actual sports fans for the game.”

“I think that’s the plan,” Jacob said, grinning. “Our TV broke last week.”

“Yes, well, and Jacob was anxious to see Bella again,” Billy said.

.

“Is something wrong with your truck?” Jacob asked, sitting at the kitchen table and watching me.

“No,” I said. “Why?”

“Oh, it’s just that you weren’t driving it, I wondered.”

“I got a ride,” I said, running the knife slowly through the tomato.

“I didn’t recognize your friend,” he said. “Which is saying something for Forks.”

“Oh, well,” I said.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Jacob, could you hand me some plates?”

“You’re evading.”

“It was Eleanor Cullen,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the sandwiches.

Jacob just laughed. “I was wondering why my dad was acting so weird.”

“Right, because of the vampire thing,” I said. “You don’t think he’d say anything to Charlie though, right?”

Jacob looked at me oddly. “No, I don’t think so, why?

“No reason,” I said. “Have a sandwich.”

“You’re strange, Bella Swan,” he said, taking the grilled cheese. “But I like it.”

.

“How was your day?” Charlie asked. He washed the dishes as I watched from the doorway.

“Good,” I said. “My badminton team won all four games.”

“I didn’t know you could play badminton.”

“Oh, I can’t,” I said.

“Who was your partner?”

“Mike Newton?”

He looked way too happy at this news.

“Why didn’t you ask him to the dance?” he asked.

“Dad!” I said.

“What?”

“He’s dating my friend Jessica,” I said.

He frowned. “Well, I’ve made plans to go fishing with some guys from the station on Saturday, but if you wanted someone to go with you on your trip, I’d cancel.” He paused. “I know I leave you here alone too much.”

There was something in the still way he said it that deeply saddened me. I’d never felt close to Charlie like I did with Renee, but I knew that he tried hard, and that he loved me, in his quiet kind of way.

“I don’t mind being alone, Dad,” I said. “It’s okay.”

I touched his hand, sud rinsed and wrinkled. It was awkward, a not quite perfect fit, but his answering smile was worth it.

.

At lunch the next day, I could feel the eyes of the Cullen siblings on me. I played with the stem of my apple.

“Alice is the most supportive,” Eleanor told me.

“And the others?” I asked. “What are they?”

“Incredulous, for the most part,” she said.

.

“Have fun in Seattle tomorrow,” Mike said.

I wondered if I was imagining the bitter expression. I told him I wasn’t going.

“Oh,” he said. “So are you going to the dance then? With Eleanor?”

“No,” I said. “I have to study for the Trig test.”

“Oh,” he said. “Studying, I get it.”

“Mind out of the gutter, Newton. Just studying.”

“Well, you know you could come to the dance with our group anyway. We’d all dance with you.” He looked hopeful.

.

“I think your boyfriend has a lesbian kink,” I told Jessica.

“Ew,” she said, linking arms with me.

“He was way too into the idea of me ‘studying’ with Eleanor.”

“You guys are hot,” she said. “I can’t really blame the guy.”

“Jessica!”

“What?” she asked.

.

After dinner, I folded clothes and moved another load through the dryer. Unfortunately, it was the kind of job that only kept my hands busy.

Eventually though I could find nothing else to occupy myself. I put in my earbuds and played Chopin till I couldn’t think anymore.

.

I woke early, dressing in a rush, smoothing the collar of my shirt against my neck, fidgeting with the part of my hair. Charlie was already gone, and the sky had only a thin layer of clouds. I ate breakfast without tasting anything. I had just brushed my teeth when I heard the knock on the door.

Eleanor burst into laughter as soon as she saw me.

“What’s wrong?” I said. I glanced down to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything important, like shoes, or pants.

“We match,” she said.

I laughed too. “I guess the stereotypes are true.”

She looked criminally good in flannel. She looked criminally good in everything.

“Where are we going, girlfriend?” I asked. The word gave me a sudden burst of pleasure.

“We, girlfriend,” she said, slinging an arm over my shoulder. “Are going hiking.”

.

“This way,” she said, glancing at me over her shoulder.

She started into the dark forest.

“Ummm, the trail is that way,” I said.

She grinned. “I said there was a trail, not that we were taking it.” She must have seen the panic on my face. “I promise we won’t get lost.”

She turned then and I had to stifle a gasp. Eleanor was prone to wearing layers. Like a lot of layers. Eleanor in a tank top was a sight that I was quite unprepared for. The white skin of her throat, the soft swell of her chest, the way the tank clung to the curve of her waist.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” I said.

.

Eleanor in the sunlight was shocking, I couldn’t get used to it, though I’d been looking at her all afternoon. She didn’t look human. Her skin had a glow to it as if it was reflecting light instead of absorbing it.

“I don’t scare you?” Eleanor said. She was lying in the grass, her hair spread out in a halo. I liked the way it looked in the sun, copper and gold and red all mixed together.

“No more than usual,” I said.

.

I flexed my hand.

“You don’t mind?” I asked.

“No,” she said, closing her eyes. I trailed my hand over the muscles of her arm, following the faint pattern of bluish veins inside the crease of her elbow. “You can’t imagine how that feels,” she said.

I moved to turn her hand over. Realizing what I wanted, she flipped her hand with disconcerting speed.

“Sorry,” she said softly, when my fingers froze on her arm. “It’s too easy to be myself with you.”

.

“I love how you blush,” she said, stroking the side of my face.

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Not like you,” I said. I lifted my hand to her face. She closed her eyes and I stroked her eyelid, the hollow of her eye, her cheek, her perfect nose, the seam of her lip, parting under my thumb. Her eyes fluttered open and they were hungry. Something below my stomach tightened. I wanted to kiss her, could feel the thrum of need in my veins.

“I don’t know how to be close to you,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I can.”

“This is enough,” I said. “For now, this is enough.”

.

“What are you thinking?” she said.

I rolled on to my back, watching the clouds drift across the sky. It was warm enough that I could almost pretend I was back in Phoenix, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be anywhere but right here.

“I was wishing I could know what you were thinking,” I said.

“And?”

“And I was wishing that I could believe you were real.” I didn’t look at her. “And I was wishing that I wasn’t afraid.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid,” she said, softly.

It was quiet for a moment. I wanted to reassure her, but everything I had to say seemed feeble. Instead, I just took her hand.

“I hate this part of me,” she said, finally. “The part that hungers.”

Her hand tightened in mine till it was almost painful.

“I don’t hate any part of you,” I said.

She pulled me towards her. There was grass in my hair, but she was holding me.

She whispered something so softly that I couldn’t hear. I wondered, briefly, if she was praying.

“I’ll never hurt you,” she said. “I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you.”

.

She could drive well, when she kept the speed reasonable. Like so many things, it seemed to be almost effortless for her. She drove one-handed, holding my hand on the seat. Occasionally she would look over at me, my face, my hair blowing out the open window, our hands twined together. The radio was turned to an oldies station, and she sang along, soft and lilting, to a song I had never heard.

“You like fifties music?” I asked.

She hummed. “Music in the fifties was good. Much better than the sixties or seventies. The eighties were fun, but I liked the fifties best.”

She had been alive in the fifties. Not just alive, but exactly the same as she was now, seventeen and beautiful. It was a concept I couldn’t wrap my mind around.

.

She was so quiet beside me -- her feet making no sound on the dirt, her clothes no whisper -- that I had to check that she was still there. In the darkness, she seemed almost normal.

I took the key from the eaves, unlocking the door and letting us into the entryway, leading the way to the kitchen. She seemed to almost light up the room, leaning against the counter, the line of her legs, the spill of her red hair, the shine of her eyes. It was distracting. I focused on the task at hand, getting out last night’s lasagna, placing a square on a plate, heating it up in the microwave. It filled the kitchen with the smell of tomatoes and oregano.

The sound of tires startled me, the headlights flashing through the front windows.

“Should your father know I’m here?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

I waited too long. “Another time then,” she said, and then she was gone.

.

“It’s Saturday,” Charlie said. “You didn’t want to go out tonight?”

“No, Dad, I just wanted to get some sleep.”

“None of the boys in town your type, eh?”

I bit back a laugh. “No, none of the boys have caught my eye yet.”

.

“It… seems to be easier for you,” I said. It was criminal for Eleanor to look so good on my bed, like she belonged there. “Being close to me.”

“Does it?” she said. Her nose on on the corner of my jaw, her hand in my hair, her lips against the hollow of my ear.

“Much,” I said, breathless.

Her fingers were slowly tracing my collarbone. “Why do you think that is?” I asked. I never wanted her to stop touching me.

I could feel her laughter on my neck. “Mind over matter,” she said.

.

“You seem happy,” I said. We had been lying in bed for hours.

“Isn’t it supposed to be like this?” she said, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “The glory of first love?”

“It is,” I said.

“It’s all so intense,” she said.

“Hmmm,” I said.

“For example,” she said. “I thought I understood jealousy, but that day when Mike Newton asked you to the dance--”

I was surprised into laughter. “You were jealous of Mike Newton?”

“You had a queue of boys lined up!”

“I’m a lesbian.”

“Well, I didn’t know that then,” she said.

.

Eleanor hummed a song I didn’t recognize, an old-timey melody, melancholic and beautiful.

“That’s lovely,” I said.

“Do you want me to sing you to sleep?” she asked. She ran a hand gently through my hair, stroking it, and I moved closer, fitting myself into the curve of her neck.

“This okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “This is okay.” She continued to stroke my hair, the motion calm and soothing. I found myself growing tired.

“You won’t vanish in the morning?” I asked.

“I won’t leave you,” she promised.

It was quiet for a moment, but there was one more question I had, pressing on the forefront of my mind with her so close to me, but I didn’t know how to ask.

“Eleanor?”

“Yes?”

“Nevermind.”

.

“I think you should introduce me to your father,” Eleanor said.

I was pouring milk into my cereal bowl and I froze, the liquid sloshing onto the kitchen counter.

“He already knows you,” I said.

“As your girlfriend,” she said.

“Why?”

“Why won’t you tell him?” she countered.

I didn’t know how Charlie would react.

“I don’t know,” I said.

She sighed.

“I forget how young you are sometimes.”

“That’s not fair.” I pushed my cereal around the edges of my bowl.

“Are you going to tell him?” she said.

“I will,” I said. “Just, not yet, okay?”

“He’s going to need some explanation for why I’m around here so much.”

“Will you be?” I said. “Around?”

Her face softened. “As long as you want me.”

“I’ll always want you,” I said, reaching for her. She took my hand, and I pressed hers to my lips. I wanted to bring her closer and closer. I felt completely taken up, full to the bursting.

“Forever,” she said.

Her hand found its way into my hair and I leaned into it, feeling her fingers pressing into my scalp.

“Does that make you sad?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, just looked at me for a long time.

.

I realized, as she drove my truck out the main part of town, that I had no idea where she lived. We passed over the bridge at the Calawah River, the road winding northward, the houses flashing past us growing farther apart, getting bigger. And then we were past the other houses altogether, driving through misty forest. She turned abruptly on an unpaved road, barely visible through the ferns. The forest encroached on both sides, the road twisting serpentlike through the ancient trees. Finally, the trees thinned and I could see the house, timeless and graceful, the trees growing up around it as if it had always been there.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Not even a little bit,” I said, but I took her hand

.

