It’s 7:35 a.m. on the West Coast and I’m finally awake. After a quick shower and ironing of the skirt I’m going to wear to work today, I’m going to head outside and find someplace I can sit in the sun with some breakfast. Weather Underground claims that it’s currently raining lightly here, so I hope the blue skies don’t disappear while I’m in the shower. Either way, it’s still in the 50s, so you won’t hear me complain!

ETA: Definitely more cloud cover, but not still some sun.

Sometimes it takes a bit of experimentation to find the right combination. This week has given me two instances of that.

Last night, in addition to my inability to measure properly (a skill I believe 2nd graders routinely master), I also was having a tough time finding the right needle to match the yarn I was using to get gauge. Today, however, looks like we have a winner, so I’ll be moving forward with my Knitting Olympics sweater (Hey, Teach! was the ultimate winner. Thanks for all your input on Friday and Saturday while I was trying to figure it out.) on US10s. They feel like I’m trying to knit with drumsticks after my tiny sock needles, but I’m sure I’ll get used to them.

Back on Sunday, I decided to try a new recipe for my birthday cupcakes. I knew I wanted a plain vanilla recipe, since I have a friend who doesn’t like fruit and I prefer vanilla to chocolate. So I ended up giving Stephanie’s Vanilla Cupcakes with Vanilla Frosting a shot. I don’t know if it’s because our baking powder is a bit old, if I didn’t cream the butter and sugar together long enough, or if I ultimately used too much sour cream (or some combination of any or all), but these cupcakes did not get the Burrow stamp of approval. The cakes were too dense (Sarah accurately described them as pound-cake-like) and the frosting too sweet for the base it was layered on. Sarah and John are good sports and didn’t complain about my baking abilities on my birthday, but Rudi and I agreed after they left that this had not been my best culinary effort.

When Danny called later that night, I mentioned my failure to him and suggested that I’d have to come up with some alternative for the remaining cakes. He said that pound cake always made him want chocolate to dip it into, which made me realize that a chocolate glaze might be the perfect solution. Since Rudi and I were out last night, we didn’t have a chance to try out this theory until this evening, when I found this Satiny Chocolate Glaze on my first click through Google. I made a few alterations — the microwave as a few folks suggested, slightly more chocolate to use up five squares of dark chocolate, and dark corn syrup instead of light — and less than a minute later, we were spooning the concoction over two heart-shaped fairy cakes.

And you know what? It was the absolute right combination.

My birthday was today.

We celebrated with French pastries for brunch and pizza for dinner with friends. The phone calls and emails and Ravelry messages poured in from loved ones far and wide.

And then Rudi and I dozed off together curled up on the couch.

It was a good day.

I hope you had one, too.

We are currently accepting overblown names for the impending winter storm. Snowpocalypse and Snowmageddon have already come and gone for this season and have served us well. Please leave your creative suggestions in the comments.

Seven years ago today, Rudi and I loaded three cats, two sleeping bags, and a tv into his car and moved south from Connecticut to Washington, D.C.

It had been a harrowing weekend. I hadn’t wanted to move. I’d been happy living in Middletown, and my displeasure and stress had perhaps made me an even slower packer than my procrastination would normally have led me to be. Despite efforts the previous week from friends, we were not packed up and were not ready to go.

My parents, heaven bless them, stopped at the apartment after their own full Friday of work and seven hours of traffic-laden commuting north to kick us into gear again. They went home for a few hours’ sleep, but returned early the next morning. We worked well into the wee hours of Sunday morning and were back up before the sun. All four of us were exhausted and sore and grumpy, but thanks to my parents’ tremendous aid, we were able to hand the keys to the landlady at noon on February 1 with an empty apartment. (Thanks, Mum and Dad. I don’t think Rudi or I can say that enough, even seven years later.)

Driving the final load of stuff up to my parents’ house, we heard on the car radio of the Columbia’s explosion upon attempted re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere. I’m not saying I took it as a sign of a doomed move, but it certainly didn’t improve my outlook at moving far from my family and friends into an apartment a third the size of our previous one.

I have no recollection of that afternoon. I was so grief-stricken at all I was giving up that it has been lost in a whirlwind of pain.

The drive down took all night, as we got a late start and had to stop for several naps. When we finally arrived and unloaded the car, our stuff fit into a small corner of the apartment. We didn’t have jobs. Our prospects looked dim. In fact, I got on a plane that afternoon and returned to Connecticut to work for another two weeks while we looked for means to support ourselves. Life in D.C. stretched before us like an empty wall awaiting its mural.

Seven Februarys have come and gone since then. The Burrow is not remotely empty, as we have shoved way more into it than truly fits comfortably. We’re both still at the jobs we found later that year, each of which is only a few miles from our apartment. The friends we made during the Howard Dean bid for the presidency have lasted far longer than the campaign. They are an intelligent, liberal, quirky bunch, and without them I don’t think I would have made it through to this point.

I want more than anything to say at this point that the move to D.C. was a good one, that I’m glad we came, that I wouldn’t trade it for all the world. I know a lot of people would breathe a sigh of relief to see those words.

But I can’t type them. I just don’t know if they’re true.

I know on sunny summer days after biking with Julia that they’re true. And at Friday night jazz picnics in the sculpture garden. When talking with the farmers on Sunday mornings … Over Inaugural Weekend … There are lots of moments when I’m happy we are where we are.

But on days when I’m home by myself and no one answers their phones or nights like tonight when Rudi’s gone to bed and I’m up too late without a cat on my lap or when people who are dear to me just seem so far away, I’m not so sure still that this wasn’t a terrible mistake.

When I switched my car registration from Connecticut to D.C. this weekend, it was not without tears. My car was the last thing that truly said Connecticut was still mine, that we could just pack up and move back. It’s still possible, but changing the car’s registration just seemed to cement that it wouldn’t be as simple as I’d like to believe the option remained.

They say you can’t step into the same river twice, and it’s true. If I went home, it wouldn’t be home any more. Seven years have changed the lives of my friends and family, too. My grandmother moved in with my parents and sold her house. Karen moved to another state, got married, and had a baby. Shelley quit her job and started med school. John got married. BW became even more involved in her school and was recognized at the state level for her dedication and über-teacher creds. Life goes on for us all.

It used to be a regular occurrence that I’d get depressed and ask Rudi when we could move home. Understandably, he found this a bit discouraging, because he had adjusted well to the move. Last year, I decided I had to make a conscious decision not to ask that question any more. In fact, I was to avoid considering the question whenever possible. I feared that if I didn’t stop thinking of this as a temporary relocation I was never going to be able to move forward. I’d be stuck treading water forever.

I’ve made progress. The moments of resembling Lot’s wife come far less frequently and generally I’m able to laugh off the occasional question from friends from the Northeast inquiring about when we’ll be moving back. But that doesn’t mean the question has resolved itself.

Seven years is a long time. It’s longer than I lived in Middletown after college. It’s longer than I was in New London for college. It was longer than I spent at any school growing up. I don’t know where I’ll be in seven years’ time. Maybe we’ll still be here. Maybe we’ll be back up in New England. Who knows, exactly.

But I do hope that seven years from now I’ll at least have figured out how to be content and at home wherever it is that I am. It seems tonight like that goal is still a ways off from here.

Saturday drew to a close with about a half foot of snow on the ground in the District. This shot is one I took yesterday afternoon while walking through the residential area of Georgetown:

I don’t have a macro setting on my camera (or, if it does have one, I haven’t found out how to access it), so shots like this one are rare, but especially treasured.

More photos tomorrow when I have the time to upload them.