“Not what you expected is it?” Eleanor asked.

“No,” I admitted.

“No coffins, no piled skulls, I don’t even think we have cobwebs.”

“It’s so light and open.”

She was quiet for a moment and when I turned back to her she looked serious. “It’s the one place we never have to hide,” she said.

.

Her room looked out upon the wide river, the large scope of the mountains.

“Sometimes, I feel as if one day, I’ll tell you something, and it will be too much, and you’ll run, screaming as you go.” Her smile was rueful.

“I hate to burst your bubble, but you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

She grinned. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

I started to speak, but before I could, she was on me, pressing me back against the couch, her arms like a trap around me. I didn’t even know how we had gotten from one end of the room to the other.

“You were saying?” she said, her hair in my face, her smile in close up.

“That you are a very, very terrifying monster,” I said.

“Much better,” she said, and then she was leaning down and kissing me. My hand wound into her hair, pulling her even closer to me. She made a soft sound when I bit down on her lip. I wanted to swallow it, to swallow her.

.

It was just beginning to drizzle when Eleanor turned onto my street.

There was a weathered Ford in our driveway and Jacob and Billy Black were on the front porch. Billy’s face was impassive.

“I’ll go talk with him,” Eleanor said, moving to get out of the truck.

“Just let me deal with it,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, closing the door. “I’ll be back around dusk.”

“You don’t have to go,” I said.

“Actually I do,” she said.

“Right,” I said.

“I’ll be back soon,” she said. Her eyes flickered back to the porch and then she leaned in swiftly to kiss me. I cupped her face, wanting to keep her there, but she let go quickly.

.

“You’ll want to put it in the fridge,” Billy said, handing me a paper bag.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Where is Charlie? Fishing again? Down at the usual spot?”

“No,” I said, though I was pretty sure he was.

“Jake,” Billy said. “Why don’t you go get that new picture of Rebecca out of the car? I’ll leave that for Charlie, too.”

“Where is it?” Jacob asked. He wouldn’t look at me.

“I think I saw it in the trunk,” Billy said.

Billy and I faced each other in silence. The quiet began to feel awkward. I shoved the bag into the fridge.

“Charlie won’t be back for awhile,” I said.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Bella,” he said, after a while, and then he hesitated. I waited. “Bella,” he said again, “Charlie is one of my best friends.”

“Yes,” I said.

“And I noticed you’ve been spending a lot of time Eleanor Cullen,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Maybe it’s none of my business, but I don’t think that is such a good idea.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “It is none of your business.”

“It’s not my business, but it might be Charlie’s.”

“I think it’s my business whether or not it’s his business,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “I suppose it is.”

.

My hands were shaking on the pan.

Just fucking do it, I told myself.

“What did you do with yourself today?” Charlie asked, once we were seated around the table.

My stomach felt hollow. “I went over to the Cullen’s house.”

“Why?” he asked. His mouth was full of fish.

“Well, I sort of have a date with Eleanor Cullen tonight, and she wanted to introduce me to her parents first.”

He took a drink from his glass. I watched him carefully. He was silent for a long time, not looking at me. I fiddled with the food on my plate.

“I thought you said you weren’t interested in anyone in town,” he said, finally. He looked sad and older than he normally did, the lines of his face turned downwards.

“I said I wasn’t interested in any of the boys in town.”

He frowned. “Does your mom know?” he asked.

“About Eleanor?” I said. “Not really, mentioned in passing, but not the dating thing, like specifically.”

“Bella,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, she knows.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.

I thought about Charlie, the look on his face when he’d thought I was dating Mike Newton and the quiet way he’d said “I know I leave you here alone too much”, his fishing dates and the way he seemed perpetually stuck in the past, a remnant of another time.

“I don’t know,” I said.

He stood up, his plate half empty and moved to the sink. “When is she coming over?” he asked.

“She’ll be here in a few minutes,” I said.

“Where is she taking you?” he asked. He was still staring out the window.

“We’re going to play baseball,” I said.

He chuckled, a low, bitter sound. “You must really like this girl.”

“I do,” I said. “I really do, Dad.”

.

The doorbell rang, and Charlie went to answer it. I followed, half a step behind him. It was pouring outside, and Eleanor stood in the halo of the porch light. She met my gaze.

“Come on in, Eleanor,” Charlie said.

“Thanks, Chief Swan,” Eleanor said.

“Charlie,” he said.

We stood there awkwardly for a moment.

“So,” he said. “I hear you’re getting my girl to play baseball.”

My girl.

“That’s the plan,” Eleanor said. .

“Well, don’t stay out too late,” Charlie said. I ran forward and hugged him, and he hugged me back, his arms strong around me.

“I’ll have her home early,” Eleanor said.

“You take care of my girl, all right?” Charlie asked, gruffly, over my shoulder.

“She’ll be safe with me, sir,” Eleanor said. “I promise.”

.

Eleanor leaned over to kiss the top of my head.

“You smell so good in the rain,” she said. There was hunger in her voice, a raw terrifying thing that sparked a surge of responding need in me, but when I looked over at her, she was looking out the window, her hand gripping the steering wheel tightly.

.

Her hands came to my face, almost roughly, and she pushed me hard against the side of the car. I was breathless, holding her to me tightly, molding myself into her, my lips parting against hers, our breath mixing.

She broke off after a moment, breathing heavily, her face raw. “You’re going to be the death of me,” she said.

“You’re already dead,” I pointed out.

She grinned, leaning forward and kissing me again. “Good point.”

.

“Do you not like to play?” I asked Esme, Eleanor’s sort of mother, as we walked down the edge of the field.

“Oh, no, I prefer to referee,” she said. “I like keeping them honest.”

“Do they cheat?”

“Oh yes,” she said, laughing. “You should hear the arguments they get into. Actually, I hope you don’t, you’d think they were raised by a pack of wolves.”

“You sound like my mom,” I said, laughing.

She hummed.

“I’m so happy that Eleanor’s found you.” She took my hand, and I let her. “She’s been alone for so long.”

“You don’t mind then?” I asked. “That I’m all wrong for her?”

Her eyes were soft, and kind. “You’re who she wants,” she said. “Everything else will work out, I promise.”

.

“What do you think?” Eleanor asked. Her hair was mussed on her head and there was a swipe of dirt across her cheek.

“I’ll never be able to sit through a Major League Baseball game again,” I said.

“And you did so much of that before,” she said. I liked this happy, carefree Eleanor, the one who had nothing to hide. She glanced back at the game. “I’m up,” she said, running back, but not before pecking my cheek and grinning.

.

Despite her teasing, I liked watching them play. It was almost impossible to keep track of the game, the speed with which it all took place, the crashing sound when they collided, like boulders falling, like thunder. The Cullens, to me, seemed now somehow both more normal, teasing each other and grinning like children, and yet so beyond extraordinary, themselves, truly, for the first time that I had seen.

Carlisle was up to bat, Eleanor catching, when Alice suddenly gasped, the ball tumbling from her hand. She and Eleanor made eye contact and then suddenly, before the others could even ask what was wrong, Eleanor was at my side, wrapping herself around me.

“Alice?” Esme asked, turning to the girl, still frozen on the pitcher’s mound.

“I didn’t see, I couldn’t tell,” Alice said. Her voice was small and her face was frightened. I felt a wave of unease washing over me, the fun of the evening fading.

“What’s happening?” Carlisle asked. The Cullens were all gathered around me now.

“They were traveling much quicker I thought,” she said.

“What changed?” he asked.

“They heard us playing,” she whispered.

.

“It will be alright,” Eleanor  said to me, smoothing her hand over my hair. “I promise, I’ll keep you safe.”

The others had returned to the field, warily sweeping the forest with their eyes.

“What’s happening?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Take your hair down,” Eleanor said. I could see the effort she was putting into looking calm.

“That won’t help,” Alice said. “I could smell her across the field.”

.

They emerged one by one from the forest edge. Two men and one woman. As they approached, I couldn’t help but mark the differences between them and the Cullens, the predatory way they walked, one step up from a crouch, the leaves in their hair, their bare feet, the set of their faces. If I had cared to imagine vampires before, this is how I would have pictured them.

The man in front was easily the most beautiful, dark skinned and hard muscled. The other two rotated around him, letting him take the lead. He smiled, a flash of white, even teeth.

“We thought we heard a game,” he said. “Do you have room for three more?

The woman shifted restlessly. Her hair was a bright red, a harsh, wild tangle around her face. The other man was deceptively ordinary, nondescript face, hair, clothes, but there was something to the look in his eyes that unnerved me more than the other two. They were a sinister burgundy and I had a feeling that they did not miss much .

Three things happened simultaneously:

A wind swept through the clearing, ruffling my hair

Eleanor stiffened, her arm tightening around me

And the second male turned towards me, nostrils flaring

“What’s this?” the first man asked.

He took a step towards us. Eleanor placed herself between me and him, shielding me with her body. Her beautiful face, the face that had smiled down at me this morning, the soft morning light caught in her eyes, was hardened, fierce, terrifying.

“She’s with us,” Carlisle said, firmly.

“You brought a snack?”

I was trembling uncontrollably. I thought I might collapse, might throw up.

“I said she’s with us,” Carlisle said.

.

“We have to get you far away from here,” Eleanor said.

“No,” I said.

“No?”

“No.”

.

All the lights were on. Eleanor pulled up towards the house slowly.  

“He’s not here,” Eleanor said. “Let’s go.”

She came to my side of the car, taking my hand, pulling me into her.

“I’ve got you,” she said, holding me tightly. “I’ve got you.”

I had started crying in earnest, though I’d told myself I wouldn’t. I gave myself a moment to hold her, to feel her.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said. “It’s all going to be fine.” It sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

After too short of a moment, she let me go, leading me towards the house. “Come on, hon, we’ve got to go.”

I stopped on the porch, turning to her to look at her, Eleanor Cullen, tall and majestic and beautiful, her face drawn into a frown.

“Fifteen minutes,” she said. “Okay? Fifteen minutes.”

“I can do this,” I said. “I can do it.” Once the tears had started to fall, I found I couldn’t stop them.

I took her face in my hands.

“I love you,” I said.

Her face was pained. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Bella. I promise.”

.

“Bella, honey, are you okay? What’s going on?” Through the door, I could hear Charlie’s voice, low and frightened. I stuffed things into my bag at a frantic speed.

“I’m going home,” I said.

“What happened, honey?”

I turned to my dresser.

“Did you and Eleanor have a fight?”

“No.”

“Did she break up with you?”

The bag was full. I tried to control my breathing.

I unlocked the door and pushed past Charlie.

“I broke up with her,” I said.

He was right behind me, following me down the stairs.

“I thought you liked her,” Charlie said, catching my elbow. He looked bewildered, but his grip was firm.

“I do like her,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

My bag dug into my shoulder.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be gay in this town?” I said.

.

Eleanor reached for my hand. “Pull over,” she said, as the house, and Charlie, disappeared behind us.

“I can drive,” I said. My hands were shaking on the wheel.

Her hands gripped my waist and she pulled me across her lap, taking my spot in the driver’s seat. “You wouldn’t be able to find the house,” she said, taking my hand across the seat.

Lights flared suddenly behind us and I jumped, but it was just another car.

“I didn’t realize you felt like that about Forks,” she said.

I sniffed, wiping my eyes.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

Jess and Angela and Mike, and late nights with Charlie, the view of the mountains in the weak sunshine, and Eleanor Cullen, complicated didn’t even begin to cover it.

.

Esme’s hands were deft, unbuttoning my shirt. I pulled hers over my head. The pants were too long. She rolled the hems a couple of times and then she was pushing me towards the door. Somehow, she was already in my clothes.  Alice was standing by the stairs. She and Esme shepherded me down the stairs. I felt like a child again, a toddler they had to take care of.

“Let’s go,” Carlisle said.

Eleanor was at my side at once. Her hands were on my waist and then she was kissing me, my feet lifted off the floor with the force of it. I clutched her back just as tightly, not thinking about her family watching, about the man outside hunting us. For the shortest second, it was just the two of us again. And then it was over and they were gone, out the door and into the night.

.

“Can I come in?” Alice asked.

I took a deep breath. “Sure.”

“You look like you could sleep longer.” She leaned against the doorway, watching me.

I shook my head.

She moved to the window, closing the curtains firmly, blocking out the rest of the world. “We need to stay hidden, okay hon?” The endearment reminded me of Eleanor.

“Okay,” I said. My voice was hoarse.

“I ordered some food for you,” she said. “It’s in the front room. Eleanor reminded me that you have to eat more frequently than we do.”

“She called?”

“No,” she said. “It was before we left.”

.

It was a long day. We stayed in the room, the windows shut, the TV on, though no one watched it. Alice and Jasper were like statues on the sofa. I lay on the floor and memorized the room, the striped pattern of the couch, tan, peach, cream, dull gold, the abstract prints, a woman combing her hair, a cat stretching.

As the afternoon wore on, I went back to bed simply for something to do.

.

”What do you see?” Jasper asked.

Alice’s eyes were focused on something very far away.

“I see a room,” she said

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Jasper looked at me. “It means the tracker’s plans have changed.”

.

In the other room, Alice was sketching on a piece of hotel stationery.

“It’s a ballet studio,” I said.  

They both turned to look at me.

.

“Mom,” I said after the beep. “Listen, I can’t explain now, but please don’t get anywhere until you call me back. Don’t worry, I’m okay, but I have to talk to you right away, no matter how late, alright? Love you.”  

I thought about calling Charlie, but I wasn’t sure if I should be home by now or not, and I was tired of lying.

I must have fallen asleep on the couch. The touch of Alice’s hands woke me briefly as she carried me to bed, but I was unconscious before my head hit the pillow.

.

They didn’t look up when I entered. Alice was sketching again.

“Did she see something more?” I asked Jasper, quietly.

He nodded.

I watched as Alice drew. A square room with low, dark beams, wood panelled walls, a large window and a stone fireplace, a TV balanced on a too-small wooden stand in the corner, an aged sectional sofa in the middle of the room, a round coffee table.

“The phone goes there,” I said, pointing.

“That’s my mother’s house.”

.

I lay there for a long time after I finished crying.

I could only see this ending one way. The only question was, how many people would get hurt before it ended?

The phone rang and I went into the front room. Jasper was missing, but Alice was talking on the phone. She made eye contact with me when I came in.

“They’re just boarding,” Alice said once she hung up. “They should be in by 9.”

Just a few more hours. Just a few more hours and I would be back with Eleanor again.

.

“Bella?” It was my mother’s voice.

“Calm down, Mom,” I said, walking slowly away from Alice. I wasn’t sure if I could lie as convincingly with her eyes on me. “Everything is fine, okay? Just give me a minute and I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

“Mom?”

“Be very careful not to say anything until I tell you to do.” His voice was generic, pleasant even, the kind of voice you heard in the background of luxury car commercials.

I wanted to scream, to curl into a ball, to punch a wall.

“That’s good,” he said. “Now repeat after me, and do try to sound natural. No, Mom, stay where you are.”

“No, Mom,” I said. “Stay where you are.”

.

I was going to die.

I wiped my eyes, once, twice. Stop fucking crying, I told myself.

Alice was waiting for me in the main room.

.

“Eleanor,” I wrote. My hand was shaking. “I love you, I’m so sorry. He has my mom, and well, I have to try. Please, please don’t come after him. I don’t think I could bear it if anyone has to be hurt because of me, especially you. I love you. Forgive me.”

I folded the letter carefully. Eventually she would find it. It was going to break her heart, I knew. It was breaking mine.

.

We sat in the long row of chairs by the metal detectors, Jasper and Alice pretending to people-watch but really watching me.

“I think I’ll eat now,” I said.

Alice stood. “I’ll come with you.”

“Do you mind if Jasper comes instead?” I asked.

I wondered what my face looked like. I felt wild and panicked. She just nodded.

Jasper stood up.

He walked silently beside me down the terminal, his hand on the small of my back.

“Do you mind?” I asked Jasper as we passed the ladies’ room. “I’ll just be a moment.”

“I’ll be right here,” he said.

As soon as the door shut behind me I was running.

.

I sat back against the seat, folding my arms across my lap. The familiar city began to rush by me -- the road to Sarah’s neighborhood, the skating rink where I had broken my arm in third grade -- but I didn’t look out the window. I was determined not to lose myself. There was no point in indulging in more terror, more anxiety.

Instead, I simply closed my eyes, and thought of Eleanor.

.

In the kitchen, there, on the whiteboard, was a ten-digit number written in a small, neat hand. I couldn’t breathe. He had been here, in my house, where Renee and I had stayed up late watching Gilmore Girls, where Micah and Sarah and I had made brownies with walnuts and had our first taste of alcohol.

My fingers stumbled over the keypad, making mistakes. I had to hang up and start again.

It rang only once.

.

In the window of the studio there was a small, pink sign. I touched the paper, hesitantly. The door opened without any resistance. The lobby was dark and cool and empty, the plastic chairs stacked along the walls. The carpet smelled like shampoo.

The first dance floor was dark, but the bigger room was lit. I couldn’t make my feet move forward.

And then my mother’s voice called, “Bella? Bella?” That same tone of hysterical panic.

I ran, sprinting to the door, towards the sound of her voice.

“Bella, you scared me! Don’t ever do that to me again.’

I was in the long, high-ceiling room. I heard her laugh and whirled to the sound. There she was, tousling my hair in relief. It was Thanksgiving, and I was twelve. We’d gone to see my grandmother in California. We went to the beach one day, and I’d leaned too far over the edge of the pier. She’d seen my feet flailing, trying to reclaim my balance.

The TV screen went blue.

.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that your girlfriend will avenge you?”

“No,” I said. “I asked her not to.”

“And what was her reply?”

“I don’t know,” I said, though I could imagine it, the horror on her face. “I left her a letter.”

He smiled, as though I had said something quaint. “How romantic, a last letter. And do you think she will honor it?”

“I hope so,” I said, softly. I didn’t want Eleanor anywhere near this man. I wanted her safe.

“And that’s where our hopes differ,” he said. “Eleanor, wasn’t it? She’s quite beautiful. You’re a lucky girl.”

I wanted to snarl, wanted to be fierce and undefeatable. But I was only a girl. A girl who was going to die in this room.

“Would you mind, very much, if I left a little letter of my own for darling Eleanor?”

He took a step back and I saw the camera.

.

I was on my hands and knees. Blood was leaking around me, smearing across the wooden floors. It dripped down my scalp, crossing my face. His foot stepped down hard on my leg. I couldn’t hold back my scream of agony.

He was standing over me, smiling. “Would you like to rethink your last request?”

He nudged my broken leg and I screamed.

“Wouldn’t you rather Eleanor try and find me?”

“No,” I said. “Eleanor, please, don’t--”

He grabbed my hair, smashing me back against the mirror. Glass cut into my scalp, blood flowing fast now, into my hair, across my shirt, onto his hands.

His eyes were dark with need.

Let it be quick now. I could feel consciousness leaving me, the combination of the pain and the blood loss making me heazy. Let it be quick.

My eyes closed.

.

As I drifted, I dreamed. I felt as if I was floating.

“Bella, Bella.” Someone was calling my name, but the voice was so far away. Eleanor, I thought. Eleanor.

“Bella, please. Bella, listen to me, please, please, Bella, please.”

Anything, I wanted to say. Anything. But I couldn’t find my lips.

.

“He bit her,” Carlisle said, softly.

I could hear Eleanor’s breath catch. It was hard to focus. The pain was like nothing I had ever felt before.

“Eleanor,” Carlisle said. “You have to do it.”

“No,” I said. “No, it hurts.”

“See if you can suck the venom back out.”

“Carlisle, I… I don’t know if I can.”

“Eleanor,” I screamed. I couldn’t stop moving. The pain in my leg flared sickeningly.

I could feel hands on my head, and more holding my leg down. This, this was the pain they had never forgotten. I didn’t think I would ever forget it either.

“Eleanor, now, or it will be too late.”

Her eyes were dark and worried. At least I had gotten to see her again.

Her jaw tightened. Then she bent over and I felt her lips on my skin.

.

When I woke I was in an unfamiliar room. The glaring lights blinded me. My hands were twisted with clear tubes and there was something taped across my face ,under my nose. I lifted my hand to rip it off.

“Oh no, you don’t.”

Cool fingers stopped my hand.

Eleanor.

“How did you do it?” I asked. “How did you save me?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

.

I could hear my mother in the hallway. She was talking to someone, maybe a nurse, and she sounded tired and upset. Eleanor moved from my side to the recliner, curling up in the chair. I saw that her feet were bare and I felt a surge of affection. Her toenails were painted black.

The door opened a crack and my mother peeked through.

“Mom,” I said.

I was crying again.

“Bella, honey,” she said, softly, coming to my side, smoothing my hair.

I had missed her. Missed her so much it hurt. “I’m so glad to see you.”

.

“You’ll like Jacksonville so much,” Renee said. We were walking slowly down the hallway of the hospital. Convalescence had been slow. “I was a little bit worried when Phil started talking about Akron, what with the snow and everything, because I know how you hate the cold, but now Jacksonville, it’s always sunny and the humidity really isn’t that bad and we found the cutest house, yellow with white trim and a porch just like in an old film and this huge oak tree, and it’s just a few minutes from the ocean, and you’ll have your own bathroom--”

“Mom, wait,” I said. “I want to live in Forks.”

She paused, looking thrown.

“But you don’t have to anymore.”

.

“I’m afraid to close my eyes,” I told Eleanor.

I’d had nightmares every night since the incident.

She took my face in her hands. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’ll be here, as long as you need me.”

“You know you’re talking about forever,” I said.

She smiled, and it was bittersweet. “That’s the thing about being human,” she said. “Things change.”

I could feel sleep coming for me, but I reached for her. “Stay,” I said.

“As long as it’s what’s best for you.”

I could feel her lips on my temple.

“Eleanor?” I asked.

“I’m here,” she said.

.

“This looks like a horror movie waiting to happen,” I said. There were actual balloon arches and twisted garlands of crepe paper.

“Well,” she whispered in my ear. “There are more than enough vampires present.”

.

Jacob Black was wearing an ill fitting suit jacket, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.  

“Can I cut in?” he asked, looking towards Eleanor. I was surprised to notice that Jacob didn’t have to look up, even though Eleanor, in her six inch heels, was almost six four. He must have grown half a foot since I’d seen him.

Jacob put his hands on my waist.

“You look really pretty,” he said.

“Thanks, Jake,” I said.

We danced in silence for a moment.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Don’t get mad, okay? But my dad, he wants you to break up with your girlfriend. He asked me to tell you please.”

He paused, but instead of looking relieved at the admission, he just looked more awkward.

“Is there more?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Forget it.”

“Just spit it out.”

“It’s so bad.”

“I don’t care. Please, just tell me.”

He sighed. “He said to tell you, no to warn you, that, and this is his plural, not mine, that we’ll be watching.”

.

Eleanor and I wove our way through the dancers. I could name every face we went past, Jess and Mike and Angela and Ben and Lauren and Miller Chapman, and then we were out the doors, facing the cool, dim light of a fading sunset.

“Twilight, again,” she said. “Another ending. No matter how perfect the day, it always ends.”

“Some things don’t have to end,” I said.

She sighed. “I brought you to prom because I didn’t want you to miss out anything. I don’t want my presence to take anything away from you, not if I can help it. I want you to have everything.”

“In what parallel universe would I have ever gone to prom of my own free will?”

She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Because I was with you,” I said, softly, touching her face.

.

“Is this what you dream about?” she asked me, later. Her teeth scraped my skin. “Being a monster?”

I pushed her back. Her eyes were wild. “I dream about being with you forever,” I said.

Her expression changed.

“Bella,” she said. Her fingers traced the shape of my lips. “I’ll stay with you, isn’t that enough.”

“Enough for now,” I said.

I reached for her, found her hand.

“I love you,” I said. “More than anything. Isn’t that enough.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it’s enough. Enough for forever.”

[ccovington1-blog]

5 days in México

So you knows how I was nervous about México? Well, I shouldn't have been, 'cuz my familía are sweethearts! I've mastered the Méxicano greeting of a "kiss" on the cheek, and my host parents call me hija (daughter). Though I can't say that all my conversations go smoothly because of a language and culture barrier, they are generally good because I can tell the people have a love for me. They tend to think well of people initially. This is refreshing.

My host sister is amazing as a cultural translator, but she's pretty awesome as a person too! So far she has taken me to the movies (boy they have a lot of cool--I mean spicy--popcorn flavors), made me the world's best quesadilla (México's tortillas are the best), and introduced me to some friends (we did not eat food together, but I still enjoyed their company). I have enjoyed every day trying different types of hot sauce and kinds of local music. On Wednesday we toured their school [image 1-2 below] and had a party with the best carnitas and company [image 3]. Friday we visited an arts museum [images 4-6] and yesterday we went to a basketball game [images 7-8] (the home team the Rayos won in a close match). Right now we are staying in the nearby town San Pedro because tomorrow we will spend the day at el lago (the lake). I was warned to beware of the geese. The méxicano birds apparently didn't get the hospitality memo.

All in all though, it's been really fun. I love my host family already and am reluctant to leave in 2 1/2 weeks. I hope everyone in Phoenix is enjoying their summers and I encourage everyone to try something new every day!

[drystarrestorationaz]

Dry Star Restoration Celebrates 10 Years of Providing Water Damage Repairs in Phoenix

Mesa, Arizona -

Dry Star Restoration, a company based in Mesa, AZ, is proud to announce that they have been providing water damage repairs Phoenix residents can rely on, since 2012 and is celebrating 10 years of serving Phoenix and surrounding areas. With their team of certified experts, they were able to set a record of outstanding response rates and to reduce the disruption caused by a water damage disaster. They want to assure everyone that they are always ready to respond to catastrophes in Phoenix and neighboring areas.

They believe that response time is critical when dealing with water damage, such as one caused by a flood, which is why they can be contacted on the phone at any time of the day, at any day of the week. They will use moisture detecting equipment to identify those areas where the water has migrated and then all of these areas are taken care of and properly dried. They use advanced techniques and take extra care in preventing damage due to swelling, warping, delaminating, and buckling. With their timeliness and professionalism, odors, mold, and other potential health problems may be prevented or eliminated.

Richard Appel, owner of Dry Star Restoration, says, “Our top priorities for our water mitigation services are safety, quality, and exceptional customer service. If you have flood damage of any kind, our professionally trained and certified water damage cleanup experts can rapidly and effectively solve the problem on short notice. We not only fix the original problem, but we make sure that any affected area is professionally cleaned, deodorized and sanitized. Our flood damage experts are just a call away. We will handle all of your water damage cleanup needs from any emergency that may arise, whether it be broken or leaky pipes, bathtub overflow, sink overflow, toilet overflow and leaks, air conditioner leaks, refrigerator, washing machine, water heater, and dishwasher overflow, hardwood floor water damage, crawlspace drying, or sump pump failure.”

Six simple steps will be taken to provide water restoration. The first step is for the homeowner or property owner to contact them. Because time is vital in limiting the extent of the water damage, they are available 24/7 on the phone. The second step is for their professionals to inspect and evaluate all possible areas of damage. The third step is the water extraction process where they will remove most of the water from the structures of the home to stop further damage and reduce the drying time. The fourth step is the use of drying equipment to get rid of water that has been retained by building materials, thus minimizing the potential for mold damage. The fifth step is the cleaning process, which will include odor removal and deodorization treatment techniques. Their technicians will clean the floors, walls, upholstery, furniture, clothing, and other personal items that can be recovered. And finally, the six step is the restoration of the home or building back to its original condition. This may include minor repairs, such as installing new carpet, replacement of drywall. More serious damage may require major reconstruction of some areas of the home or commercial building.

Started in 2012, Dry Star Restoration has evolved into a top provider of water and fire damage restoration in Arizona. They are a family-owned full service water damage restoration company who has made the commitment to provide excellent service in bringing back the home or business to its original condition before the catastrophe. Their certified professionals have a proven track record of being highly responsive and having the knowledge and experience on mitigation that is vital in minimizing the disruption caused by a disaster. Their service area includes: Fountain Hills, Chandler, Apache Junction, Gilbert, Higley, Glendale, Paradise Valley, Mesa, Gold Canyon, Peoria, Rio Verde, Phoenix, Scottsdale, San Tan Valley, Queen Creek, Tempe, and Tortilla Flat.

When looking for emergency water damage repairs Tempe residents can visit the Dry Star Restoration website, or contact them through the telephone or via email. They are open 24 hours a day at any day of the week.

from Press Releases https://www.pressadvantage.com/story/52290-dry-star-restoration-celebrates-10-years-of-providing-water-damage-repairs-in-phoenix

[ramblesrunsrides]

Arizona

Finally we made it to Arizona! The desert was just as I remembered. The Saguaros greeted us with their welcoming arms.

Our first stay was Roper Lake State Park where we rested for the night and enjoyed the amazing sunset over our campsite.

Time to push on to Lost Dutchman State Park but a slight detour to Picket Post Trail to stretch our legs and experience hiking at 28C. It was the first hike in the high desert and glimpses of Spring breaking through on bushes.

Next stop was Lost Dutchman and our home for seven nights. Nestled under the Superstition Mountains and only an hour to Phoenix we had little reason to venture offsite especially with our view.

The hiking and biking were wonderful on the trails that led into the Tonto National Forest and the Superstition Wilderness area. Lucy proved herself once again as a great hiker on the challenging Siphon Draw Trail that led to the top of Flatiron. We didn’t make it to Flatiron with winds and a little too much scrambling but the views were good. She hitched a ride back down in Don’s backpack.

We took the opportunity to bike a great paved trail from Scottsdale to Tempe. The route skirted golf courses and multiple sports fields where people were very busy and active. It was so much nicer than a rough trail that Don thought we could use to get to Apache Junction without using the busy road from Park entrance. It was paved too but the hills made it feel like a roller coaster ride.

For a change of scene we decided to take a little road trip from the Park to Tortilla Flat (population 6) along the Apache Trail. The scenic drive through canyon country had plenty of vistas and well worth the twisty, steep road. Tortilla Flat is an authentic remnant of an old west town, nestled in the midst of the Tonto National Forest, in the Superstition Mountain Range. It started out as a stagecoach stop in 1904 and neither fire nor flood has been able to take away this historic stop along the Historic Apache Trail.

Now it’s off to park #2 - Buckskin Mountain State Park near Lake Havasu for more adventure.

[arizonaresort]

Pomegranate Cafe

The Pomegranate Cafe, located in the heart of Phoenix, has been offering great food that is both tasty and healthful. At this Chandler-area gem, delicious meets healthful. Brunch and lunch selections are carefully made and served utilising only the highest quality ingredients, making them healthy, wholesome, and still delightful. Try the Breakfast Burrito, which is created with your choice of egg or tofu, seasonal vegetables, harvest hash, anasazi beans, vegan or cheddar cheese, spinach tortilla, and house salsa. French toast is an art form here, and you may take home a variety of freshly baked goodies. If fatty breakfasts aren't your style, try the Pomegranate Cafe, where flavour and quality come together to provide a delicious first meal. If you're a gym rat who likes to keep a close eye on your calorie consumption, this location has everything you're looking for. The cafe is one of the top healthy cafes in Arizona, offering a healthy version of practically every exquisite food, including burritos, toasts, burgers, sandwiches, and wraps. Address – 4025 E Chandler Blvd #28, Phoenix, AZ

Opening hours – Mon-Thurs (8AM – 8PM)

[flas]

Flour or Wheat - Wentworth Miller

I've been coming here a long time, to this strip mall hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant off the freeway, with the chicken quesadillas I decided somewhere in my mid-20s (without much research, admittedly) were the best in Los Angeles.

In 199-something it was a small chain with franchise dreams and few locations, one of which was near-ish my apartment. When it closed I started commuting to a location that was not near-ish. It was far-ish. And when I brought someone along they would inevitably pronounce, between bites, that it wasn't worth the gas.

I paid them no mind.

I have a history of mental health issues and routine is important to me. Also consistency. Which might be why, once I started coming, I didn't stop. Why in the hundreds of times I've approached the counter I've always ordered the same thing.

Always.

One chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla with guacamole. Rice and beans on the side. Plus chips.

Seriously. I've never tried anything else on the menu. For all I know the shrimp tacos make men weep. I don't care. They're not on my radar.

Yet somehow, despite getting the same meal about twice a month maybe ten months a year for almost fifteen years, the guy behind the counter never remembers my order.

Ever.

Or, by extension, it would seem to follow, me.

This isn't "Cheers." Nobody knows my name. And if anyone's glad I came, they're keeping it to themselves.

Eventually I learned not to expect the guy behind the counter to know my order. What I could expect was a set mouth and a flat stare. Free of charge.

And that's been a relief.

At times.

At times I have deeply appreciated being made to feel anonymous. No one approaches me here. No one asks for a photo. No one seizes an opportunity to go full koala around my waist while a friend repeatedly fails to take a picture on their smartphone.

Other times, vacuum-sealed in my LA existence, moving from apartment to car to freeway and back, the luxury of not having to touch or be touched by another human being mine to indulge, I have very much wanted the guy behind the counter to know my order without me telling him first.

But no. Every time I walk in we have essentially the same exchange we've been having lo these many years:

Him: Upward nod and/or raised eyebrows with a split second of eye contact to signal I have his attention.

Me: "Chicken quesadilla, please."

Him: "Flour or wheat?" They've got two kinds of tortillas to choose from.

Me: "Flour." Let's not go crazy.

Him: "Rice and beans?"

Me: "Rice and beans."

He spreads a flour tortilla on the stovetop, sprinkles it with cheese while I pay at the register then get my salsa from the salsa bar. Unless I get my salsa from the salsa bar first then pay after. That part changes depending how fast the lady at the register rings me up. (I think of this as my chance to practice being flexible.)

When my tortilla is done browning and the cheese melting, the guy takes it off the stovetop and says, "Chicken or steak?" Even if I am the only customer in there, mine the only order being juggled, I will be asked to repeat my choice of protein.

Me: "Chicken."

Him: "Rice and beans?"

To be fair, I don't know his name or order either (assuming he eats there too). To be fair, I'm sure it's no picnic chopping onions and grilling carnitas for a living. I spent a summer scraping uneaten refried beans off plates at a Mexican restaurant in Phoenix. An outdoor restaurant. In Phoenix. In summer. So while I don't/won't insult the guy behind the counter by pretending to understand the depth/breadth of his experience, I feel like I can imagine it. At least a little bit.

Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just a spoiled jerk with a sense of entitlement. Maybe the guy's having an off decade. Maybe his dog ran away and never came back. Maybe he needs some sweet understanding. Maybe I should cool it with the judgments and projections. Maybe it shouldn't matter to me that he can't (won't?) remember my order.

But it does.

Whatever. I don't come for the service. I come for the quesadilla. Which, most likely, is average. But which, drawn to ritual as I am, I've eaten enough times to become sentimental about. Ditto the 90-minute drive there and back, the smell of the hand soap in the bathroom, the validation stamp with the red ink they stamp on my parking stub that gets on my fingers if I touch it before it dries. This is my spot. My joint. My Cheers. Even if nobody knows or cares what my name/order is. This (most likely average) quesadilla is threaded through my LA history, this city I've liked and hated (almost) equally, a place I came to because it's "where the work is" and, now that the work is taking me away, I'm thrilled to leave. A town that has never felt like home, even if it was where I chose to lay my head.

As the poet said, #notmyvibenotmytribe.

Which is why, on the eve of my permanent departure, about to begin a new job in a new city in a new country, as I ready myself for a set of experiences that promise change and growth and shift and all the things that used to frighten me but which today I recognize and embrace as gift and gold, it's only fitting that I make the drive to my little Mexican restaurant one last time, for one last chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla. And by doing so honor all the other times I came here to enjoy "my last quesadilla." Not because I was leaving town but because I was going to go home and kill myself.

Of my close friends, I've known Depression the longest.

By 10 we were well-acquainted. He was there for my first attempt, at 15, for my second, freshman year at Princeton, and for the multiple dress rehearsals and close calls that followed. He was there as recently as four years ago, seated in the front row for what was in some ways my most serious breakdown since college. When all I wanted was to die. When Depression had me convinced - deep down, on a cellular level - that I Would Always Feel This Way and that There Were No Other Versions Of Me/Life On Offer.

That was before I realized Depression is a Liar.

That was before the daily meditation, the prayer, the affirmations. Before the therapy, the men's work, the move from isolation into community. Before the self-expression via writing (privately, professionally) and coming out (publicly). Before the gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) letting go of the people, habits, and belief systems that knocked me out of my body, lowered my frequency, and robbed me of a good night's rest. Before the gradual conclusion that I did not come into this world preprogrammed to self-destruct. (That upgrade/virus came later, courtesy of outside influences.) Before the understanding (remembering?) that my birthright is joy. But joy won't just come when I call it. I have to invite it. Gently. With intention. Building a connection, a trust, over time.

But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. Chicken quesadillas.

Over the years, on a handful of dark days, I would determine that my final meal would be my favorite and when it was finished, I would exit this earth. Because I couldn't imagine feeling better. Because I couldn't imagine a different, vastly improved state of existence.

Which, obviously, represents a colossal failure of my imagination.

That was another tool in Depression's toolbelt: the limits of what I could and could not imagine.

The man I was then couldn't have pictured the man I am now, moving (more) consciously and (more) thoughtfully through the world, (more) alert to the people, habits, and belief systems that invite peace and purpose into my life on a daily basis. A man departing (escaping) Los Angeles with a plateful of things to look forward to.

The man I was then wouldn't have believed any of this was possible. But it was. Is.

And to celebrate, I'm treating myself to one last chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla before I go. Because it's f-cking earned. If I do say so myself.

I park my car in the underground lot, get my parking stub, enter the restaurant. I walk past the guy behind the counter and into the bathroom to wash my hands. Emerging, I get my tray, approach the counter, and see that for the first time in the near fifth of a century I've been frequenting this chain, on what is potentially and very probably my final visit to this strip mall hole-in-the-wall, this totally unexceptional restaurant I've spent years patronizing and a not inconsiderable amount of gas money getting to from various apartments, the guy behind the counter has already got a tortilla heating on the stovetop for me. Flour.

Eyes down, he sprinkles it with cheese, says to me or himself or to both of us, "Chicken quesadilla."

It is a statement. Not a question.

I say, "Yes. Please."

And "Thank you."

[mubal4]

Wrapping It Up – The 4 x 4 x 48 Challenge        

 We are living in unique times.  Interesting way to describe this I guess, but it is unique.  Globally, we have pivoted, adapted, and by this time, created some new normals or at least different ways of doing things.  Likely, some good habits have been formed and some may have gone back to some old tricks 😊!!  I know I have consumed more beer and types of foods over the last two months than “normal.” 😊  It is all good though; based on what I’ve been fortunate enough to see, via social media, Facetiming/Video conferencing with family/friends, or just talking with folks, we’ve been overcoming these “unique” times well.  Although changes have been made, one thing that has remained consistent for me is running.  Overall, in the last 2+ months I don’t believe I am running farther or more. Like most of our lives, I’ve just changed some things up a bit.  Part of that has been due to timing and circumstances with the quarantine and social distancing; some because the type of race I have coming up in July; and part because some shit has just gotten boring to be honest.  So, when I saw this David Goggins Challenge video come across my Twitter feed, it grabbed my attention.

 You can watch the 1-minute video, but it is basically running 4 miles, every 4 hours, for 48 miles.  It was pretty cool how he positioned it too; “if you can’t run, walk; if you can walk; do pushups…….”  It seemed like his intent was to just to get people moving, out of their comfort zone, and adapting to the nonsense.  Since I am training for a 100-miler I thought this would be a great training exercise for a number of reasons.  Obviously, the mile over two days, sleep deprivation, nutrition planning, and one big differentiator, life commitments!!!  In the race, I won’t be thinking about family responsibilities, work, or puppy stuff 😊; it is just left foot, right foot. Since I started this on Thursday afternoon, I still had some conference calls to attend, work commitments, and family stuff so it added a layer.  That said, as it relates to the family commits, Robin, as per usual, and the girls, sacrificed a ton, not only with dinners and puppy stuff, but, at least for Robin, sleep too.  Thursday and Friday nights, I headed out at 1030pm and 230am.  The first session each night, Robin was just about headed to bed but at 230am she was sleeping, and I tried to be as quiet as possible, for her, as well as for the puppy too 😊.  It was nice to hear on Saturday morning once she woke up that that nights 230am session, she didn’t even hear me leave or come back.  Guess all these years doing these crazy things it is good her mind is at ease while I run around Phoenix at 230 in the morning 😊😊😊!! That all said, none of this really came to mind when Robin and I discussed doing it.  All I thought was 4 miles, every 4 hours, for 48 miles? I can do that!!  So, at 230pm on Thursday, we got things started, easy peasy and session 2 at 630pm was awesome with a sunset, late afternoon run; I was in my happy place.  All good.  Got back and had a quick dinner (I will get into the nutrition in a moment) and we all were just chilling on the couch.  Now, typically, Robin and I are toes up in bed by 10pm so, as my body clock was telling me, right around 945pm I started dozing a bit on the couch; fortunately, I had an alarm set just in case.  But the thing was, I was setting an alarm for 1010pm to go out and run 4 miles at 1030pm. Needless to say, as I was tying my shoes, my comment to Robin, “why the hell did I commit to this; this is f#$%ing stupid.”  She wished me a “have a good run, I will be sleeping when you get back.” 😊  The thoughts of feeling sorry for myself were quickly gone as soon as I started session number 3 and the night air, cooler temps, and darkness provided a different perspective to my run.  I wanted to run around our area of town just to see what was happening, if there was anything happening.  Out here in AZ, the stay at home orders are being lifted and there are a couple of restaurants/bars I would be running by so I was intrigued to say the least.  There were still a few folks out walking at that time and traffic was light; however, this one bar, about 1 mile from our house, was packed.  I guess the regulars were just waiting for things to be lifted.  I went by again on Friday nights 1030pm run too and same deal. I giggled a bit but it also gave me a sense of relief that maybe things are working toward “normal.” Also, won’t lie, a beer sounded good at that time.

 This is where adapting needed to happen because my body and internal clock was not going to be used to these next 30 or so hours.  Running the initial 12 miles from 230pm through 1030pm wasn’t much out of the realm of my comfort zone.  Now, I was getting home at 11pm, trying not to wake up Robin and the dog (the girls were still up doing what teenage girls do at that time 😊), getting fluids in, getting cleaned up, and getting things ready for 230am…….& hopefully trying to get sleep.  Well, I was a bit amped up from the run so I thought that sleep was going to be tough.  I got cleaned up, got plenty of water in me, and then figured I would watch some TV to put me to bed.  Well, that worked, and I fell right asleep and woke up about 90 minutes later.  Interestingly getting up at this moment and getting out was much easier than at 1030pm. Not sure why but it was.  The run, however, was a bit weird and at both 230am sessions.  I kept these 2 runs close to the house around this 1.35-mile loop.  I didn’t want to stray to for, well, since it is 230am. On the first loop, Thursday, I guess this would be Friday morning, I first heard a rooster crowing!!  Yep, a rooster – we don’t live near any farmland.  On the second loop, I heard what I thought was a leaf blower…..@ 230am?  What the hell?  Then, the most interesting thing happened on the last loop.  I was on this one road, drive it daily, and I white SUV pulls out of a side street.  Okay, at that time of night, could be going to work, coming back, whatever.  They pull out but just turnaround and head back where they came.  My first thought was that maybe they were scouting out homes/cars to break into or something or, maybe they were just drunk.  No big deal. I finished up the run and went home; didn’t think about it.  However, 24 hours later, on that same loop at that same time, same car, same spot, pulls out, now we are going towards one another, it stops…………I kept running, faster now and find a dark spot on the road, click off my headlamp and stop. The car was already moving but then did the same thing, u-turn in the middle of the road.  This was a bit freeky man and it was on my first loop too. I was running by there two more times. Holy shit right!!  Well, nothing happened but it was just some weird stuff. I told Robin yesterday afternoon that I was going to go up there all next week at 230am, dressed in all black and see what happens 😊.  

 That was pretty much the only excitement of the event.  Back to Friday morning, since the nature of this event, getting time on the trails was difficult but did go out at 630am Friday.  Got on the trail, got some climbing in and it was a beautiful day. Stopped to take a shot of the trails from the top that I shared above.  Also was able to get out on the trails Friday night and Saturday morning.  Friday night I was able to meet a nice rattlesnake too!!! By “meet” I mean he was on the side of the trail and scared the poop out of me.  I never did see him, just heard him.  Not sure if I would rather face the white SUV or the rattler?  The remaining sessions were all, pretty much, uneventful; just getting them done and keep moving forward.  Overall, it was a great challenge and believe awesome training on many fronts. Although there wasn’t much climbing, it did offer a number of different layers that will definitely help come July. Want to again thank Robin and the girls for all the support, sacrifice, and help they provide me during these nutty things I do.  All the folks that reached out via text, calls, or the FB live sessions, thank you very much.  Very inspirational and you guys helped keep me going.  

 Haven’t been much into statistics and stuff when it comes to these kinds of things.  Hell, up until January I was still using my 20+ year old Ironman stopwatch but Robin got me this Garmin one for Christmas and it has been fun to sort of geek out with it.  So, for those that may be interested, I am providing some “noticings” from the 4x4x48 event.  Thanks again for keeping me going and following along 😊!!

 ·         Started at 230pm 5/14 and ended at 1059am 5/16 – total hours = 44.5-ish!  

·         Total miles = 48.7

·         Total running time = 433 minutes (7 hrs 13 mins) – thought this was interesting that it was an exact number.  Zero seconds after added up 😊

·         Average pace = 8:53 (36:05 average for each 4ish mile session

·         Total Vert = 1186

·         Sleep = approximately 5 hours total

·         9 shirts & 7 pairs of shorts (yep – reused shorts – easy to do when you jump in the pool after a run), 12 pairs of socks, 3 different pairs of running shoes

·         Food intake – 2 strawberry/banana milkshakes, 2 peanut butter/banana Clif bars, 2 apples, 1 grilled cheese, 2 hummus tortilla wraps, approximately a half a box of regular Cheeze-itz (original flavor), couple handfuls of peanut butter pretzels, 1 double expresso Clif bar gel

[patatasbravasmadrilena]

Day 4. 16 march 2020. MY BIRTHDAY.

Never have I ever thought that I would celebrate my 28th birhtday under an almost worldwide quarantine lock down in Madrid, Spain! Whew! What a whirlwind. I didn’t let this dumb quarantine get in the way of the party celebrations. Javi and I were excitedly waiting for the clock to strike midnight last night. He sang to me and we cheers’d and I opened all my gifts. I posted it to all the social medias and all my loved ones were happy for me. It sounds cheesy, but it makes me feel so much better when all my friends and family respond, even in the smallest way. Never in my life have I celebrated my bday with only two people and at home. I like to freaking party with everyone! But there is a first time for everything and Javi and I know how to turn any situation into a fun one, that’s one reason why I love him so much. I, of course, still did my hair and makeup and wore this super cute black, body hugging dress I shouldn’t have bought from H&M (maybe I shop when I shouldn’t, who knows). I also made some bomb chicken enchiladas. I was able to score some beans finally, but not from the stupid supermarket. Javi had the great idea to see if the fruit shop had some flippin’ frijoles and lo and behold, they did! They also have stocked up on milk, TP and paper towels. I’ll go there for the good stuff next time. 

We went to Mercadona (the biggest grocery chain here) and we had to wait in line to get in! They were only letting in a certain amount of people at a time. They even painted white lines outside to stay in line with the social distancing rules. Everyone seems to abide willingly. They had tape lines on the ground for the checkout lines inside too. Lots of things were sold out, like the FREAKING BEANS, but there was more produce and chicken this time, so it was a success overall.  We only had to wait about 15 minutes. It was much more calm and less apocalyptic-like. 

These are my sick bday gifts from my parents & Javi. I fucking scored. 

Javi got me the matching necklace to the phoenix earrings he got me last year for Valentine’s day! So sweet! 

My enchiladas didn’t turn out bad. I brought corn tortillas back from Reno. I was there Feb 16-March 4 and I luckily managed to get there and back just in time! I couldn’t imagine being away from Javi at this time. 

Lagunitas IPA and my fav, chili lime Cholula, also brought back from the 775.

We bought my cake the other day. The pastelerías are still open, THANK U BABY JESUS. It was fucking delicious. 

Me being me, had to take a pic of this super cute outfit. Ain’t gonna let age, nor quarantine, ever get in the way of lookin’ cute, my fave pastime. (in the background is my virtual classroom background for my 5yr old Chinese students, just put the shoes on for effect I don’t actually think they go with the ‘fit). 

Now Javi and I are drinking white wine in celebration & to pass the time.

[cutepoison0104]

In honor of Wentworth Miller’s decision to unpublish his facebook page, and his granted permission to save anything we’d like to, I’d like to post the first ever thing I read on his facebook page; something that impacted me greatly. Word for word. Link for link.(Because why preserve something if you only take pieces?)

Flour or Wheat. 

I've been coming here a long time, to this strip mall hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant off the freeway, with the chicken quesadillas I decided somewhere in my mid-20s (without much research, admittedly) were the best in Los Angeles.

In 199-something it was a small chain with franchise dreams and few locations, one of which was near-ish my apartment. When it closed I started commuting to a location that was not near-ish. It was far-ish. And when I brought someone along they would inevitably pronounce, between bites, that it wasn't worth the gas.

I paid them no mind.

I have a history of mental health issues and routine is important to me. Also consistency. Which might be why, once I started coming, I didn't stop. Why in the hundreds of times I've approached the counter I've always ordered the same thing.

Always.

One chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla with guacamole. Rice and beans on the side. Plus chips.

Seriously. I've never tried anything else on the menu. For all I know the shrimp tacos make men weep. I don't care. They're not on my radar.

Yet somehow, despite getting the same meal about twice a month maybe ten months a year for almost fifteen years, the guy behind the counter never remembers my order.

Ever.

Or, by extension, it would seem to follow, me.

This isn't "Cheers." Nobody knows my name. And if anyone's glad I came, they're keeping it to themselves.

Eventually I learned not to expect the guy behind the counter to know my order. What I could expect was a set mouth and a flat stare. Free of charge.

And that's been a relief.

At times.

At times I have deeply appreciated being made to feel anonymous. No one approaches me here. No one asks for a photo. No one seizes an opportunity to go full koala around my waist while a friend repeatedly fails to take a picture on their smartphone.

Other times, vacuum-sealed in my LA existence, moving from apartment to car to freeway and back, the luxury of not having to touch or be touched by another human being mine to indulge, I have very much wanted the guy behind the counter to know my order without me telling him first.

But no. Every time I walk in we have essentially the same exchange we've been having lo these many years:

Him: Upward nod and/or raised eyebrows with a split second of eye contact to signal I have his attention.

Me: "Chicken quesadilla, please."

Him: "Flour or wheat?" They've got two kinds of tortillas to choose from.

Me: "Flour." Let's not go crazy.

Him: "Rice and beans?"

Me: "Rice and beans."

He spreads a flour tortilla on the stovetop, sprinkles it with cheese while I pay at the register then get my salsa from the salsa bar. Unless I get my salsa from the salsa bar first then pay after. That part changes depending how fast the lady at the register rings me up. (I think of this as my chance to practice being flexible.)

When my tortilla is done browning and the cheese melting, the guy takes it off the stovetop and says, "Chicken or steak?" Even if I am the only customer in there, mine the only order being juggled, I will be asked to repeat my choice of protein.

Me: "Chicken."

Him: "Rice and beans?"

To be fair, I don't know his name or order either (assuming he eats there too). To be fair, I'm sure it's no picnic chopping onions and grilling carnitas for a living. I spent a summer scraping uneaten refried beans off plates at a Mexican restaurant in Phoenix. An outdoor restaurant. In Phoenix. In summer. So while I don't/won't insult the guy behind the counter by pretending to understand the depth/breadth of his experience, I feel like I can imagine it. At least a little bit.

Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just a spoiled jerk with a sense of entitlement. Maybe the guy's having an off decade. Maybe his dog ran away and never came back. Maybe he needs some sweet understanding. Maybe I should cool it with the judgments and projections. Maybe it shouldn't matter to me that he can't (won't?) remember my order.

But it does.

Whatever. I don't come for the service. I come for the quesadilla. Which, most likely, is average. But which, drawn to ritual as I am, I've eaten enough times to become sentimental about. Ditto the 90-minute drive there and back, the smell of the hand soap in the bathroom, the validation stamp with the red ink they stamp on my parking stub that gets on my fingers if I touch it before it dries. This is my spot. My joint. My Cheers. Even if nobody knows or cares what my name/order is. This (most likely average) quesadilla is threaded through my LA history, this city I've liked and hated (almost) equally, a place I came to because it's "where the work is" and, now that the work is taking me away, I'm thrilled to leave. A town that has never felt like home, even if it was where I chose to lay my head.

As the poet said, #notmyvibenotmytribe.

Which is why, on the eve of my permanent departure, about to begin a new job in a new city in a new country, as I ready myself for a set of experiences that promise change and growth and shift and all the things that used to frighten me but which today I recognize and embrace as gift and gold, it's only fitting that I make the drive to my little Mexican restaurant one last time, for one last chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla. And by doing so honor all the other times I came here to enjoy "my last quesadilla." Not because I was leaving town but because I was going to go home and kill myself.

Of my close friends, I've known Depression the longest.

By 10 we were well-acquainted. He was there for my first attempt, at 15, for my second, freshman year at Princeton, and for the multiple dress rehearsals and close calls that followed. He was there as recently as four years ago, seated in the front row for what was in some ways my most serious breakdown since college. When all I wanted was to die. When Depression had me convinced - deep down, on a cellular level - that I Would Always Feel This Way and that There Were No Other Versions Of Me/Life On Offer.

That was before I realized Depression is a Liar.

That was before the daily meditation, the prayer, the affirmations. Before the therapy, the men's work, the move from isolation into community. Before the self-expression via writing (privately, professionally) and coming out (publicly). Before the gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) letting go of the people, habits, and belief systems that knocked me out of my body, lowered my frequency, and robbed me of a good night's rest. Before the gradual conclusion that I did not come into this world preprogrammed to self-destruct. (That upgrade/virus came later, courtesy of outside influences.) Before the understanding (remembering?) that my birthright is joy. But joy won't just come when I call it. I have to invite it. Gently. With intention. Building a connection, a trust, over time.

But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. Chicken quesadillas.

Over the years, on a handful of dark days, I would determine that my final meal would be my favorite and when it was finished, I would exit this earth. Because I couldn't imagine feeling better. Because I couldn't imagine a different, vastly improved state of existence.

Which, obviously, represents a colossal failure of my imagination.

That was another tool in Depression's toolbelt: the limits of what I could and could not imagine.

The man I was then couldn't have pictured the man I am now, moving (more) consciously and (more) thoughtfully through the world, (more) alert to the people, habits, and belief systems that invite peace and purpose into my life on a daily basis. A man departing (escaping) Los Angeles with a plateful of things to look forward to.

The man I was then wouldn't have believed any of this was possible. But it was. Is.

And to celebrate, I'm treating myself to one last chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla before I go. Because it's f-cking earned. If I do say so myself.

I park my car in the underground lot, get my parking stub, enter the restaurant. I walk past the guy behind the counter and into the bathroom to wash my hands. Emerging, I get my tray, approach the counter, and see that for the first time in the near fifth of a century I've been frequenting this chain, on what is potentially and very probably my final visit to this strip mall hole-in-the-wall, this totally unexceptional restaurant I've spent years patronizing and a not inconsiderable amount of gas money getting to from various apartments, the guy behind the counter has already got a tortilla heating on the stovetop for me. Flour.

Eyes down, he sprinkles it with cheese, says to me or himself or to both of us, "Chicken quesadilla."

It is a statement. Not a question.

I say, "Yes. Please."

And "Thank you."

www.huffingtonpost.com/news/national-suicide-prevention-month/ www.thetrevorproject.org www.afsp.org www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org www.activeminds.org www.iasp.info

[citypillow2-blog]

What Makes a Great American Food City?

What makes a great modern food city in America? Over the nearly five years I roamed the country as Eater’s national critic, this question almost involuntarily rumbled through my brain. Some standout criteria are obvious: A city’s dining culture needs baselines of excellence and eclecticism in every tier of restaurant. It needs first-rate grocers, farmers markets, and single-focus shops (coffee, ice cream, wine, bread, and pastries). Restaurant-goers should support culinary traditions but, at the same time, encourage creative momentum. And the “sense of place” about which food writers love to crow must include an innate respect for a city’s collective communities, both rooted and new.

But at some point during my wanderings, I realized greatness might boil down to the Long Weekend Theory. The core hypothesis is this: In most every American city with a sizable population and sufficient degree of cultural density, you can eat (and drink) with consistent pleasure throughout three leisure-filled days.

Almost anywhere, for example, you could kick off Friday at the irreverent cocktail bar; fill the major meal slots with the buzziest restaurant in town, the big-ticket splurge, and the indie marvels serving regional dishes from, say, Mexico, or Thailand, or Syria; go crazy at the do-what-we-want sandwich shop serving delicious monstrosities; moon over the soulful pie counter or the ice cream parlor concocting mind-jangling flavor combinations; and wrap it all up with one final blowout at the coolest breakfast hangout in town.

So the real test of a superior food city is, what would happen if you kept eating past the dreamy Monday-morning breakfast?

In a merely standard city for dining, a steep drop in quality and enticement becomes evident. Other hyped restaurants wobble in execution; places serving similar cuisines seem to duplicate one another’s menus. A great food city surpasses the long-weekend itinerary. It is replete with restaurants that deliver their own unique versions of the special something that can make dining out one of life’s sincerest joys.

Of course it’s unrealistic to expect that every meal at every restaurant will be near-mystical in any place. But an exceptional dining town has enough restaurants delivering abundant individuality and constant attention to detail that the choices don’t feel limited to a dozen or fewer true standouts.

Our most immense and our most richly aesthetic metropolises (New York, Los Angeles, Houston, Chicago, San Francisco, and New Orleans) can pass this test easily, as do the expected smaller urban centers whose food scenes draw plenty of notice, like Austin, Charleston, and Portland, Maine.

But what about a place like Phoenix? It’s the fifth-largest city in the United States by population, and, including adjacent cities such as Scottsdale and Chandler, the country’s 11th-largest metropolitan area. Despite its magnitude, Phoenix’s restaurant scene largely goes overlooked in the national media. There’s a vague perception of the city as an indistinguishable, sprawling flatland full of middle-of-the-road dining options, many of them chains. Local publications are acutely aware of its reputation as a culinary dead zone.

Scattered national acclaim does materialize. Veteran local chefs like Kevin Binkley (chef-owner of the tasting menu restaurant Binkley’s) and Silvana Salcido Esparza (lauded for her Barrio Café and sublime chiles en nogada) receive steady nods as James Beard semifinalists. Chris Bianco, whose game-changing Pizzeria Bianco has made him the country’s most famous pizzaiolo, is Phoenix’s most recognizable food ambassador. On a countrywide level, that’s about it.

I’ll admit to largely ignoring Phoenix on my Eater beat. I went once during those five years, and even then sped through only a polite survey of the town — I was really there to research a story about Bianco and how his dominion had grown since I’d first tasted his pizza in the 1990s. This past September, the Association of Food Journalists held their annual conference in Phoenix. I didn’t go, but the few attendees I informally polled about their dining experiences didn’t seem overly impressed.

Still, I wondered if treasures had gone unnoticed. Latino residents comprise 41 percent of the population: Surely they were paragons serving specialties from the neighboring Mexican state of Sonora? Ranching and agriculture is a $23.3 billion business in Arizona, and the intense heat equates to unique growing cycles: Asparagus was in high season during the February when I blitzed through Bianco’s restaurants. What other chefs were plugged into the rhythms of the Arizona seasons, and how were they expressing them? Dominic Armato, dining critic for the Arizona Republic, ate hard to compile a recent list of his 100 favorite metro-area restaurants. His roster of curries, tacos, tasting menus, biscuit sandwiches, and dishes that defy easy labeling makes a compelling case for the scope of local dining.

So in October I returned to Phoenix to see if the Valley (as its metro area calls itself) could pass — or surpass, really — the long-weekend test. I came for seven days to understand dining in Phoenix as best and as quickly as I could. A week, obviously, could never be enough to truly absorb the depths of a city’s food culture, though I trusted it was enough to judge if we’ve all been missing something. Or not.

Dinner at Tratto, a handsome restaurant of calming white walls and oak in the Town & Country shopping center, began with chicken livers spread over some righteously charred toast. Sweet-sour plum jam offset the livers; the fruit was left in big, melting hunks and scented with lemon verbena. Wide-mouthed rigatoni came next, sauced in a guinea hen ragu whose lightness felt ideal for a warm Arizona fall evening.

Conveniently located right next door to my favorite branch of Pizzeria Bianco, Tratto is the restaurant I’d most fervidly recommend to anyone visiting Phoenix right now. The finessed cooking, focus on stellar ingredients, and spirit of generosity put it on par with the finest modern Italian restaurants in the country.

A colleague and I ended up sharing the pork chops with apples, and a side dish of garlicky oyster mushrooms, with the group of four seated next to us; it was our sixth meal of the day. We were pointed toward a bottle of Klinec Medana Jakot, a funky Slovenian varietal that was as orange in color as it was in its citrus-blossomy notes. The wine saw us through to the finale, a wedge of custardy lemon tart exactly right in its simplicity.

Tratto opened in 2016 to rhapsodic reviews by local critics. Why don’t more people know about it coast to coast? As a maker of best-new-restaurant lists, I’ll speak to my own (flawed) thinking: Chris Bianco owns Tratto, and I didn’t think he needed any more attention. Yet Bianco has moved into a career phase where he is as much or more of a restaurateur and mentor as he is a chef. At Tratto, he cedes some of the spotlight to the energized team of chef Cassie Shortino, pastry chef Olivia Girard, and beverage director Blaise Faber for the day-to-day operations.

Bianco steps into more of an advisory role at Roland’s Cafe Market Bar, an all-day restaurant launched last year as his collaboration with Armando Hernandez (who previously worked for Bianco), Seth Sulka, and Nadia Holguin. In my long-weekend matrix for Phoenix, Tratto is the Friday-night stage-setter, and Roland’s is the Monday-morning finale. Hernandez and Holguin, who are husband and wife, also run three-year-old Tacos Chiwas on McDowell Road, a bastion of old-line Mexican restaurants northeast of downtown. “Chiwas” riffs off of Holguin and Hernandez’s heritage; both have roots in the northern border state of Chihuahua. The tacos and burritos at Chiwas are solid, but the gorditas — yawning wheat-flour pockets most memorably filled with deshebrada roja (shredded beef in red chile sauce) — steal focus from every other dish.

At Roland’s, the Mexican-with-hints-of-Italian cooking is uplifting and individualistic. An open-faced (read: pizza-shaped) quesadilla dotted with mortadella and asadero cheese is a palpable tribute to Bianco, whose company provides the organic Sonoran wheat flour for the tortilla on which the quesadillas are built. Yet this is really Holguin’s show — an expression of la cocina norteña (the cooking of northern Mexico, born of its desert and Gulf of California geography) that merges her background and her culinary training.

Beyond the fantastic quesadillas (they rightly star on the breakfast, lunch, and dinner menus), the entomatadas highlight Holguin’s precision with textures: crisped and stacked corn tortillas bathe in chile-spiked tomato sauce, fused by shredded asadero melting in the heat, and crowned with a fried egg. Alongside the flaky, painstakingly plaited empanadas filled with cabeza (beef head meat), ask for an array of salsas, bright in color and flavor, that aren’t automatically brought to the table. Chihuahua is the spiritual home of the burrito; Holguin fills her concise, captivating version with pork saturated in ruddy, garlicky chile colorado.

Breakfast or lunch at Roland’s makes for an apt conclusion to a long-weekend agenda, especially in how it frames la cocina norteña: This is a chef ascending to her deserved platform. If in a decade Phoenix becomes nationally synonymous with chefs ingeniously upholding and interpreting variations on northern Mexican cuisines, I predict Roland’s will be seen as a major touchstone in that progression.

Before a meal at Roland’s, seek out some Sonoran- and Chihuahuan-style cooking throughout the Phoenix metro area: It puts a nationally under-sung aspect of the city’s culture in delicious perspective. A rambling Saturday outing began for me with those lush wheat-flour gorditas at Tacos Chiwas. At the original Carolina’s Mexican Food, not far from downtown, sunshine slipped through narrow windows, revealing a nearly imperceptible blizzard in the streaks of light. The air was filled with flour; Carolina’s doubles as a tortilla factory. I ordered a simple, blazingly hot burrito wrapped around scrambled eggs and machaca — a Sonoran staple of dried and rehydrated beef, served shredded and often combined with other ingredients.

I’d return to Carolina’s for the atmosphere, but El Horseshoe Restaurant, on an industrial stretch west of downtown, is the place to truly savor homemade machaca for breakfast. Here, the Avitia family sautees it among potato, egg, and onion, its concentrated beefiness permeating every molecule of the dish, with sides of rice, beans, and a freshly made tortilla. The state of Sonora, beyond its desert interior, stretches across much of the Gulf of California’s eastern coastline; Horseshoe serves a restoring version of cahuamanta, a classic brothy stew bobbing with shrimp and pearly hunks of manta ray.

For a deeper immersion into regional seafood dishes, I swung by El Rey de Los Ostiones, a seafood market in a low-slung strip mall northwest of downtown. The bilingual staff graciously quizzed me on my tastes, finally delivering customized aguachiles and ceviches full of shrimp and oysters, along with several kinds of hot sauce and other condiments to tweak the seasonings. A 10-minute drive from El Rey, I had my favorite tacos of the trip at Ta’Carbon, an always-packed draw specializing in carne asada (among other meats like lengua and cabeza) grilled over mesquite.

Before the afternoon ended I veered off the Sonoran trail for a “taco” of another kind: a puffy, palm-scorching, mood-elevating flatbread filled with green chile-laced beef, refried beans, and cheese at the Fry Bread House, a Phoenix institution started in 1992 by Cecelia Miller of the Tohono O’odham Nation.

Restaurants serving American Indian cuisines are too few around the country and in the Southwest. Kai, the flagship restaurant at the Sheraton Grand at Wild Horse Pass and one of the Valley’s toniest dining experiences, vaguely themes its dishes in Native American directions with indigenous seeds and beans and plants. But really, Kai falls more into the category of modern-American splurge restaurant.

The signature grilled buffalo tenderloin came surrounded by sides and adornments straight from 1990 — smoked corn puree, cholla cactus buds, a light chile of scarlet runner beans, chorizo, a drizzle of syrup made from saguaro blossoms — that manage to coalesce. That entree is $58. The setting, with the sun disappearing behind mountains in the distance, is gorgeous, but for a more consistently dazzling and sure-file splurge, I’d suggest Binkley’s immersive tasting menu, or Silvana Salcido Esparza’s Barrio Café Gran Reserva for beauties like pan-seared corvina served with rose pepper mole sauce and salsa fragrant with smoky morita chiles (and her chiles en nogada, as superb as ever).

On Sunday, I needed extra coffee to jolt me after Saturday’s taxing schedule. A skillful macchiato and pour over at Giant Coffee animated me. First stop: Little Miss BBQ. Every major city in America has a pit master whose next-level dedication has pushed its scene to great smoked-meat raptures in recent years. Scott Holmes achieved this in Phoenix with his blackened, barky brisket, deliriously fatty in the style of Austin’s famed Franklin Barbecue. Loved the on-theme smoked pecan pie for dessert.

Second lunch, a restaurant recommended by local food-writer friends, was the trip’s sweetest surprise. I’d been briefed on the setup at Alzohour Market. Owner Zhor Saad takes orders and prepares the tiny restaurant’s Moroccan specialties herself. I poked around, looking at the clothing and candies and bric-a-brac she sells in the retail space adjacent to her dining room while I waited for bastilla, the sweet-savory masterpiece traditionally made of spiced pigeon and roasted almonds wrapped in phyllo and dusted with sugar and cinnamon. Saad substituted shredded chicken in her bastilla, but it was among the best versions I’ve had in America. Her lamb tagine was nearly as poetic.

Charleen Badman, chef and owner of FnB, also regularly appears on Beard semifinalist lists; her restaurant in Old Town Scottsdale gave me the trip’s most accurate and evocative sense of Arizona’s growing cycles. Salads of persimmon and pistachio, or little gem with pears, plums, and pecans; rice-stuffed squash blossoms with a riff on shakshuka made with summer squash; sheets of pastas entwined with foraged lobster mushrooms: I felt myself settle into the land in Badman’s dining room. Like many modern chefs, she thinks about flavors globally. For example, wonderful lamb manti (Turkish dumplings) dolloped with yogurt, sprinkled with pine nuts, and served in butter flecked with urfa chile was one of several dishes that evoked Middle Eastern cuisines. That dish also paired well with a fairly spectacular syrah from Rune Wines, a luminary among Arizona’s maturing viniculture industry.

I sat finishing the last bites of huckleberry-lemon sponge cake with fig-leaf ice cream, thinking that in a city with a glossier dining reputation, Badman and FnB would be basking in even more accolades. If I’d have beelined to Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport right after this dinner, I would have climbed into the heavens happy and sated.

A quartet of Addison’s favorite tacos in Phoenix, at Ta’Carbon

Assuming that most people don’t gorge through a city like a food critic on a research jag, I’ve detailed more than enough meals to exceed a long eating weekend in Phoenix. (And here I’ll fill in a couple of potentially empty slots in the Long Weekend Theory itinerary I vaguely followed above: You can drink as well as you eat at Tratto, but for a pre-Friday night dinner starting point, the move is Bitter & Twisted Cocktail Parlour, cheekily located in a building where the Arizona Prohibition Headquarters was once housed. Also, for a second breakfast option, try local darling Matt’s Big Breakfast for Americana personified.)

Sure, there were ups and downs as I continued grazing through the area. Other charmers included Pa’La, where Claudio Urciuoli writes out his affordable daily menu on a chalkboard behind the counter, anchored by a top-shelf mix-and-match grain bowl. But there were mid-level letdowns, too. Two memorable disappointments came from newer arrivals with strong local word of mouth. Maybe I totally misordered at Cotton & Copper in Tempe, but the oddly mealy corn dumplings in parmesan cream and carpaccio topped with citrus segments and chunks of chewy cheese felled my dinner at the bar. And I was intrigued by the promise of “modern Southwest cuisine” at Ghost Ranch in Chandler; that amorphous genre could use some sharp redefining. I didn’t find it in a ho-hum sampler platter (pork and chicken enchiladas, cheese-filled chiles rellenos, grilled skirt steak) and bland grilled chicken with polenta and green chile jus.

Overall, though, I left impressed by Phoenix. I knew there were pleasures and pockets of potential gems I’d left untried: dim sum at Mekong Palace Restaurant in Mesa, other serious pizzerias spurred by Bianco’s success, and upscale stalwart Rancho Pinot, for starters. But even after only a week of immersive gorging, it’s clear that dismissing the Valley as a snowbird’s destination for chains and lowest-common-denominator palates is anachronistic and plain wrong. I’d nudge other national food writers to come test out the Long Weekend Theory here for themselves. Is Phoenix’s restaurant culture on par with a similar sprawl of urban vastness like Houston? Not yet. Is the breadth and depth of dining better than most of us are giving it credit for? It won’t take more than a few happy, immersive days of eating to know the answer is: absolutely.

Bill Addison is a food critic for the Los Angeles Times; he was Eater’s roving national critic for nearly five years until November 2018. Fact checked by Pearly Huang Copy edited by Rachel P. Kreiter

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Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/1/23/18183298/best-restaurants-phoenix-scottsdale-tempe

[franklinsam-blog1]

Your Guide to a Weekend in Arizona

If you’re planning to visit Arizona, the Phoenix-Scottsdale area, also known as the Valley of the Sun, is not to be missed. Phoenix is the state’s capital, and it’s also the fifth-largest city in the United States. With plenty of relaxing, wellness-focused resorts, stunning nature views, and dining options galore, Arizona vacations are bound to be memorable. Even if you’re a local, these tips will have you falling in love with the Grand Canyon State all over again. If you’re lucky enough to be one of the Arizonians that have a medical marijuana card, you also have the added benefit of visiting one of three  Cannabis dispensaries in Tempe Airport  or central Scottsdale, near Scottsdale airport, or by the Tempe Airport. Ahead, the ultimate rundown of things to do in Arizona—places to stay, eat, see, and more.

Arizona Vacations

The Phoenician, a Luxury Collection Resort in Scottsdale Looking for Arizona’s ultimate relaxation sanctuary? This 250-acre resort features stunning views of Camelback Mountain. As part of a three-year renovation, the 60-room hotel built a 4,600 square foot fitness center, redesigned its pool area, and added a three-level spa with two dozen treatment rooms. Enjoy a relaxing facial or body treatment of your choice.

CIVANA If wellness and self improvement are your goals on this trip, consider staying at CIVANA. Located just outside of Scottsdale in the Sonoran Desert, CIVANA is the first sustainable wellness resort in the area and is focused on four key pillars: healthy cuisine, movement and fitness, spa’s healing arts, and discovery and enrichment. It offers up to 18 classes every day, each one centered around a topic on fitness, personal growth, or spirituality. There’s also a 22,000-square-foot spa and a restaurant that has a creative and healthy menu led by the renowned Chef Justin Macy.

Tratto Speaking of food, are your munchies giving you a craving for Italian? Book dinner at Tratto, a restaurant from beloved chef Chris Bianco, who is also famous for his pizza spot, Pizzeria Bianco (which is located right nearby Tratto, and considered to be one of the best restaurants in Arizona). At Tratto, all the pasta is made in-house, so you’re guaranteed to dig into fresh, authentic flavor no matter what you get—but the cacio e pepe is a known crowd-pleaser.

Tacos Chiwas This spot is vetted by the Mayor of Flavortown himself, Guy Fieri. Indeed, this Phoenix taco joint is not to be missed. It’s a labor of love, started by married couple Nadia Holguin and Armando Hernandez, who were both born in Chihuahua, Mexico (the restaurant is a homage to their hometown) and met in Arizona in 2012. Make sure to order the rajas gorditas, a star dish made with soft, pillowy pockets of tortilla, flavorful beans, and rajas, which are poblano chile strips with cheese. Drooling.

Taliesin West Are you an architecture geek or interior design nerd? Plan a day trip to Frank Lloyd Wright’s winter home, which was recently added to the Unesco World Heritage List. There are plenty of tours to choose from, but the Night Lights tour is perfect for a romantic desert night.

Source – https://bit.ly/2JXPC93

[smithbranden-blog]

Your Guide to a Weekend in Arizona

If you’re planning to visit Arizona, the Phoenix-Scottsdale area, also known as the Valley of the Sun, is not to be missed. Phoenix is the state’s capital, and it’s also the fifth-largest city in the United States. With plenty of relaxing, wellness-focused resorts, stunning nature views, and dining options galore, Arizona vacations are bound to be memorable. Even if you’re a local, these tips will have you falling in love with the Grand Canyon State all over again. If you’re lucky enough to be one of the Arizonians that have a medical marijuana card, you also have the added benefit of visiting one of three  Cannabis dispensaries in Tempe Airport  or central Scottsdale, near Scottsdale airport, or by the Tempe Airport. Ahead, the ultimate rundown of things to do in Arizona—places to stay, eat, see, and more.

Arizona Vacations

The Phoenician, a Luxury Collection Resort in Scottsdale Looking for Arizona’s ultimate relaxation sanctuary? This 250-acre resort features stunning views of Camelback Mountain. As part of a three-year renovation, the 60-room hotel built a 4,600 square foot fitness center, redesigned its pool area, and added a three-level spa with two dozen treatment rooms. Enjoy a relaxing facial or body treatment of your choice.

CIVANA If wellness and self improvement are your goals on this trip, consider staying at CIVANA. Located just outside of Scottsdale in the Sonoran Desert, CIVANA is the first sustainable wellness resort in the area and is focused on four key pillars: healthy cuisine, movement and fitness, spa’s healing arts, and discovery and enrichment. It offers up to 18 classes every day, each one centered around a topic on fitness, personal growth, or spirituality. There’s also a 22,000-square-foot spa and a restaurant that has a creative and healthy menu led by the renowned Chef Justin Macy.

Tratto Speaking of food, are your munchies giving you a craving for Italian? Book dinner at Tratto, a restaurant from beloved chef Chris Bianco, who is also famous for his pizza spot, Pizzeria Bianco (which is located right nearby Tratto, and considered to be one of the best restaurants in Arizona). At Tratto, all the pasta is made in-house, so you’re guaranteed to dig into fresh, authentic flavor no matter what you get—but the cacio e pepe is a known crowd-pleaser.

Tacos Chiwas This spot is vetted by the Mayor of Flavortown himself, Guy Fieri. Indeed, this Phoenix taco joint is not to be missed. It’s a labor of love, started by married couple Nadia Holguin and Armando Hernandez, who were both born in Chihuahua, Mexico (the restaurant is a homage to their hometown) and met in Arizona in 2012. Make sure to order the rajas gorditas, a star dish made with soft, pillowy pockets of tortilla, flavorful beans, and rajas, which are poblano chile strips with cheese. Drooling.

Taliesin West Are you an architecture geek or interior design nerd? Plan a day trip to Frank Lloyd Wright’s winter home, which was recently added to the Unesco World Heritage List. There are plenty of tours to choose from, but the Night Lights tour is perfect for a romantic desert night.

Source – https://bit.ly/2JXPC93